Seven Days to Death

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  Seven Days To Death

  (Gideon's Week)

  First published in 1956

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1956-2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2013 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755114051 9780755114054 Print

  0755118715 9780755118717 Mobi

  0755134419 9780755134410 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  1. Report for Gideon

  As George Gideon of the Criminal Investigation Department drove from his home to Scotland Yard that Monday morning, a report was being prepared for him. He knew that it would be ready by the time he reached his office, and could imagine the antics of Lemaitre and the others helping to prepare it He remembered performing similar antics, long before he had become Commander Gideon. This newly-created title irked him a little; in many ways he preferred the old “Chief Superintendent.” Still, “Commander” had advantages, and really meant - what it said. Gideon, above everything else a human being, enjoyed the warm glow which springs from reaching the top of the tree.

  He had a fairly good idea of what would be in the report, too, although no one had telephoned him since he had left the Yard late on Friday evening. In general terms, he would receive a summary of the crimes committed in the Greater London area during the weekend, as well as a resume of what had happened during the previous week; the report would name all the suspects who had been charged and were now on remand; and would also give the names of suspects against whom there was not enough evidence for an arrest. If the Yard had only to stretch out a hand and pick up those offenders who were known to have committed a crime, life would be comparatively easy. Gideon’s first mentor in the Criminal Investigation Department had been fond of saying that the burden of proof was the heaviest burden the Yard had to carry. Trite but true.

  It was a mild spring morning, welcome after several bitter weeks and snowfalls which had twice dislocated London traffic and had covered most of the British Isles. As a policeman, Gideon liked cold weather. Those members of his erring flock who worked under cover of darkness - and that was most of them - disliked cold winds, cold hands, shivery corners and slippery roads. They had to be quick and they had to be quiet, so it wasn’t surprising that there was less crime during exceptionally cold spells. The one which had just passed had been one of the coldest and quietest.

  Among the things which made Gideon different from most policemen, and probably the greatest single factor in his early promotion - for to be Commander of the C.I.D. at the age of forty-nine was quite remarkable - was the way he looked upon simple facts such as the effect of wintry weather on those crooks who worked by night. To most police, the cold spell simply meant that the bad men wouldn’t get around, so much. So life would be quieter, the magistrates’ courts less busy, the telephone less urgent and the insurance companies less active. Gideon saw beyond all this. He saw hungry crooks, their patient wives, their children going to school so close to the edge of hunger that it might affect them for most of their lives. Gideon wasn’t simply being humanitarian when he recognized the fact that a crook could be as fond of his wife and children as any copper, and be just as anxious to keep them well fed.

  With so many burglars nearly desperate to earn money, as soon as the weather broke, there was likely to be a big crop of crimes. The Divisions, especially the uniformed men, might be off their guard because of the recent lull. That was a thing to prevent.

  As Gideon drove round Parliament Square and was held up by a traffic policeman first at the end of Parliament Street and then at the approach to the Embankment, the duty policeman recognized and saluted him. He drove slowly along the Embankment, hardly aware of the Thames stretching out so far ahead, dull and flat in the pale morning mist. Nearing the Yard, he saw a Squad car swing out of the wide gateway, turn away from him, and go hurtling toward Blackfriars and the City. Something was up, or a squad car wouldn’t be going at that speed. He watched the driver weaving in and out of traffic with the effortless control which marked him as better than average, even for the Flying Squad.

  Then Gideon turned into the Yard.

  One of the advantages of his new rank was the fact that parking space was always left for him. True, his name wasn’t on it, but neither was the Assistant Commander’s C.I.D. on his, or the Commissioner’s for that matter. All the same, no one would pirate their place or Gideon’s.

  He got out and wound up the windows. The car, a black Wolseley, had a few surface scratches, but for a year-old model it had been kept very well. He was beginning to feel affection for it, as for a spirited horse. He turned toward the steps which led into the C.I.D. building well aware that he was being watched not only by all the plain clothes and uniformed men in sight, some coming and some going, but also by people at the windows and almost certainly by a sergeant who was now nipping along to his office and telling Chief Inspector Lemaitre that the Boss was on the way.

  What Gideon did not know was that those who had no need to be wary of him were also aware, by a kind of telepathy, that he was here. And of course he didn’t really know what he looked like. He realized that he was big; but so were many men at the Yard. It did not occur to him that none of these others had quite his massive hugeness, or his great breadth of shoulder. He was six feet two, and his fondness for the comfort of loose-fitting clothes made him look ev
en bigger than he was. He walked casually as if out for a stroll, and with a steady rhythm which, given the right circumstances, held a kind of menace. Walking, Gideon looked as if he knew exactly where he was going, when and how he wanted to get there, and that nothing and nobody would be able to put him off his course.

  Lemaitre would now be crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s of the report, he mused, smiling dryly to himself. So the news flashed round the Yard that Gideon was in a sunny mood.

  He reached the top of the steps, and the duty sergeant smiled a familiar welcome, while younger men were more formal. At the lift, with its one-armed operator, he found another man waiting to go up, a comparative youngster in plain clothes. This man was fresh-faced, had bright blue eyes, and was dressed in a carefully pressed navy blue suit which looked embarrassingly new. He stiffened when Gideon got in, as if he would readily press himself into the side of the lift.

  “Hallo, Joe,” Gideon greeted the liftman.

  “Bit milder, isn’t it?” the liftman said with the casualness of a man who had been taking senior officials up and down for twenty-odd years. “Morning, sir,” the fresh-complexioned young man said, and turned a brighter red.

  “Morning,” responded Gideon, and tipped his trilby hat to the back of his head; he felt warm. “You’re Abbott, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, sir!” The man was delighted, and that meant one good thing; he was not likely to get blasé or too cocksure - at least, not until he was past the dangerous formative days for a detective officer at the Yard. Looked a nice lad. Twenty-six or seven, Gideon hazarded. He’d been blooded when on the beat in a running battle with two thieves and a stolen car, had come through with a black eye, a sprained ankle, and a week’s sick-leave, and the thieves were still inside. Gideon, knowing about this as he acquired knowledge about everyone at the Yard, couldn’t decide whether or not to mention it. Better not risk giving Abbott a swelled head. It would be wiser to send him off with a different kind of satisfaction.

  “Likely to have a burst of bad-man trouble the next few days if the weather holds,” Gideon said.

  “Are we, sir?”

  Gideon thought: As honest as they come. Keep that way. “Usually do as soon as we thaw out a bit,” he went on, and actually found himself wondering whether, in twenty-five years’ time, this same Abbott would remember it as an axiom, as he, Gideon, had remembered the one about the burden of proof.

  The lift stopped, Abbott kept back, Gideon nodded and went out. Here he was just round the corner from the office which he shared with Chief Inspector Lemaitre. He wasn’t surprised to see the door open an inch; that would give Lemaitre and anyone with him the split second of warning they imagined they needed. He wondered if Lemaitre had thought of sending a note round to the Divisions, saying that they could expect more trouble than they’d been having lately. Probably not.

  He pushed open the door.

  Lemaitre, tall, thinnish, and lanky, was standing up by the telephone, coat off, collar undone, red tie hanging down, thin dark hair smoothed flat, a film of sweat on his forehead. Heat struck Gideon as he went in, although all four office windows, overlooking the Embankment and the Thames, were open as wide as they could be.

  “Okay,” Lemaitre said, and put the receiver down. “Cor,” he said, “what a morning! First time we’ve had the central heating working properly this year, I should think. Trust those ruddy maintenance men to choose the first warm morning. I’d —”

  Gideon shut the door.

  “Morning, Lem,” he said.

  Lemaitre grinned.

  “Morning, George. Had a nice weekend?”

  “Bit of all right,” said Gideon, “didn’t do a damned thing and it toned me up nicely for the week. How about you?” He was already loosening his collar; it was really steaming hot and unpleasant. He glanced at the big radiator; Lemaitre had turned the heat off, so the room should cool down.

  “So so,” said Lemaitre; “it’s a funny thing that whenever you have a weekend off, all the nuisance jobs come up, or else the things you know most about. They’re all in the report. Pretty slack, generally.”

  “Yes.” Gideon sat down behind his big desk, where the report was waiting, mostly typewritten but with the last-minute additions in Lemaitre’s almost copperplate handwriting. “What’s on this morning? Saw a Squad car go out.”

  “Safe been blown at Kelly’s Bank, Fleet Street,” said Lemaitre. “I’ve told Dooley to get ready to go over there, and King-Hadden’s sending over right away. No night watchman, so the job might have been done anytime over the weekend, cold as a stone now. Still, you never know.” There was Lemaitre, doing the thing which would always keep him down to C.I.’s rank - jumping to conclusions. He couldn’t help it, and nothing would now be able to stop him. His manner and his tone told the story clearly: he didn’t expect to get much in the way of results.

  “Who’s the Squad car driver, d’you know?”

  “Soon find out,” said Lemaitre, and plucked at the telephone as Gideon sat down, coat already off, and perspiration beginning to break out on his forehead. “Only thing of real interest cropped up since Friday is that they’ve got that kid for the Primrose Girl job.”

  Gideon looked up quickly, “Sure?”

  “Cast-iron. Fingerprints, footprints, his knife, known to have been with her on Thursday afternoon, jealous because she threw him over. Named Rose. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “What’s funny?” asked Gideon almost sharply, but Lemaitre had switched from him to the telephone. Gideon studied his assistant almost as if he were looking at someone he didn’t know well, but his tension eased while Lemaitre talked.

  “That you Freddy? ... No, rest easy, the Boss is in and wants to know who was driving our car on the Kelly’s Bank job ... Oh, Sammy Brown ... dunno, hold on a minute.” Lemaitre lowered the receiver but asked so that both the Squad chief and Gideon could hear. “Anything wrong, he wants to know.”

  “He’s a good driver, don’t waste him on the easy jobs,” Gideon said. “I’ll have a word with Freddy a bit later on.”

  He glanced through the nine pages of the typewritten report, and near the end reached the item about the arrest and charging of one William Sydney Rose for the murder of Winifred Ethel Norton, known as the Primrose Girl because she had died with a little bunch of primroses clutched in her left hand. On Friday morning, it had been the newspaper story of the week, perhaps of the month.

  There wasn’t much here. Routine checking had led them to William Sydney Rose because he was known as a friend of the girl’s. This was mainly a Divisional job, although a Yard man had been present at the time of the arrest.

  “What’s funny about it?” Gideon asked.

  “Eh? I didn’t know anything was - oh, Rose?” Lemaitre grinned. “You slipping, George? The Primrose Girl murdered by a man named Rose, see. Rose.”

  “Hm. They haven’t picked up anyone for the Battersea hit-and-run job, have they?”

  “No,” said Lemaitre.

  He gathered from Gideon’s manner that this wasn’t likely to be a talking session, after all, and he didn’t greatly mind. He sat down, lit a cigarette with a lighter which wouldn’t work properly, and glanced at the dark, ugly nicotine stain on his fingers. Then he started to work on two or three routine reports that would have to be vetted by Gideon before they were sent to the Assistant Commissioner.

  Between nine and ten in the morning the telephone was usually quiet - well, quieter than at other times. It didn’t ring for fifteen minutes. In that time Gideon had read the report through quickly and marked certain paragraphs for a more careful reading. There wasn’t a great deal. Seven burglaries Saturday night, four last night, Two fires, one with arson suspected. The usual crop of drunk and disorderlies on Saturday, the usual weekend harvest of West End streetwalkers, a bottle-and-broken-glass fight outside a Stepney pub
lic house with both protagonists in the hospital but neither on the danger list. Expected arrest connected with some currency frauds, a warning from Switzerland about a man now on his way by air, believed to have five hundred watches hidden in his luggage. Nothing really sensational. Nothing to presage an abnormal week, except the mild weather. Nothing to get under Gideon’s skin except the Primrose Girl. You could be as tough as you liked, but there were weak spots. He had three daughters and three sons; his second daughter had been out picking primroses in a sheltered spot in Surrey on Thursday afternoon. The Primrose Girl had been out picking primroses in a sheltered spot in Kent the same afternoon; and while she had been there, she had been savagely attacked, with eleven knife wounds in the chest. Gideon had seen photographs but not the body. He had also seen the photograph of the girl’s left hand, tight about some withered primroses.

  The telephone broke the quiet.

  A telephone call to Gideon could be the prelude to anything from a high-powered murder investigation to a summons from the Assistant Commissioner for Crime to go and see him. It could be some routine question or piece of information. It could be from a squealer with information to sell. It could be his tailor, to tell him that his new suit was ready for fitting; it could even be one of his elder children or his wife, although they seldom troubled him at the office. The essential thing, as Gideon knew, was that when he picked up the telephone he should have a completely open mind; and that he shouldn’t be preoccupied. One thing at a time was always safest.

  He didn’t get any sense of impending disaster.

  He didn’t flicker an eyelid when the operator said, “It’s Mr. Ripley, of Manchester, sir.”

  Ripley was his opposite number with the Manchester City C.I.D.