Mister Big Read online

  ‘MISTER BIG’

  Gerald Verner

  © Gerald Verner 1966

  © Chris Verner 2015

  Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1966 by Wright & Brown Ltd.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter One

  Gordon Trent pulled a typed sheet from the typewriter, inserted another blank sheet from the pile at his elbow, and began to beat a staccato tattoo on the keys. Through the partly open window the sound of Big Ben floated into the room. Gordon grunted as he discovered that it was already half past ten. The messenger would be calling for his ‘copy’ from the Post-Bulletin at eleven and there was still quite a lot to finish.

  His fingers flew faster over the keys and another page was added to the scattered collection on the desk in front of him.

  The room in which he was working was rather shabby and untidy, but conveyed an air of comfort that was very pleasing.

  Trent was still on the right side of thirty, but during his short life he had done many things. He had been an actor, been secretary to a wealthy stockbroker, a job which had terminated suddenly when his employer had been sentenced to five years for fraud, had run a typewriting bureau that flourished spasmodically until a mounting collection of bad debts had closed it down, and finally drifted to Fleet Street.

  And after a long struggle he had made the grade. At the age of twenty-eight he had an assured income and the comforting knowledge that ninety per cent of what he wrote would be accepted.

  Stopping for a moment from his labours he reached for a cigarette, stuck it between his lips, lit it, and was pounding again at the typewriter when the front door bell rang. It rang twice, but Gordon oblivious of external sounds went on with his work. There was a pause and then the bell again more insistently.

  “Blast!” muttered Gordon irritably. “It must be that infernal messenger!”

  He pushed back his chair and struggled to his feet, running his fingers through his unruly hair. Without putting on his jacket he crossed the room and went out into the small hall. Jerking open the front door he was preparing to tell the disturber of his peace a few home truths. But the words died on his lips and he only managed to utter a strangled gurgle as he saw his visitor.

  It was a girl and she smiled as he gaped foolishly at her.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr. Trent,” she apologised, “but I knew you were in because I could see the light under your door when I looked through the letter-box.”

  “It’s quite all right” stammered Gordon aghast at what he had been about to call the bell ringer, “I’m very glad to be disturbed—that is—what can I do for you.” He became acutely aware of his shirtsleeves and the unruliness of his hair. “I—I didn’t expect anyone—that is . . .” He quavered to an uneasy silence.

  The girl outside the door smiled—a sympathetic and understanding smile.

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you,” she said, “only Father’s gone over to the House and he’s forgotten to take his latchkey. I’ve just had a telephone message from a friend who has been taken ill and wants me to go and see her at once. It’s rather a long way and Father is sure to get home first. I was wondering if you would give him the key when he comes in?”

  She held out a Yale key.

  “Of course, I will,” said Gordon.

  She dropped the little key into his open palm.

  “It’s awfully good of you,” she said gratefully. “I was sure you would so I phoned and told Father to call for it.”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?” asked Gordon.

  She shook her head.

  “Except tell Father I’ll be back as soon as I can and not to sit up for me.”

  She drew her coat round her and turned away.

  “Good-night, Mr. Trent,” she said. “And thank you again.”

  “Only too pleased, Miss Stayner,” he declared heartily. “Good-night.”

  He watched her as she ran lightly down the stairs, her fair hair gleaming in the light of the overhead staircase lighting. She looked back and waved as she rounded the first bend and then was gone. Gordon shut the front door and went back to his sitting-room. But he found that his concentration had suffered from his visitant. His thoughts kept wandering to the girl who had just left.

  The daughter of John Stayner, M.P., who occupied the flat above Trent’s had gradually become a very considerable factor in his life and for many weeks had disturbed his thoughts as she was disturbing them now. Several chance meetings on the stairs or in the lift, which was always going wrong, had been the basis of an acquaintance that Gordon was determined should ripen into something more. The acquaintanceship had extended to Stayner who had got into the habit of dropping in for a drink and a chat now and again. Once Gordon had taken Margaret to the theatre and for one entire evening had lived in a world that contained only one slim girl whose eyes were the bluest he had ever seen. In fact, Gordon Trent was undergoing all the symptoms of falling in love.

  But there was only ten minutes before the messenger was due to pick up the ‘copy’ and he had to thrust all other thoughts from his mind and finish it. The last page coincided with the arrival of the messenger, and with a sigh of relief Gordon clipped the typed sheets together, thrust them into an envelope and gave them to the man.

  “That’s that,” muttered Gordon when the man had gone. He lighted a cigarette and poured himself out a stiff Johnnie Walker. Putting the key of the Stayners’ flat on the mantelpiece he carried his drink over to the armchair and sat down. He had intended to complete a short story but the girl’s visit had acted as a disturbing influence. He wondered who the ‘friend’ was who had been taken ill. Gordon tried to recollect the names of some of the girl’s friends but he couldn’t think of any. Whoever it was must have been on very intimate terms to send for Margaret like that . . .

  Quite suddenly he realised that behind this interest in what was, after all, a trivial occurrence, there lurked a certain uneasiness. Yes, that was the exact word—uneasiness. For no reason that he could account for he felt a sense of alarm.

  The whole thing was ridiculous, he thought irritably. Why should he be alarmed? It was a very natural thing for a friend who was ill to ask another friend to go and see them. It was absurd that he should feel this uneasiness. But he couldn’t shake it off.

  He got up and poured himself out another whisky. As he poured in a little water the front-door bell rang. It rang in a curious jerky manner, as though the hand of the person pressing the button was trembling violently. Gordon put down his drink.

  That must be old Stayner come to fetch his key, he thought, crossing the room. It sounds as if he’d had one over the eight . . .

  He reached the front door and opened it. At first he could see nothing for the landing light had been extinguished and then he made out the dim shape of a man who was half
-crouching on the threshold. Gordon stared at him in astonishment. The man staggered to his feet and swayed through the open door into the hall. He looked like a tramp. His clothes were ragged and stained, his shoes broken and gaping.

  He tottered past Gordon, staring back over his shoulder with eyes that were wide with fear.

  “Here, what the deuce are you doing?” demanded Gordon. “You’ve made a mistake . . .”

  The intruder shook his head weakly; groped his way to the sitting-room door, pushed it open and entered. Gordon, with pardonable annoyance followed him. The stranger sank down in an easy chair in utter exhaustion, but as Gordon came in he started up and pointed a shaking hand to the door.

  “Shut it!” he croaked hoarsely. “For the love of God shut the door!”

  “Look here!” began Gordon, but the other interrupted him.

  “Shut the door!” he repeated insistently, his breath coming in great choking gasps. “There’s death—outside.”

  The effort was too much for him and he collapsed back into the chair with his head lolling forward on his chest.

  Convinced that he was dealing with a lunatic but thinking it would be better to humour the man, Gordon went out and slammed the front door. When he came back the other was breathing heavily and with difficulty but he managed to raise his head as Gordon approached the chair.

  “Is it shut?” he whispered eagerly. “Nobody—can—get in?”

  “Not unless they wriggle through the keyhole,” answered Gordon sarcastically. “Now, what’s all this about? Who are you?”

  “Don’t you know me?” whispered the stranger.

  “No, of course I don’t . . .” began Gordon.

  “Jameson . . . Charterhouse.”

  The words were barely audible. The rasping of the breathing more pronounced. Gordon started. Bending down he peered into the emaciated face upturned to his own.

  “Good God, so it is!” he exclaimed incredulously.

  The other’s dry lips curved into the beginning of a thin smile, and then a spasm of agony contorted the mouth and his hands went up to his throat.

  “Brandy!” came a strangled gasp. “Brandy!”

  Gordon went to the sideboard, took out a bottle of Hennessy from the cupboard, and poured out a generous portion into a glass. Hurrying back to the chair he uttered an exclamation. Jameson no longer sat up but had slumped sideways over the arm. His eyes were closed and his lips parted. His breathing was now almost imperceptible.

  “Jameson!” cried Gordon sharply. “Here, drink this!”

  He held the glass to the cracked lips and tried to pull the man up to a sitting posture, but the body was limp and unresponsive.

  “What the devil had I better do?” muttered Gordon, trying to rouse some semblance of life but without result. And then an idea struck him.

  “Dr. Smedhurst, of course!” he exclaimed.

  Putting down the glass of brandy, he rushed out into the hall, jerked open the front door, and went stumbling down the dark stairway to the floor below . . .

  In the room he had just left there was silence except for the faint hiss of breath from the man in the chair and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Then the man called Jameson shuddered violently, opened his eyes and stared wildly round. Shaking violently, he sat up, passing a thin hand over his eyes. After a moment he rose dizzily to his feet, clutching the back of the chair for support. For a second or two he stood swaying, his breath rasping through his clenched teeth, and then with uncertain steps he began to grope his way over to the writing-table.

  Reaching it, he paused to recover a little from his exertions and then picked up the pencil that lay on the blotting-pad. Gripping the edge of the table with his left hand for support, he began to scribble feverishly on the topmost sheet of the pile of blank paper. He had succeeded in scrawling one wavering line when the sound of a violent knocking somewhere below made him start so violently that he almost dropped the pencil. He looked round with fear-filled eyes towards the door and then with a supreme effort forced himself to go on with his task.

  There was a slight sound from the hall and the light went out. A hand groped round the edge of the door, a gloved hand feeling for the light switch.

  The man at the writing-table uttered a squeal of terror as the light in the room went out, too, and swung round to face the door, clutching the paper he had been writing on to his breast.

  “Oh, my God!” he breathed, and began to sob jerkily.

  A smudge of shadow spread from the door towards him. Two questing hands found his throat, fastened there and squeezed. It was all over in a few seconds. And now there was only the sound of the clock ticking to break the silence of the room . . .

  Chapter Two

  “Shakespeare,” remarked Mr. Budd wearily, “is a very over-rated feller.”

  Sergeant Leek, perched on a hard chair in the stout superintendent’s office in Scotland Yard, raised a pair of tired eyes and looked across at his superior.

  “What’s his line?” he asked with an effort to appear interested.

  “What d’you mean?” demanded Mr. Budd.

  “What is this feller? What’s ’e do?”

  Mr. Budd regarded him with an expression of disapproval on his fat face.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I really don’t know! How you ever got into the C.I.D. at all beats me. Your ignorance is appalling!”

  Sergeant Leek wilted under a withering gaze. It was not entirely due to Mr. Budd’s reprimand, for he had been in a gradual process of wilting since eleven o’clock and it was now past midnight.

  “What is ’e, then?” he asked in an injured voice “A burglar, con man, or one of this ’ere bank robbers?”

  “He isn’t anything,” answered Mr. Budd shifting his huge bulk into a more comfortable position. “He’s dead!”

  “Somebody do ’im, eh?” said the sergeant brightly, feeling that this might be safe ground.

  Mr. Budd snorted irritably.

  “Shakespeare was a poet,” he growled.

  “Oh!” Leek’s intonation conveyed the impression that this was worse than anything he had imagined. “I thought you was talkin’ about a crook.”

  “There’s only one real crook in existence,” snapped Mr. Budd, and the sergeant had no need this time to ask to whom he referred. ‘Mister Big’ had during the past months become a major problem with the police throughout the country.

  “My reference to Shakespeare,” continued Mr. Budd, “’ad nothin’ to do with crim’nals. It was concerned with roses.”

  The lean sergeant was not interested. He knew little about poets or roses, having for many years lived in a back street off the Kennington Road which is not an ideal locality for studying either. However, if his superior wished to talk about these subjects it was as well to listen with a certain degree of enforced interest. He tried, therefore, to infuse some kind of enthusiasm into his tired voice when he replied:

  “What’s roses got ter do with it?”

  “Shakespeare stated that ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ A ridic’lous statement!” affirmed the superintendent.

  “I don’t see why,” said Leek.

  “That’s because you’ve got no soul,” declared Mr. Budd with a gesture that effectually disposed of any small amount of soul the sergeant might have. “Take a look at those.” He turned his eyes toward a vase of tea roses that stood on his desk and which had come from his own garden. “Would they be the same if they was called onions?”

  “Wouldn’t make no difference to the smell if you called ’em pick-axes,” argued Leek truthfully.

  Mr. Budd regarded him with a hard and stony eye.

  “There is no smell to a pick-axe,” he retorted.

  Leek was trying to think of something further to say on this absorbing subject when the clock on the wall struck the hour.

  “It doesn’t look as if this feller’s comin’,” he growled.

  “Gabby’s generally t
o be relied on,” said Leek glad to change the subject.

  Mr. Budd dipped his forefinger and thumb into his pocket and produced one of his thin black cigars.

  “No ‘grass’ can ever be relied on,” he grunted, sniffing at the cigar. “That’s my experience. I don’t see why Gabby Smith should be any different to the rest of ’em. You say he’s got special information about this Big man?”

  “Yes.” The sergeant nodded. “He said he’d know who he was this evenin’. Somethin’ must’ve ’appened to delay him.”

  “You get brighter an’ brighter every day!” said Mr. Budd sarcastically. He reached out for a match and carefully lit his cigar, blowing out clouds of evil-smelling smoke. “If you go on at this rate they’ll be makin’ you an inspector before you know where you are!”

  The long thin face of the sergeant assumed an expression of hurt resignation. His lack of promotion was a sore point with him. In his own mind he was convinced that he should have attained the highest possible rank by this time and the reason he hadn’t was sheer jealousy on the part of his superiors who were afraid that he might outshine them all if he were given the chance. He ignored Mr. Budd’s biting remarks, knowing from experience that the stout superintendent did not mean any unkindness.

  “It’ll be worth waitin’ for if Gabby can tell us who this Big man is, won’t it?” said Leek after a pause.

  Mr. Budd nodded ponderously, closed his eyes and sent a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

  There came a tap at the door and a uniformed constable entered. He laid a dirty crumpled envelope on the desk in front of Mr. Budd.

  “This was left for you, sir,” he said. “The man who brought it said there was no answer.”

  Mr. Budd picked up the stained envelope and slit it open with a fat forefinger. It contained a single sheet of cheap paper. Glancing rapidly at the hasty, ill-spelt message, the superintendent shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “So much for Gabby Smith,” he grunted, flipping the message over to Leek, and relapsed into his previous lethargic state. “You can go, Collins.”