An Apostle of Gloom by John Creasey

he’s coming after me.” His colour was grey and his grin positively nauseating. “’E’ll learn the truth one o’ 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 couldn’t! That’s me, that’s Joe Leech. I—I’ve got a ‘eadache this morning and the Masher tried to beat me up last night and made me nervous, that’s all; don’t you start thinking I’ve done anything wrong.”
    â€œI know what you’ve done,” said Mark, “and if the Masher is who I think he is, you’ll get more than a beating up.” He shrugged. “I might be able to help, but not unless—”
    â€œâ€™Ow’d you know the Masher?” gasped Joe Leech.
    â€œI’m very interested in you and your friends and your enemies,” Mark assured him. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Leech did not smoke. “What name does he go by to you?”
    Leech’s little eyes narrowed.
    â€œYou sure you know him, Mr. Lessing?”
    Mark laughed, ridiculing any doubts. “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?”
    Leech rose unsteadily from his chair, rounded the table and approached Mark. When he was a yard away the stench of whisky was nauseating. He stretched out a podgy hand and gripped Mark’s coat, peering up into Mark’s eyes.
    â€œMr. Lessing, you wouldn’t lie to me,” he said, hoarsely, “you wouldn’t play such a trick on a man in my condition, would you? Look at me! Look at me hand!” He held out one hand and it shook violently. “I don’t mind admitting I’m scared stiff, Mr. Lessing, but if you can put Malone inside I’d do anyfink for you, I would truly.”
    â€œWhere did you get the information about West?” demanded Mark. “I’ll look after Malone if you tell me that.”
    â€œI—I’d have to look up some records. I didn’t get it direct,” said Leech, backing away and narrowing his eyes craftily; “it would take me two or three days, Mr. Lessing. If you could put Malone away—”
    â€œI will, when you’ve said your piece,” said Mark.
    â€œNow, listen, Mr. Lessing—”
    From the street, floating clearly through the open window, there came the shrill blast of a whistle, not full enough for a police call. It broke the quiet outside and cut across Leech’s words. He swung round and rushed to the table, pulled open the drawer and snatched up the automatic. His fingers were shaking so much that Mark stepped hastily to one side.
    â€œThat’s him!” gasped Leech. “That’s the Masher, he—”
    There was a scurry of footsteps in the street. A woman cried out in alarm, someone swore, someone else laughed unpleasantly. A clattering sound followed and the swish of water and then a thud and a volley of oaths suggesting that someone had kicked over Lizzie’s bucket. A heavy bang on the bar door was followed by several others and footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and deliberate – the approach of Clay.
    â€œSave me!” gasped Leech. “Don’t let them come in, don’t let them come in!”
    Downstairs, a door crashed open and footsteps clattered in the bar. A single loud crack, the breaking of a bottle, was followed by a pandemonium of breaking glass and strident, jeering laughter. Clay burst in, his grey face a sea of perspiration. He closed the door and shot home the bolt but before he reached Leech someone was hammering on the door. The uproar continued downstairs; judging from the sounds, bottles were being flung into the street.
    â€œOpen up, Joe,” a man said, and Mark was surprised by the clearness with which the voice sounded above the din.