Читать книгу The Private Eye - Ernest Dudley - Страница 6

THE WARREN STREET ALIBI

When the door clanged behind him and he stood on the right side of the prison walls for the first time in three long years, one thought lay uppermost in young Sammy Ryan’s mind. It was to find, as soon as possible, the man who had been directly responsible for his wearisome sojourn as guest of His Majesty’s Government.

That man’s name was Craig.

But Sammy’s aim was not as had been many others who had found themselves in the same unfortunate circumstances. He was not nursing a revengeful hate in his heart—on the contrary, his emotions towards the private detective were of a hopefully friendly nature;

He had a healthy enough outlook to realize that Craig had borne him no personal animosity. Craig had been responsible for getting Sammy a stretch simply as a result of his investigations of that particular case, and, in fact, had felt sorry for him. Sufficiently sorry to promise to see that Sammy would be all right on his release, that is, if Sammy’s protestations when he went in, that he wanted nothing more than to go straight, still held when he came out.

Three years behind bars having convinced Sammy Ryan that above all things the straight and narrow was the path for him, he now sought Craig’s redemption of his earlier promise.

Nor did Nat Craig fail him.

So, when one evening Sammy’s wife came round with the news that old man Robinson had been done in and the police were holding her husband, Craig was interested.

Mrs. Ryan said tearfully:

“I just don’t know what to think—only it wasn’t Sammy that did it. He wouldn’t. Why should he when you was so kind in getting him a job and everything? Why should he kill Mr. Robinson?”

She was sitting on the edge of a chair in his office with a damp ball of handkerchief screwed in her fist. Craig placed a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Ryan. It hasn’t been proved he had anything to do with it yet.”

She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief. “But you know the police. They’ll be thinking it was him because of him being put away last time, but it wasn’t—”

“They can’t pin anything on him on account of that.” Craig soothed her. “I’ll go down and see how the land lies.”

Her eyes were shining with tears and gratitude.

“It’d be ever so kind of you. Pore Sammy’d be that glad to see you.”

Craig said: “You slip home and I’ll have a chat with Sammy.”

When she had left, Craig made his way to Robinson’s the newsagent in Warren Street, where he had found Sammy Ryan a job. It seemed unlikely that Sammy would do such a crazy thing as murder his employer just when he was getting along steadily as an honest citizen. Craig seldom misjudged his man, and he didn’t like to think that he had made a mistake this time either.

He found Inspector Hooper plus his sergeant and the fingerprint and photograph boys already at work when he reached the little shop. The police surgeon, having expressed his opinion that the deceased had been shot in the back of the head from a couple of yards’ range, had departed

Craig gazed mildly round the scene from the doorpost

Inspector Hooper hadn’t expected to see him so soon, and Craig suspected he didn’t look overjoyed at his appearance at that.

“What do you want, Craig?”

“Just thought I’d come along,” explained Craig pleasantly. “Sammy’s a sort of protégé of mine, you might say. I feel quite responsible for him.”

His gaze swept the shop.

The Inspector murmured to the rabbit-toothed individual that he had been talking to before Craig had appeared on the scene.

He turned back to Craig. “He’s in the sitting room at the back,” he said shortly. “Waiting to be taken along to the station.”

“Sammy never carried a gun in his life,” Craig offered mildly.

The other shrugged.

“Maybe he’s been seeing too many gangster films since he came out. He had a gun this evening all right.”

“Yes,” chimed in Rabbit-tooth. “He was carrying it when I grabbed him.”

Craig turned slowly and raised an inquiring eyebrow. The Inspector sighed.

“This is Mr. Benson,” he said. “Mr. Robinson’s brother-in-law.”

“How nice,” murmured Craig.

Benson gave him a stiff nod. “A terrible business,” he offered. “Lucky I hung on to the chap.”

Craig was interested.

“What happened?”

“I’d just gone out for a few minutes to telephone my wife—this telephone is out of order—and I heard the shot,” explained Benson. “I came back immediately, of course, and was just in time to spot Ryan dashing out of the shop. I grabbed him and held on while I yelled for the police.”

“Motive: robbery?” queried Craig.

The Inspector nodded vigorously.

“No doubt that was it. Only Mr. Benson’s arrival scared him off.”

“I’m sure it did,” said Craig feelingly. He encountered a nasty look from the Inspector and added: “What does Sammy have to say to all this?”

Hooper looked surprised.

“He denies it, naturally.”

Craig nodded calmly. He drew out his cigarette case.

The Inspector shook his head, but Benson helped himself and Craig gave him a light.

“Do you have far to go?” he asked conversationally.

Benson gazed dumbly at him and Craig explained: “In words of one syllable, where do you live?”

“Chorley Wood. Why do you ask?”

Craig looked amused.

“What are you worrying about?”

“I’m not worrying!” snapped Benson.

“Not worrying when your brother-in-law has been shot?” Craig reproached him. “I merely asked where you lived. Do you mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind. Though what business it is of yours exactly—”

The Inspector cut in grimly:

“Mr. Craig has quite a way of not minding his own business.”

“So it seems,” Benson said. He shot Craig a look from under his brows.

“And I thought I was being friendly,” remarked Craig imperturbably. “Where did you make your phone-call from?”

“Call-box on the corner of Warren Street.”

“It’s quite a bother getting through sometimes.”

“I had a bit of bother myself,” Benson admitted. He was thawing slightly.

“I noticed that call-box,” Craig said as if the other hadn’t spoken. “It’s got no light.”

“That’s right. Kids must have bust the bulb or pinched it or something. Lucky I’d got some matches. It took me about five minutes dialling Toll—used up half a box finding ‘T’ and ‘O’ and ‘L’. My wife heard the shot, too, as a matter of fact. She thought it was some car backfiring.”

“Must have been some shot!”

“It was a heavy calibre army revolver,” the Inspector put in. “Makes a noise like a cannon.”

Benson went on:

“I realized it was no car though, so I ran out. As I said, I got to the shop just in time to catch Ryan—luckily.”

“Very luckily.” Craig shook his head sadly. “I wouldn’t have thought it of Sammy.”

The Inspector said:

“Looks as if you misjudged your man.”

Craig didn’t answer at once, but drew at his cigarette. Then he asked quietly:

“Can I have a word with Sammy?”

The inspector nodded.

“If you think it worth your while.”

Craig disappeared into the back sitting room.

He found Sammy Ryan sitting on a hard chair and not feeling too happy about any of it, but he was pleased to see Craig.

“Glad you come,” he said. “You been wonderful, but wot’s the use of me saying anythink? I done time and that’s marked me.”

Craig eyed him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He made no comment.

Sammy jerked his head morosely towards the shop.

“It’s an open-and-closed case to them. But I never done it, honest. Though I can say so till I’m blue in the face. I got no proof—nothink—but I swear I never done it.”

“Neither have they got sufficient proof—yet,” Craig told him.

Sammy Ryan turned towards him eagerly.

“You believe me, don’t you?” Then he slumped again. “But wot’s the use. They’ll cook up somethink, you wait and see if they don’t. They got enough to work on, and then they git a clever chap along in court and you see wot ’appens—”

He broke off expressively.

Craig said:

“What’s your story, Sammy?”

“Ain’t no use my telling ’em that, Mr. Craig.”

“I’m not asking you to tell them. I’m asking you to tell me.”

“All right, Mr. Craig, all right,” whined Sammy miserably. “It was like this, see. I had to go out for Mr. Robinson, up to the Euston Road. When I gits back, he’s in the shop getting ready to close up. Well, I was just going through the back when I hears this here gun go off. Terrific bang it makes,” added Sammy reminiscently. “Nearly scares the hide off me and for a moment I was all confused like. Then I rushes into the shop and sees the old man laid out on the floor, it didn’t half give me a turn, I can tell you. I kicks up against the gun and without thinking—honest, Mr. Craig, I didn’t know wot I was doing—I picks it up and before I knew wot was happening I dashes full tilt into Mr. Robinson’s brother-in-law, who was coming into the shop. He grabs ’old of me and ’ollers for the cops—”

Sammy broke off and brushed his hand across his face.

“About what time did this happen?”

“Must have been round about six. Like I said, the old man was getting ready to shut up shop.”

There was a silence for a moment while Craig eyed him bleakly. Then he observed shortly:

“Not much of a story you’ve got there is it?”

“You’re telling me,” the other blurted out bitterly. “But it’s the truth, Mr. Craig, every word of it, s’welp me if it isn’t. I never done it, I tell you, I never done it.” His voice trembled off into a long groan. “But I reckon I know when my goose is cooked.”

Craig looked at him speculatively for a moment, then he said:

“All right, Sammy. If that’s your story, you stick to it.”

Sammy nodded gloomily.

“I shall have to. Being the truth, there ain’t no other I can tell now. Wish there was.”

Craig smiled grimly and left him.

When he returned to the shop, Inspector Hooper greeted him somewhat heavily sympathetic.

“Pretty thin yarn, don’t you think, Craig?”

“Pretty thin, Inspector.”

The Inspector went on:

“Afraid he’s for it this time. Frankly, I’m sorry. He was doing well in this job here. And with him getting married and all that, I thought he really meant to settle down. Must be disappointing for you.”

Craig’s reply was stony.

“Could be.”

The Inspector was starting to say something, then he broke off. “What do you mean, ‘Could be’?” he growled.

Craig didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Benson.

“I imagine between you, you and your wife must have a pretty good idea what time the gun went off?”

Benson blinked at him and caught his sagging lower lip between his protruding teeth. He said slowly:

“I don’t know about my wife. Naturally, I didn’t wait to ask her, but I daresay the police can check it up anyway. For myself, I should say it was about six o’clock.”

Craig murmured:

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“What is this?”

Inspector Hooper sounded irritable.

Craig drew deeply at his cigarette and let the smoke trickle dreamily out in a blue ribbon to the ceiling before he answered Hooper. When he did, his voice was icy and there was a tenseness about it that had not been there before. It had the effect of making his listeners feel slightly uneasy.

Suddenly he swung on Benson.

“What were you after?” he snapped. “Did you want to move in on your brother-in-law’s business?”

Benson’s face remained a blank. Only his pale uninteresting eyes appeared to glint a little.

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” rapped Craig. “Come on! We want to know all the story, you’re going to have to spill it sometime. Did your wife put you up to it, or was it your own smart invention?”

A spasm of movement passed across the other’s pallid face. There was a muscle working round his mouth. He said nothing but only gaped at Craig. He seemed incapable of speech.

Inspector Hooper moved forward quickly with an exclamation. He glowered at Craig:

“What’s on your mind?”

“His bright little alibi,” Craig told him brusquely, indicating Benson with a movement of his head. “Which, inspector Hooper, I am about to blow to bits.”

Craig turned to Benson smiling affably.

“And after all that trouble you took too, telling us how you had had such difficulties dialling Toll by torchlight to speak to your wife at Chorley Wood!”

“What are you talking about?” muttered Benson. He gave an impatient shrug. But his hands were shaking.

“It was very convincing,” Craig congratulated him. “Except that you can’t dial Toll from a public call-box!”

“Whassat?” spat out Inspector Hooper, his chin stuck forward.

“Try it sometime,” Craig chided him gently. “And see what you get.”

As he finished speaking, Benson made a sudden swift movement.

But Craig’s foot shot out and caught Benson neatly on the shin.

“Panic,” Craig murmured, glancing down at the sprawling breathless figure at his feet. “You should never panic, never try and run for it. Makes everything look so much worse. Now,” he added. “Had you merely said in the first place that you dialled ‘O’ for operator, you might have got away with it.”