Читать книгу The Flying Squad - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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MARK closed the trap and, reaching out his hand, switched on the light. He took one eagle-keen look around, walked quickly to the table, examined it carefully for any sign of writing, and then pointed to the door.

"Go downstairs and let them in," he said.

The knocking was resumed at this moment, heavier, more insistent.

"Wait!"

Tiser was in the doorway. Mark rolled back the carpet, pulled open the trap and flashed a lamp down. He saw nothing but the dark water. And then he remembered his pistol. He watched it strike, heard its faint splash, before he closed the trap again and pulled over the carpet.

"Let them up," he said curtly.

Bradley was the first in the room. One of the four detectives who followed him had an automatic in his hand.

"Stick 'em up!" said Bradley briefly.

Mark's hands went over his head.

"Where's your gat?" asked the detective, whose quick hands passed over the big man's frame.

"If by 'gat' you mean revolver," said McGill coolly, "you're wasting your time. May I ask what is the meaning of this piece of melodrama?" He addressed Bradley.

"Where is Li Yoseph?"

Mark shrugged his shoulders.

"That is exactly what I'd like to know. I was talking with him in quite the friendliest way when he told me that he had to see a man and went out, promising to return in ten minutes."

The detective's lips curled.

"Went to see a man—about a dog, I'll bet!" He sniffed and frowned. "Queer smell here, rather like cordite. Been having a little rifle practice, Tiser?"

Mr. Tiser's face was pale, his teeth were chattering, but Bradley had seen him that way before. The man was such an arrant coward that his present agitation meant nothing except that he was terrified to find himself in contact with the police.

Bradley walked to the recess, looked round, and took up the violin and bow, regarding them thoughtfully.

"Ho didn't take the orchestra, I notice," he said. He tucked the fiddle under his chin, drew the bow across the strings softly and played a short aria. "You didn't know I was musical?" he asked.

He put down the instrument on the table.

"I only know you're theatrical; I suppose the artistic temperament has to find some expression," said Mark.

Bradley's eyes were fixed on his.

"Will you stop thinking you're addressing a public meeting, McGill, and tell me where I can find Li Yoseph?"

The man's face flushed a deep red; the hatred in his eyes was beyond hiding.

"If you want to know why I came here, I'll tell you. Tiser and I are trying to do a bit of good in the world, raising up the men you've crushed, Bradley—"

Again Bradley smiled.

"I know the Home of Rest, if that institution is the subject of your lecture," he said dryly. "A convenient meeting-place for useful crooks. A great idea. They tell me you preach to them, Tiser."

Tiser grinned dreadfully, but was incapable of articulation.

"You're not going to tell me that you made this journey to induce Mr. Li Yoseph to join in the general reformation of the criminal classes? Because, if you are—"

A man called him urgently from the doorway. He went over, spoke to him, and Mark McGill saw the surprise in his face.

"All right, tell Miss Perryman she can come up."

Ann Perryman walked slowly into the room, looking from one to the other.

"Where is Mr. Yoseph?"

"Exactly what I'm asking," said Bradley cheerfully.

She ignored him and repeated the question.

"I don't know," said Mark. "He was here a few minutes ago, but went out for some reason or other—he hasn't been back since."

A hand closed over her arm and drew her round. She faced Inspector Bradley, trembling with fury at the indignity.

"Now, Miss Perryman, will you kindly tell me why you came to Lady's Stairs to-night? I'm asking you not as a friend but as a police officer."

The expression in her face would have abashed most men—Mr. Bradley was not easily perturbed.

"I came because he wrote asking me to come," she said breathlessly.

"May I see the note?"

Tiser was staring at her open-mouthed. From Mark McGill's face it was evident he was unusually concerned.

Ann Perryman hesitated, then, with a savage movement of her hand, she snapped open the bag and produced a sheet of paper. Bradley read the two scrawled lines.

"I must see you at 10. It is urgent."

"Where is the envelope?"

"I've thrown it away." She was breathing very quickly; her voice trembled, and Bradley had reason to believe that it was not from fear. "It was delivered by hand, of course? He intended posting it. He meant to- morrow night—I also had an appointment with him to-morrow night."

Bradley's glance transfixed the big man, but McGill did not quail.

"Will you please tell me what is the meaning of all this?" she asked.

She had regained her self-control with an effort.

"The meaning of all which?" asked Bradley coolly. "This is the Flying Squad—or one of them. I am Inspector Bradley. I came to gather in Li Yoseph before something happened to him. He had arranged to send me a letter to-night; I had an idea that it would have come by hand through the same messenger he employed to communicate with you. I'm not betraying police secrets when I tell you that I was scared about Li Yoseph, and wanted to get him to a place of safety before he went the same way as your brother."

Ann Perryman's lips were trembling, but again she controlled her emotions.

"Before he died at the hands of the police?" she said, in a voice that was not above a whisper. "That is the way my brother went—did you expect to send that old man along the same road? When you held my arm just now and pulled me round as though I were one of your prisoners, I realised just what a brute you were!"

"Who told you I killed your brother?" he asked quietly, and was not prepared for the reply.

"Li Yoseph," she said.

He was silent for a moment.

"I think that's the maddest story I have ever heard," was his only comment. And then he became his business-like self. "I may want to see you again to-night, McGill, and you, Tiser. In the meantime you can go home the way you came. As for you, young lady, I will escort you myself—I particularly wish to see you in the morning."

"I don't need your escort; I will go with Mr. McGill."

"You will go with me," he said calmly. "Let me at any rate have the satisfaction of keeping you out of bad company for one evening."

"What's the idea, Bradley?" McGill almost shouted. "What charge have you got against me? I'm just about through with your innuendoes and mysterious hints! Lets have it out!"

Bradley beckoned one of his men to him.

"See Miss Perryman into my car," he said.

For a second she looked her defiance, and then, without a word, turned and followed the detective down the stairs. It was after she had gone that Bradley answered the question.

"I'll tell you what I have against you, McGill. Up and down the country there has been a big increase in crimes of violence. For the first time in our history the gunman has appeared in our midst and is a considerable factor. A policeman was shot on the Oxley Road last week; and when that gang broke into the Islington jewellers and were surprised, they shot their way to safety. That's unusual; you know the English criminal doesn't carry a gun. And there's only one reason why he should. There's a new race of gunmen in this country—that is why I'm sore about you."

"Are you suggesting I run a shooting gallery?" sneered the other, and Bradley nodded slowly.

"That's just what I am suggesting—the worst kind of shooting gallery that the devil could invent! Any man who knows the history of the American gangster knows just what is happening in England. You've found a new avenue for supplying dope to the criminal classes—and that is what you're doing. And when I get you, I'll get you good! There will be a stretch of twenty years between the hour you leave the dock and the minute you leave Dartmoor."

He walked a little closer to the pallid man.

"And I'll tell you another thing. I don't know what you're going to do with Miss Ann Perryman, but you might bear in mind that I'll be watching you like a cat; and if there is any funny business, I'll find a way of getting you inside—without evidence!"

"Frame me, eh?" breathed Mark.

"An interesting Americanism which accurately describes my intentions," replied Bradley with mock politeness.