could—” From the landing there came a sharp report. Mark heard it and turned his head. He thought he saw a movement by the door but could not be sure; he did hear a man running down the stairs until the sound of his progress was drowned by the new outburst of noise below. He looked round — and there was Leech sliding down the wall, eyes wide open and terrified, hands clutching at his chest.
The Masher asked : “Who did that?” but stood sneering at the bookmaker as he slid to the floor and began to gasp for breath.
CHAPTER 8
MARK WAS fascinated by the sneer on Malone’s face. He felt quite sure that the man had arranged the shooting so that he could not become personally involved. Mark turned away from him and knelt beside Leech, pillowing the man’s head in his arm.
“It’s all right, Joe. Clay, fetch a doctor, and send someone here with some water and a towel.” He opened the front of Leech’s jacket, tightening his lips when he saw the oozing blood just above the heart. He doubted whether a doctor could save the man’s life. Malone stood there until Lizzie came in. She flounced past him, carrying an enamel pail of water and a towel. Mark glanced up in time to see Malone pinch her waist. She jerked her head away, deposited the pail and towel and went out, making a wide detour to avoid the flash crook. At the door, she turned and put her tongue out, then disappeared.
Joe Leech was muttering but Mark could not distinguish the words. He knew that he would learn nothing from the man — who had paid him to frame Roger. He stopped the bleeding by folding the towel and holding it over the wound but he felt helpless and out of his depth. He caught Malone’s eye and the overdressed man grinned at him. It was quieter downstairs but a shrill voice called : “Police!” The Masher made no attempt to get away but pushed his hands into his pockets and watched Leech’s face, distorted in pain, with an inhuman curiosity. The plump body grew convulsed, Leech began to struggle and tried to shout — only to relax, gasping for breath before becoming very still. His eyes closed — opened again — and became fixed, the fear reflected in them.
“He’s dead,” said Malone. “There isn’t much I don’t know about Leech, and I’ll sell what you want to know — at a price. Just ask for Masher Malone.” He walked across the room and went out, without glancing behind him, as a stentorian voice bellowed up the stairs :
“Leech ! You up there, Leech?”
Clay, who was nearer the door, called stiffly :
“He’s been shot.”
“Cripes !” exclaimed the man with the stentorian voice and he hurried up the stairs. Mark was not surprised to see his uniform as he entered. “So Joe’s got it,” the man said and looked curiously at Mark, as out of place there as a peacock in a poultry run. “Malone, don’t you go,” he called.
“I should worry,” came Malone’s voice.
“How’d it happen?” the policeman asked, taking it so calmly that Mark knew he was not even mildly surprised. “Was it Malone?”
“Malone was in here when the shot came from the door,” Mark said. “He didn’t fire it.”
“And doesn’t know who did fire it, copper,” Malone said from the door. “I came to ask Leech some questions but before the louse could answer someone who didn’t like him got busy.”
More policemen arrived and statements were taken. While Mark was making his, an ambulance and two police cars drew up, finger-print and cameramen invaded the ‘Saucy Sue’.
It was an hour before Mark was given permission to leave. None of the Divisional men recognised him or his name, to his satisfaction, for he did not want this affair linked with Roger West yet. He was glad, too, that the situation was taken out of his hands.
Clay spoke slowly when questioned. Several times he looked towards the dead body of his master. Mark wondered what queer twist of loyalty had bound Clay to the bookmaker. Mark asked no questions and kept himself in the background; consequently he knew nothing of the extensive inquiries, although when he reached the bar, he saw three plainclothes sergeants talking to three members of the pub’s staff, recently come on duty.
The broken glass had been swept to either side of the bar so as to make a path. The floor was swimming in beer and spirits and the stench was overpowering to Mark’s fastidious nose. The shelves were wrecked but one empty bottle stood untouched near the end of the bar — it seemed to be the only whole one left. The beer-taps had been opened and kept open, otherwise so much beer could not have escaped. Mark hurried across the room, crunching glass underfoot. Rose Street, that morning, was a place of fresh air and beauty compared with the interior of the inn.
An excited crowd had gathered and half a dozen policemen kept the gangway clear. At the front of the crowd was the old man, still in shirt and trousers and worn boots, chattering to himself. Mark looked at him narrowly, decided that it was not the time to ask him questions, and stalked off. Loud hoots of derision followed him.
He did not go to the river but towards Mile End Road and, near Aldgate Station, he found a taxi. He went straight to Chelsea and when the cab drew up outside the Wests’ house he saw Roger at the window. Roger came hurrying along the path as Mark paid off his cab.
Mark turned and then missed a step, he was so startled by the expression on Roger’s face.
“What—” he began.
“Have you seen Janet?” Roger demanded. His eyes were hard and glittering.
“No,” Mark said, and sharp alarm cut through him.
Roger drew a deep breath. “I hoped she’d decided to come and give you a hand,” he said. “She should have been here about twelve. It’s half-past one now and there’s no sign of her.”
“Have you done anything?” Mark asked as they reached the front room.
“I’ve told Pep and phoned Cornish,” Roger said. “Janet left Cornish at half-past eleven and as far as he knew she was coming straight back here. Mark, last night you suggested that they might be trying to get at Janet as well as me. What made you think so? Was it anything more than the fact that she was supposed to have made those payments?”
