An Apostle of Gloom by John Creasey Page B

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. He was breathing convulsively.
    The Masher asked: “Who did that?” but stood sneering at the bookmaker as he slid to the floor and began to gasp for breath.
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Chaper 8
ANXIETY FOR ROGER
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    Mark was fascinated by the sneering grin on Malone’s face. He felt quite sure that the man had arranged the shooting so that he could not become deeply involved, the cynical question was a form of protection. Mark turned away from him and went down on his knees beside Leech, pillowing the man’s head in his arm, and said, reassuringly: “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 little hole, oozing blood, just above the heart; he doubted whether a doctor would save the man’s life. Malone stood leering, not speaking 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 pull her hair. 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 was muttering incoherently, but Mark had no hope that the words were about 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 over-dressed 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 distorted face with cold sardonic interest. 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, with the fear reflected in them.
    â€œHe’s croaked,” said Malone. “Listen, you, 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, you’ll find me.” 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.”
    â€œCripes!” 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.
    â€œI should worry,” came Malone’s voice.
    â€œHow’d it happen?” the policeman asked, taking it so calmly, that Mark knew he was not even mildly surprised. “Was it Malone?”
    â€œMalone was in here when the shot came from the door,” Mark said. “He didn’t fire it.”
    â€œAnd 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. Show me the guy and I’ll handle him for you.”
    Mark could imagine the man’s leering smile, looked towards the door and felt, as he imagined the policeman felt, that he was completely out of his depth. Other policemen arrived and statements were taken and, while Mark was making his, an ambulance and two police cars drew up, finger-print and camera men disgorged upon