Inspector West At Home

Mark opened one door of a bedroom, the bed unmade. He closed it and opened a second door as Clay reached the top of the stairs and he stopped there breathing vengeance. Mark looked into a long, narrow room. It was a parlour filled with cheap modern furniture and with wallpaper so gaudy that it was an offence to the eye.

Sitting at a table at the far end of the room was Joe Leech, a vision in puce pyjamas, with tousled hair, bloodshot eyes and sagging cheeks. There were two curious things about Joe; the visible one was his small, cupid’s mouth, soft and womanish; the audible one his pure tenor voice, not childish yet certainly not manly. He was proud of being self-educated and affected a horror of the Cockney accent; his was a neutral one and usually he managed most of his aspirates.

Mark left the door open and stepped towards the man, who had a table-drawer open, pushed against his stomach, and his right hand hidden inside the drawer.

“Why, Joe !” exclaimed Mark. “What’s all the to-do about? I only want a word with you.” Leech snatched his hand from the drawer and slammed it to; it caught at one side and gave Mark the opportunity of seeing an automatic. Then Joe slammed it home.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“We’ve met before, Joe. What’s frightening the wits out of you ?”

Joe gulped. “I — I — I’m not frightened.”

“I thought I recognised all the symptoms.”

“If you don’t sling your hook, mister, you won’t reckernise yer own dial,” growled Clay from behind him. The manager had a poker gripped in his right hand, his stiff movements holding a menace which made Mark back hastily to the wall. “Clear out.”

“Tell him to go away, Joe,” said Mark.

Leech darted a sidelong glance towards him, and licked his lips. He stood up and rounded the table, putting a hand on Clay’s arm.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, Clay, I recognise Mr Lessing now.” He smiled weakly. “I didn’t know who it was at first, if I’d known it was Mr Lessing I’d have told you to show him up right away. You know I would, Mr Lessing, don’t you?”

“Shut the door behind you, Clay.” Mark waited until the door was closed, watching Joe’s movement towards a corner cupboard, opening it and taking out glasses and a bottle. Joe’s head jerked backwards as he drank. He turned round, a glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

“Have a drink, Mr Lessing? I was up all night, so it’s just a nightcap for me. I was going to have forty winks just before you came. No peace for the wicked, is there ?”

“None at all, Joe,” Mark agreed. “No peace for the wicked at all.” He saw the blood-shot eyes widen and Joe’s Adam’s apple jerk.

“You will have your little joke, Mr Lessing, won’t you? How’s the Inspector? He was with you the last time you come here, wasn’t he? I always said that you got a square deal from Mr West and that goes for you, too.”

“You know why I’ve come, we’re only wasting time. You got some information about West — or you thought you did. Where did it come from ?”

“What, me?” Joe’s voice rose to a shrill falsetto. “Why, I wouldn’t let a friend down, Mr Lessing, you ought to know I wouldn’t. Ha-ha-ha!” His voice cracked halfway through the laugh and he glanced towards the whisky bottle, giving Mark the impression that he would like to pour the lot down his throat. “Why, what’s happened to the Inspector?”

“Talk quickly, Joe,” urged Mark.

“I can’t tell you a thing, Mr Lessing ! If someone has been spreading lies about Mr West, it wasn’t me. I’m no squealer. Listen to me, Mr Lessing, I might be able to help you !” He raised the bottle high, in a grand gesture. “What about that?”

“Who gave you information about West?”

“I tell you I don’t know what—”

“Look here, Joe,” said Mark, reasoningly, “you’re frightened of your own shadow. Have you upset the Masher?”

He uttered the name ‘Masher’ simply because he had heard the old man outside use it and had wondered what it implied. But he was astonished at its effect on Leech, who dropped heavily into his chair, his hands shaking. He raised the bottle to his lips and gulped; a trickle of whisky escaped them and ran down his chin, soaking into the neck of his pyjamas. When he put the bottle down he almost knocked it over.

“So the Masher frightened you,” murmured Mark.

“You — you don’t understand,” muttered Leech, “you don’t understand, Mr Lessing! There’s a fella they call the Masher who thinks I welshed on him. He says he’s coming after me.” Leech’s colour was grey. “He’ll learn the truth one of these days and then it’ll be all right. Mr Lessing, if I was some people I’d ask the police for protection, that’s what I would do, but I wouldn’t sink so low. I’ve got a headache this morning. The Masher tried to beat me up last night and made me nervous.”

“If the Masher is who I think he is, you’ll get more than a beating up.” Mark shrugged. “I might be able to help — in return for information.”

“How do you know the Masher ?” gasped Leech.

“I’m very interested in you and your friends.” Mark stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Leech did not smoke. “What name does he go by to you?”

Leech’s little eyes narrowed.

“You sure you know him, Mr Lessing?”

“I know him well enough to have him put inside, Joe, and if he were inside he couldn’t do you any harm, could he?”