Peter and I stood in the shadows on the opposite side of the road from Bruce Horsefield’s mother’s house. Like all other dwellings in the road it seemed to be in total darkness. This was a result of the blackout curtains or shutters which not only deceived the Hun, but a weary private detective and his eager young assistant also. The problem was how to ascertain whether Horsefield was inside the building, resting his wounded leg and receiving succour from his mother without alerting the occupants of the place – whoever they may be.
‘I could go and listen by the front room window and at the kitchen round the back,’ said Peter. ‘I might be able to hear voices.’
‘You might hear voices, but it’s unlikely you’ll hear what’s being said and whether Horsefield is one of the speakers or not.’
Peter shrugged in response. ‘Well, have you a better idea?’ he said with an air of petulance.
He had me there. In truth, I really didn’t want Peter with me. He was too young – and to be frank – too inexperienced to be involved in such a job. He was more likely to be an encumbrance than a help and I was concerned for his safety. But I was stuck with him.
‘Let’s make our way around to the back of the house and see if there is anyway of getting inside without being detected.
Peter’s eyes lit up. ‘Great,’ he said.
To approach the rear of the building we had to make our way down a narrow track which cut between the row of houses three doors down. This gave us access to the lane that ran behind all the dwellings along that stretch.
Once we had reached the rear of the Horsefield dwelling, I pulled Peter to me and whispered harshly in his ear: ‘You are to stay here on guard…’ I held up my hand and placed it over his mouth before he could protest. ‘No ifs or buts, my boy. This is important. Listen! I am going to try and gain entry and see if I can locate Mr Horsefield. You are to stay here and wait. If I am not out of there within fifteen minutes, you must go for the police. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to come in after me. Do you understand?’
In the dim starlight, I could see the disappointed look on Peter’s face deepen. He wanted adventure and excitement; standing guard outside did not quite fit in with his concept of thrilling detective work.
‘Don’t let me down. It’s very important that you do as I ask. Understood?’
He gave me a reluctant mute nod.
I had to trust him – but I knew that he could be reckless and impulsive.
‘Now hand over that little torch of yours. I reckon that’ll be very useful.’
He did so without a word.
Good lad,’ I said. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ I repeated, as I slipped over the garden wall and made my way to the back door.
With the small pencil torch, I examined the lock. It was old and rusty. And easily dealt with. Within a minute, I had manipulated the fragile workings with my nail file and gained entry. The beam of the torch informed me that I was in some kind of laundry room. The finger of feeble light picked out a large sink, a tub and posser, and a mangle, while a drying cradle laden with damp greying garments hung menacingly over my head like some giant surreal spider waiting to pounce. I stood in the darkness and listened. A muffled sound from some far room came to my ears. It sounded like a radio playing.
Pulling my gun from my coat pocket – my fingers clasping the cold handle was a real comfort to me – I opened the inner door and quietly moved into a darkened corridor at the end of which was the room where the radio was playing. The door of the room was slightly ajar and a thin yellow strip of light fell onto the dusty linoleum on the floor. As I stood and listened, I could clearly hear the voice of Jack Warner. The occupant or occupants were obviously listening to Garrison Theatre. At that moment I wished I were at home in front of my own hearth doing the same thing.
Stealthily I moved down the corridor towards the lighted room. On my left was the staircase leading upstairs. I heard the laughter of the radio audience supplemented by a hoarse chuckle which I deduced must belong to Bruce Horsefield. Or at least I hoped so. At this thought, my heartbeat quickened.
With gritted teeth, I swung the door open gently and surveyed the interior. It was a shabby but nonetheless cosy sitting room. Bruce Horsefield was sitting by an electric fire with his injured leg up on a stool and a glass of beer in his hand smirking away at the radio banter. So enamoured was he by the radio show that he did not at first realise another person had entered the room. Then some sixth sense made him twitch and he turned awkwardly and saw me. I held my gun clearly in view.
‘Don’t do anything foolish, Bruce. I want to deliver you breathing in one piece to our friends at Scotland Yard.’
Horsefield was shocked by my sudden appearance and he dropped his glass of beer, the liquid spilling on to the hearth rug. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium and shifted his wounded leg off the stool as if he intended to rise from the chair.
‘Stay put,’ I barked.
His eyes flamed and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore my order and that I was going to have to use my gun. My stomach juddered. I didn’t want to shoot him. I didn’t want to shoot any man. It’s not my way.
But then strangely, he relaxed and I could almost swear that a ghost of a smile touched his lips. The odd flickering of his eyes, as though he were watching something over my shoulder, should have warned me that there was danger but it all happened so quickly that I really had no time to react.
There was a sudden violent cry worthy of a weird horror film harpy and then someone jumped on my back and clamped their scrawny arms around my neck. It did not take me long to realise that this was Mrs Horsefield – the mother.
She screamed obscenities as I swung myself round in a desperate attempt to dislodge this creature who like some fearsome piggy-backing child clung on tenaciously. Meanwhile Horsefield had risen from his chair and was advancing on me. I raised the gun.
‘Stop now or I will shoot,’ I cried. But as I did so, the screeching gargoyle on my back, released one of her arms and brought it down hard on my wrist. The gun spun from my grip and clattered to the floor by the hearth.
Horsefield dived for it. Within seconds the tables had turned. Now I was the one who could easily end up in the morgue.
With a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat, Horsefield rose to his feet, the gun in his hand, pointing in my direction. I could see from the cold glint in his eyes that he meant to pull the trigger. In essence, I had only seconds to live.
With a concerted effort, I swung my whole body round, heaving my shoulders upwards as far as I could push them in one enormous shrug. This violent revolution caused Mrs Horsefield to billow out, her legs swinging free. As I spun round like a whirling Dervish, her body collided heavily with her son’s, knocking him to the floor. The collision caused my passenger to give a great whoop of horror. Her confusion made her release her grip and thus dislodged, she ricocheted into her son, landing on top of him.
While Bruce still held the gun, he was now flat on his back with his spindly mother spread-eagled across his frame. It was a slapstick routine worthy of Abbott and Costello. Quickly regaining my composure after my bizarre fairground ride, I stepped forward and stamped on Horsefield’s wrist. He gave a yelp of pain and his fingers uncurled from around the handle of my gun.
I snatched it up and pointed it at Horsefield’s head. I fired but aimed to miss. The gunshot reverberated round the room like a clap of thunder, the bullet lodging in the skirting board. My little demonstration had its desired effect. Both mother and son stopped moving and lay still, staring with apprehension at me and more particularly at the weapon I held in my hand.
‘Now if either of you wish to live long enough to have another breakfast, albeit in a cell at Scotland Yard, I suggest you do exactly what I say. Understood?’
Mute nods came slowly in response.
‘Right, sit together on the sofa and please, no funny business, eh? Bullets cost money, you know.’
They did as I asked like chastened children.
I knew that I would not have long to wait. I was certain that the gunshot would assure me of that.
Indeed, a couple of minutes later, I heard a frantic muffled voice calling my name and seconds later Peter burst into the room.
‘Johnny,’ he cried, ‘are you all right. I heard a gunshot.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a little target practice’.
Then he saw the two characters on the sofa and grinned. ‘You got him!’ he cried, his face breaking into a broad grin.
‘Now that you’ve answered my summons…’ I held up the gun. ‘Off you go to that phone box and call the police. ‘Tell them, we’ve got a thief and a murderer for them.’
‘You bastard,’ sneered Mrs Horsefield.
I shrugged. ‘Everyone’s a critic.’
* * *
I got to bed very late that night, but as I lay my head on my pillow, I had a smile on my lips. Horsefield and his mother were in custody at Scotland Yard. Inspector Sullivan had organised a search of the derelict house for the morning and I had deposited the grinning Peter back at home with the Horner sisters who had been reasonably forgiving about his late arrival. A successful conclusion to my case. I hoped Father Sanderson approved.
Strangely, sleep did not come easily that night. In the darkness, my mood of gentle euphoria faded quite quickly to be replaced with an unnerving sense of disquiet. I felt as though some dark cloud was louring over me. Tired as I was, I lay awake for some time wondering why I felt so apprehensive.