Death Has Deep Roots by Michael Gilbert Page A

together.
    The big man started to eat McCann’s left ear.
    McCann stood this for some seconds, then raised his head sharply from the floor.
    The click which followed suggested that he had broken the big man’s nose.
    At this point, and not before McCann was ready for it, a third party appeared.
    The space at the top of the bar was blacked out, an arm in blue descended, and a voice said, “Now then, break that up.”
    The big man removed himself slowly, and McCann, following, got his head above the counter in time to see the last act. Standing in the middle of the bar was a young and conscientious-looking policeman. In front of him was the big man, who had just got out from under the bar counter.
    McCann prepared himself for some rather difficult explanations. The big man thought otherwise. With a speed and power which showed what he could do in the open, he jumped forward, hit the policeman once in the stomach and once under the jaw, jumped his body and disappeared through the door into the street.
    McCann got on to his feet shakily.
    He found himself in sole and absolutely undisputed possession of the field of battle.
    The landlord and the customers had disappeared. The constable lay where he had fallen. The thin man had rolled off the table on to a bench.
    In the silence the ricking of the bar clock sounded loud.
    McCann picked out a piece of glass which had got between his collar and his neck and straightened the remnants of his tie. He walked over to the thin man who seemed still to be breathing. He put his hand into the thin man’s inside pocket and found a wallet. It was quite a heavy wallet. McCann pocketed it.
    It struck him that it was high time to be off.
    Twenty minutes later Mrs. McCann was gazing at her husband.
    For once all comment seemed to have failed her. At last she said, faintly, “It must have been quite a party. I take it Mrs. Roper is a gin drinker. It looks as if she’s got rather long nails, too.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” said McCann. “I never caught up with her. Just two of her friends. And as for the gin, I only wish I had rather more of it in me and rather less of it down my neck. Come up and talk to me in the bathroom and bring the first-aid kit with you.”
    Before he went to bed he turned out the wallet he had taken from the thin man.
    He found seventeen pounds and ten shillings in notes, which he reckoned would go some way toward buying him a new suit. The only other thing of interest was a letter. A name in it caught his eye, and he showed it to his wife.
    “There you are, Kitty,” he said, “that’s his racket all right. And if it’s his racket, then it’s probably Mrs. Roper’s as well.”
    “Stimmy,” said Mrs. McCann. “I know I’ve heard the name but I can’t—”
    “Gold,” said McCann. “And I don’t mean gold shares, I mean the article itself. He’s the biggest illicit gold dealer in London.”

 
Chapter Eight
     
    “I shall have to catch the night boat,” wrote Nap to his wife, “for I shall be busy all this afternoon in London, making the necessary contacts. Unless I can do some really good groundwork at this end I fear my trip will be largely wasted. However, the expenses are falling, in the long run, on public funds, so why worry?
    “I ran into Angus McCann this morning in Shepherd Market. He had a beautiful black eye, someone had chewed the bottom off his left ear, and he could hardly speak for a plummy mouth. From what I could understand he’s now got a line on Mrs. Roper. He has found out that she’s connected, though distantly, with the gold smuggling and currency racket. I’m not at all sure how this ties up with our case, but it should make quite good ammunition for Macrea in cross-examination.
    “I’m off now to the Société de Lorraine to try my charms on the French bureaucrats.”
    “H’m,” said Mrs. Rumbold thoughtfully.
    She read the letter again, turned it over to make sure there was no postscript, and then handed it down to