Death Has Deep Roots by Michael Gilbert Read Free Book Online Page A

McCann noticed that he was not invited to join any of the groups. The thick man came and sat down beside him at one of the empty tables.
    “Have some coffee,” he said. “Coffee’s one of the things Philippino knows about.”
    He knocked with a coin on the marble top of the table and a little brown man appeared. His face shone like a well-polished brogue shoe and he had very black hair and a very white smile.
    ‘Two coffees, Pino. This is my friend, Major McCann.”
    “He’s welcome,” said the brown man. In less than a minute he had reappeared with two large cups of black coffee.
    “He’ll know you now,” said Gunner. “If you happened to come here and – you know, if I wasn’t here.”
    “Thanks,” said McCann.
    They drank some of their coffee. Gunner had spoken no more than the truth; it was very good coffee.
    McCann unfolded his evening paper on to the table and pushed it across. The photograph was lying between the sheets.
    “Do you know her?” he said.
    “Never met her.”
    “Could you find out if she’s known in your crowd?”
    “What’s in it?” said Gunner.
    ‘There’s a five in it,” said McCann. “Not more. It’s just a routine checkup.”
    “Is the five there whether it’s Yes or No?”
    “Just the same.”
    “All right,” said Gunner. The paper was slid across the table. The photograph was still inside and five pound notes had added themselves to it.
    “It’ll take half an hour – maybe more,” said Gunner. “Enjoy yourself. Why not have a nice game of brag with those boys in the corner?”
    “My mother told me never to play cards with strangers.”
    Gunner showed his few teeth in a smile and was gone.
    It was nearly an hour before he returned.
    He handed McCann back his folded paper.
    “Not known,” he said. “You might try Berty’s.”
    “Thank you,” said McCann.
    A minute later he was out in the street.
    It was seven o’clock and almost dark. There was a nip in the air, which was sharp and grateful after the overheated room. The first mist of autumn was making halos round the street lamps in the Islington Road, and outside the brewery two huge dray horses stood in a cloud of steam and dreamed of nosebags and stable. A trolley-bus swished past him in the mist, its wheels purring on the smooth asphalt.
    McCann was a Scotsman but he had spent most of his life in London and he loved every bit of it. He loved the dirty bits and the twisted bits. The nastiness of London was part of its flavour.
    He was making for a small public house near the Angel. Here he stopped long enough to spend a further five pounds. After which he returned to his own territory, and put in an inquiry at a theatrical club in Compton Street. It would have been more convenient if he could have made this call first, but the man he wanted was never there until nine. McCann ate some sandwiches whilst he was waiting for him and drank some beer. When his man arrived he handed out more money in return for which he got a glass of apricot brandy.
     
    At half-past nine he set out once more, his objective being a pool room near Fleet Street. At half-past ten he was on his way home to bed.
    He had spent twenty pounds of Messrs. Rumbold’s money, but he was not entirely dissatisfied with his evening’s work. He knew for certain now that Mrs. Roper was on the fringe of the law. He knew that her activities, whatever they might be, were not connected in any way with racing or betting, with the food and drink racket, with drugs, or with organised prostitution; which was quite a lot of negative evidence.
    He was crossing Kingsway when he saw someone he knew. A small man, who had been walking ahead of him, stopped for a moment under the street light, to let a car go past.
    “Blow me down,” said McCann to himself. “I’ve seen that nose before. It’s Mousey.”
    Mousey Jones was a small character who made a living by picking up the crumbs which lie round the wainscoting, and in the dark corners, of that big