Darkness and Confusion

by John Creasey

  “Superintendent Piluski is here, sir,” he announced.

  “Shut the door,” Gideon said, and as it closed he tapped the missing child file. “Did you read this report?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you didn’t think it urgent?”

  McAlistair hesitated, as if trying to recall details, and then answered. “No, sir. It seemed routine to me.”

  “Read it again and see why it isn’t,” Gideon said.

  As he finished his telephone rang and he answered with his usual briskness.

  “Gideon.”

  “Sir Humphrey Briggs, sir.”

  “Oh, yes … Hallo Sir Humphrey, Gideon of the Yard here … I wonder if you …” he explained at some length, while McAlistair waited, and Briggs gave an occasional grunt.

  “I’ll go over at once,” Briggs promised at last. “Will you be there?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Gideon said with real regret. “But I’ll get in touch with you later in the day … That’s fine … Goodbye.” Gideon rang off, and looked up at McAlistair, going on with hardly a pause: “Have Mr. Honiwell in to see me as early as you can.”

  “He’s out at Epping, sir.”

  “I should expect him to be. Find out what time he can get here without interfering with what he’s doing – it mustn’t be later than five o’clock.”

  “Very good, sir.” McAlistair was looking shaken, and he gripped the file tightly.

  “Put someone onto this at once,” added Gideon, giving him the note about Gerald Stratton. “And send Mr. Piluski in.”

  “Right away, sir!”

  “And McAlistair – did you see the point of urgency in the report?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Neighbours, forming a kind of unofficial force,” said Gideon.

  “Oh, I see, sir!” McAlistair said brightly. But Gideon, nodding dismissal, did not think he did see.

  The door closed on McAlistair, with a slight hiss from the hydraulic fixture at the top, then opened again almost immediately, for McAlistair, not in sight, to say: “Mr. Piluski, sir.”

  Piluski came in, soft-footed.

  It was obvious at a glance that he was not English; something about the leathery appearance of his face, lined – more accurately grooved – at the lips and the eyes, gave this away. He had a big, bony chin not unlike Geoffrey Entwhistle, Gideon thought, but Entwhistle’s face was more refined. Piluski’s had a droll look. His lips, very thick, were shaped almost like a harp. His eyes, deep-set, were so dark at the lashes that it might almost be due to eyeshade. He was half-Polish, half-English, and had spent most of his life in England but was trilingual, Polish and German being his other languages. He was also an engineer of some standing and had qualifications for a dozen different professions, but had joined the police in the early days of the war and stayed at the Yard by choice. He was as valuable in his knowledge of civil engineering as he was for his languages.

  “Good morning,” Gideon said, motioning to a chair. As Piluski sat down, he added: “Anything new at Battersea?”

  “Nothing at all,” answered Piluski.

  “Any more power cuts?” Gideon wanted to know.

  “There was one in the East End for fourteen minutes this morning,” Piluski answered. That would be the one Lemaitre had mentioned. “An oil feeder line was damaged, sir.”

  Gideon asked sharply: “Sabotage?”

  “It looks very much like it,” said Piluski. “I haven’t been over to the Power Station but had a word with the manager over the telephone. It was fire. Could have been wear and tear but there’s not much to say that it was.”

  “How many does that make?” Gideon asked.

  “Seven in the past nine days, sir.”

  “Duration?”

  “The shortest was this morning’s, fourteen minutes. The longest was at Tottenham and Edmonton – the second one – of forty-three minutes.

  “Do much damage?” asked Gideon. He was watching Piluski very closely, assessing the man for the task he had in mind.

  “Actual damage to equipment probably not more than fifty thousand pounds in total, but loss in production, apart from the loss of time due to delayed trains and general inconvenience must have been very heavy indeed, sir.”

  “Millions of pounds worth?” asked Gideon.

  “Impossible to state accurately, sir – but certainly a million pounds or more.”

  “I see,” said Gideon. “What ideas do you have about it?”

  Piluski hesitated, slid his hand into a side pocket, then took it out again. Gideon caught the movement and noticed for the first time that the fingers of Piluski’s left hand were badly stained with nicotine.

  “Smoke if you want to,” he said, and pushed a heavy glass ashtray towards the other.

  A cigarette case and lighter came out in a flash.

  “Thank you, sir!” Piluski lit up. “If by ideas you mean do I know or suspect who’s doing it – no, sir. I haven’t the slightest indication. But that in itself is an indication of a kind, I would think.”

  “You mean seven cases of sabotage in power stations or sub-stations and not a single clue to any of the saboteurs?”

  “That’s it, sir. If we’d caught a couple of them and were on the track of another one or two it wouldn’t be so disturbing, but each act has been carried out intelligently and without leaving a clue. Each must have been very carefully planned by skilled men who knew how to cover their traces. They could be organised by the same people.”

  “Yes,” said Gideon, sitting back. His apprehension increased but there was a substantial compensating factor in Piluski’s calm assessment and analysis of the situation. He was clearly the man to take charge of the job, and one to discuss it with, not simply to direct. “It’s beginning to look like it. There could be another series of crimes going on simultaneously, spread over the same period.” He paused to give Piluski a chance to comment but all the other did was to draw deeply at the cigarette. “Arson,” he added.

  Piluski’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth.

  “Two of the power cuts were caused by fires which looked like arson, too,” he stated flatly.

  “Any ideas?” Gideon asked.

  “About what in particular, sir?”

  “Why it’s happening?”

  “No,” answered Piluski, hunching his shoulders so that his head seemed to disappear into his neck. “I need more facts to build on before I can start having ideas.” Gideon had no doubt that he was being deliberately evasive, but made no comment. “Have you any suggestions about how to cope, sir?”

  Gideon considered, at some length.

  Since last night when he had paused to see the billowing smoke at Battersea, he had thought a great deal about this affair. Now, quite suddenly, he knew what he wanted to do, and action fell into three categories – what Piluski could do, and what he, Gideon, could do without recourse to a higher authority, and what would have to be discussed with the Assistant Commissioner and possibly with the Commissioner himself.

  “Yes,” he said. “Want to make notes?”

  “Not unless you wish me to, sir.”

  “All right. I want you to go to each one of the power stations and sub-stations concerned – finish the lot either today or tomorrow. Get the fullest reports from the management, the resident security people, and our Divisions. Check the reports for overlapping, and draw up a comprehensive report based on all the evidence. Handle it your own way, within these limits.”

  Piluski’s brown eyes acquired an almost unnatural brilliance.

  “Thank you very much,” he said.

  “If you’ve anything else on hand which needs immediate attention, get someone else to take it over – refer it to me, if necessary. Take whatever help you need today and
tomorrow, but make sure I have the report tomorrow night.”

  “It will be ready, sir.”

  Gideon pushed his chair back. “Right. I shall put an alert out to all Divisions and have them send men to all power stations except the seven you’re doing, to find out if there’s been any incipient act which might have led to sabotage. We only learn about it when it becomes serious. I’ll have a summary of their reports ready by tomorrow, night, too.” He stood up. “Keep in close touch with me.”

  “I will,” said Piluski, also getting up. “Good morning, sir.” Gideon grunted “Morning.”

  That was at eleven thirty-five.

  Between then and twelve noon on that lovely September day, when the sun had broken through the haze and London was already warm, a diversity of things happened, each of which would bring reports to Gideon’s office within the next few days.

  In her classroom at Richmond, Sheila Morrison was watching her teacher closely, and trying to understand simple arithmetic. Outside, birds were singing, and a motor-mower clattering. Only a mile or so away, Luke Oliver was drinking coffee out of a dirty cup, and reading the previous Sunday newspapers, all of which had pictures of the search going on in Epping Forest, for the missing child, and of her mother and father.

  At his brightly sunlit, modem office at Hibild Incorporated, Frank Morrison was studying the plans he had sketched the night before, with a growing sense of excitement. He might have thought up the very idea that was needed for the new factory. If he had, it would mean a fortune; he would certainly be promoted, and would become one of Sir Geoffrey Craven’s bright young men.

  Lillian was tilting her hat at the most becoming angle, before going to meet Sheila on her way from school. It was a bother, and very time-taking; it wasn’t that she minded, it was just that there must be some better way of making sure children were safe. It was a pity no other child from the block went to the same school. She smiled into the bedroom mirror. She looked very pretty.

  Satisfied, she tidied the bedroom before going out to meet her daughter. One drawer in the dressing-table stuck. The workmanship was shocking, these days!

  She closed her front door almost at the moment when Luke Oliver closed his bedroom door, to go out.

  The particular piece of furniture she complained about, with the trade mark Ezeplan, had been built in the Mickle and Stratton factory, which was now a mass of smouldering rubble.

  The site was on one side of Dove Lane, opposite a builders’ yard and a timber yard. Some of the adjacent buildings and a certain amount of the timber had been scorched, but there had been no serious damage except to Mickle and Stratton’s, which had stood on a site of its own, with space all around it for vehicles to move. In one direction was Bethnal Green High Street in the other, West Ham. Sir Humphrey Briggs was there, big, moon-faced, uncommunicative. So was Chief Superintendent Lemaitre, a Cockney sparrow of a man. And so were Tony Mickle and Gerald Stratton, who had just drawn up in Stratton’s sky-blue Jaguar. All of these were watched by elderly pensioners drawn here by the excitement as well as by some of the firm’s employees who were standing about disconsolately while steel-helmeted firemen and demolition workers examined the two remaining walls of the old factory. Three newspapermen and a photographer were also hovering.

  “You know what this means, Ted,” said one of the employees. “Out of work for months for those of us over fifty. Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on the swine who did it”

  “I’d break his neck,” said the other man, whose name was Edward Smith.

  Chapter Five

  The Scene of the Fire

  Chief Superintendent Lemaitre, ‘Lem’ to the police of a dozen counties, sensed and understood the mood of many of the people who were standing by. He also knew that he was on the threshold of a major inquiry, and that it had fallen right into his lap. As Gideon’s chief assistant for many years he had been used to playing second fiddle, and more than once he had been saved by other officers at the Yard from making grave mistakes. In the past few months, however, a change had come over Lemaitre. He was aware of it, without any conscious effort.

  Now that he was virtually his own ‘boss’, he had much more self-confidence.

  Moreover, he was at home in the East End of London. Centuries ago, when the Huguenots had been driven out of France for their supposedly heretical beliefs, a family of Lemaitres had been among them, but generations of marriage had almost bred the French blood out. Chief Superintendent Lemaitre pronounced his name ‘Lemaiter’, and under pressure would aggressively assert his claim to being a Londoner. He had a bony face, a round head over which thinning dark hair was flattened by perfumed pomade, alert, but tired-looking eyes. His scraggy neck and agitated Adam’s apple were emphasised by a collar too big for him, and a blue and white spotted bow tie.

  He heard the comments of men like Edward Smith as he talked with Sir Humphrey Briggs, a very big, heavy man with a bowler hat worn like a halo about his moon-shaped face. Briggs had an enormous paunch, to which he seemed to have added several inches since Lemaitre had last seen him. But he moved over the charred and uneven rubble nimbly enough, and readily bent down to examine pieces of it, though breathing heavily as he straightened up. The local Fire Officer was with him, and Lemaitre heard them talking of residual ash, traces of petrol, fragments of the plastic in which it had been stored.

  At last, Briggs said: “I’ll take that for analysis, but you can work on the assumption that it was arson, Superintendent.”

  “Glad to have advance knowledge,” Lemaitre said. “Any signs of human remains?”

  “Yes. The night watchman, presumably – you’ll have to get what’s left to the morgue for autopsy.”

  “Poor devil.”

  “Don’t quote me yet,” Briggs urged.

  “No, I won’t Can I tell the directors?” Lemaitre looked across at Stratton and Mickle.

  As he did so, an old but highly polished black Rolls-Royce appeared at the end of Dove Lane, and young Tony Mickle turned and hurried towards it. He was a little too plump and his grey suit fitted him too tightly, especially round the bottom, but he was very efficient. He had put up a notice telling all employees to report later in the day, at the builders’ shed, and had been most co-operative with the police.

  “Please yourself,” Briggs said, watching the Rolls-Royce as it slowed down. “Who’s that just arrived?”

  “Old Jeff Mickle – one of the original founders of the firm,” answered Lemaitre.

  They walked slowly across the rubble, watching the scene. A chauffeur jumped down from the car, and Tony Mickle leaned into the rear of it. At first there was a delay which seemed very long. Then the back of a man appeared, almost completely filling the door. He was supported on one side by young Tony Mickle and on the other by the chauffeur.

  “My God!” exclaimed Briggs. “He’s fatter than I am!”

  “Puts away more food than anyone I’ve ever seen,” confided Lemaitre. “Decent old codger, though.”

  At last, the huge man was clear of the door. He stood by the side of the car, surveying the scene like a modern Nero, and quite suddenly Lemaitre said: “Must be hell for him. Over fifty years since he started this business.”

  Everyone, including the firemen and the onlookers, were watching old Jeff Mickle. The photographer was already taking pictures of him, the newspapermen gathering close.

  “I’d like to hear this,” said Briggs, and began to move nearer.

  Lemaitre had difficulty in keeping up with him, but they both stopped in their tracks when Jeff Mickle threw back his big head and bellowed: “I want all my employees here – come on, get a move on, don’t stand about Harry! What’s slowing you down? Charlie, put a sock in it Ted! What’s keeping you?” The harsh, gravelly voice sounded startlingly loud and everyone looked amused except Gerald Stratton, on whose face was an expression of disgust. Lem
aitre, glancing about him, saw how the junior partner of Mickle and Stratton drew further away. “Come on, then!” roared Jeff Mickle. He beckoned everyone in sight, his face red, his arms thick and stubby, like an old-time bookmaker or music-hall comedian.

  “Mr. Mickle, I’m from the Evening News,” a man said. “Have you—”

  “What I’ve got to say everyone can hear! Come on, you lot – now listen! Mickle and Stratton won’t let a thing like this stop them. No, sir, not now or at any time. Nobody’s going to drive us out of business. The minute I heard about the fire I started looking round for new premises – and I’ve found them. I’ve taken over the warehouse in Dock Lane, the old oil warehouse. Circular saws will be put in this week, the cement foundation will start tomorrow. I want all the department managers there this afternoon at three o’clock so we can get a move on. All the suppliers will play ball, we’ll be making Ezeplan furniture again by next Monday – and don’t you forget it And don’t forget Ezeplan furniture fits every house and every pocket!” He glared at the newspapermen. “Put that down boys. And don’t forget to tell the world nobody and nothing’s going to put us out of business.”

  Someone among the several dozen people gathered round began to clap. Someone else cheered. Suddenly they were roaring their approval, the firemen and the demolition workers joining in. Gradually, the tone of the shouting changed, and it became a song. “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fell-fell-oh! – and so say all of us!”

  Old Jeff was holding his hands above his head, boxer fashion. His son was beaming as if he could not hold his delight. Gerald Stratton watched, his expression supercilious, even bored.

  “That’s done me a lot of good,” Sir Humphrey Briggs declared. “That man’s quite a character – pity he’s one of a dying generation. See you again soon, Superintendent.”