by John Creasey
“Put him through.”
Lemaitre glanced up, and Gideon mouthed, “Manchester.”
“Could be that slush job; they picked up about sixty-five one-pounders on Friday,” Lemaitre said at once.
Gideon nodded, but he didn’t share the opinion. Ripley of Manchester wouldn’t telephone him about a job that was already known at the Yard. He knew Ripley too well, to think that. They had met first during their early days in the Force; and as far as Gideon had close friends, Ripley was one.
There were the usual noises on the line, and Gideon waited patiently for Ripley’s voice, with those broad a’s and something like V for ‘the’. Only one thing was certain: Ripley would not ring him on long distance unless he was prodded by a sense of real urgency.
Then a voice that was not Ripley’s came on the line.
“Sorry, Commander, but the Superintendent’s been called away in a hurry. He’ll ring you as soon as he can.”
“That suits me,” said Gideon patiently, “but what’s it all about?”
The other said, “Mass escape from Millways jail, it’s keeping us well on the hop up here. Mr. Ripley wanted you to have word quickly. I’ll ring you again, sir.”
The Manchester man rang off before Gideon spoke.
2. The Escape
Gideon put down the receiver slowly, telling Lemaitre what the trouble was, as he did so. Lemaitre got up, fumbled for a cigarette from a packet, and lit it up as he was halfway across the office. His eyes were screwed up, and his lips pursed. “Mass escape?” he asked; and when Gideon nodded but didn’t speak, he stopped in front of Gideon’s desk and then perched on a corner. “I’ll bet that means Benson’s out.”
Gideon brought out his dark cherry wood pipe, with the big bowl that was rough on the outside, something to fiddle with at the moment, and not to smoke.
“Lem, why don’t you give it a rest? There are over a thousand prisoners at Mill ways, and I don’t suppose more than half a dozen have got away. There isn’t any reason to think that Benson’s one of them.”
Lemaitre had the sense not to argue.
“What beats me,” Gideon went on, “is how they’ve managed an escape up there this weekend. All Lancashire had another blizzard Saturday; I was told the place was snowed up, especially out near Mill ways. Funny business.”
“I could ring Manchester, and —”
“Tell you what we’d better do,” said Gideon; “get the rest of the work as clear as we can, in case we have to spend time on this job. Not that anyone who escaped from Millways can have got as far south as this. Now, let’s get a move on.”
“Okay, George,” said Lemaitre, just managing to keep the note of resignation out of his voice. “What goes?”
“First, put a flash out to all Squad and patrol cars to keep a specially keen watch today, tell them that now it’s warmer we might find some of the boys getting busy. That will spread out from the patrol cars to the Divisions. Then get me the fullest report you can from the Division on the Primrose Girl job. Find out if Birdy’s better this morning and carrying on at the Old Bailey; heck of a mess when a judge falls ill and a trial has to be interrupted. Then ...”
Instructions, suggestions and questions streamed from Gideon as water from a tap. Soon he was sending for sergeants, for Detective-Inspectors and Chief Inspectors to give brief reports on jobs they were doing. He kept his voice pitched low, and did not give the impression that he paid much attention to what was being said, but every man who entered the office knew better than that. In some ways they knew even better than Gideon himself, because they could watch from the outside. In his way he was a fascinating object lesson. He absorbed information so accurately that he seemed to be almost as familiar with each job as the men who were working on it; a kind of C.I.D. Memory Man. If he didn’t get a point clearly, he worried it. And he put out suggestions about how to handle a job, sometimes carefully wrapped up, occasionally twisted so that they seemed to emanate from the man he was talking to. It was a form of briefing which Gideon himself had introduced, and had become almost part of the tradition at the Yard. Sometimes it lasted all morning; today it was over in an hour.
Three times senior officers had asked if he knew what had happened at Millways; the rumour was already spreading, and had probably been started by the telephone operator, unless there was a teleprint message in. He checked; he didn’t want operators talking too freely. There had been a teleprint, received a little while after he had spoken to the man from Manchester, but it gave only one additional piece of information.
Nine men had escaped. Five were named, but the man Benson wasn’t among them. Didn’t Millways know who’d gone, yet? They’d alert the local police the moment they knew about a break, of course, and nine would take a lot of checking.
“Why don’t you call Ripley?” asked Lemaitre.
“He’ll ring when he’s ready.” Gideon was still smoothing his pipe. It was much cooler in the office, but outside the mist was giving way to sunshine; the Thames could look good. Most mornings he would have gone for a stroll round London’s Square Mile - his own particular beat, the one he’d walked for years before being planted on the desk - but the hope of an early call from Ripley stopped him.
Lemaitre went out of the office; there wasn’t much doubt that he was trying to find out all he could about the Millways break, but Gideon didn’t let himself think too much about it and hardly, at all about Benson.
If Benson had escaped ...
He was getting as bad as Lemaitre. As a matter of fact, this morning he was feeling sour toward Lem, although he couldn’t really say why. His good mood hadn’t developed, and for some reason he was on edge. That Primrose Girl job was under his skin, of course, and he knew that was a bad thing.
Then Ripley came through.
“That you, George?”
“What’s the matter up there, Jim, everyone got frostbite?”
“When I’ve finished telling you what I think of this job at Millways, you’ll have frostbite,” growled Ripley. “As a matter of fact, George, it was a right smart piece of work; we have to give them that. They took advantage of the snow; in all, about a hundred prisoners were involved in it, and nine got outside the prison walls. We’ve picked up two already. They built a kind of staircase in hard packed snow, which had frozen hard, and went over the wall. Must have paid a screw to keep his back turned, but - well, that’s not my worry now, that’s the Governor’s, and I wouldn’t like to be in the Chief Warder’s shoes this morning. Thing is, George, Benson’s one of the seven who are still free.”
Gideon said slowly: “Oh, is he?”
“When it’s all come out, we’ll probably find that Benson was behind the job,” Ripley said. “There’s just one good thing about it: He’ll be afraid to show himself even if he does get out of the Manchester district, and there’s no certainty that he’ll do that yet. But I wanted to tell you in person, you know Benson and his boys better than anyone else living, that’s why I rang earlier, but the Chief Constable wouldn’t wait. Anyway, there it is, George.”
“Thanks,” said Gideon.
“I know,” said Ripley, in reply to unspoken comment, “they ought to have strung him up but they didn’t. And I’m not so sure that a man who’s been as near the gallows as Benson will give a damn about risking a life sentence. He’s been at Millways for three years; it may have tamed him.”
Gideon said dryly, “It looks as if it has, doesn’t it? Who else got away? Anyone in the same mob?”
“Yes. Jingo Smith and Wally Alderman. The others are all solo workers. The list’s on the teleprinter by now. Five Londoners, just to cheer you up. George, I’m not going to waste your time or ‘mine, I know you’ll do everything that needs doing. Let’s hear from you one of these days.”
“Okay, Jim,” Gideon said. “Thanks for ringing.”
&nbs
p; He rang off, very slowly and thoughtfully.
He drew a pad toward him and made a note of several different people whom he wanted to talk to about the jailbreak, and steps he wanted them to take. But he didn’t put a call in yet. In the brief and blessed quiet, he was able to think without feeling that he was being pushed - a condition which wouldn’t last long. The escape of any prisoner meant high pressure until the man was found or else the hue and cry had died down, and Benson - well, this would mean newspaper headlines every day until Benson was captured. It would put fear into the hearts of several people, too. It would mean giving special protection to at least two people, including Benson’s wife. All this was a long story, and Gideon, in a way, had grown up with it. The one overriding factor was simply this: Benson was a killer. He should have been hanged. He was known to have killed at least two people over a period of eleven years, but the “burden of proof” had been too heavy. Finally, the police had got him on an attempted murder charge, but the victim hadn’t died. It was hardly true to say that he lived, either; he was a mental and physical wreck and would have been better off dead. But the law didn’t allow a man to be charged with murder because he had condemned another to a living death. Benson had been given fifteen years’ penal servitude; he’d served three.
The telephone bell rang.
Gordon lifted the receiver. “Gideon.”
“George.” This was the Assistant Commissioner, crisply. “Can you spare me a minute?” He could have said simply, “Come and see me,” but it wasn’t his way.
“Yes, I’ll come,” Gideon said. “Right away.” He pressed a bell and stood up; tightened his tie, shrugged himself into his coat, and smoothed down his thick iron-grey hair. By that time he’d reached the door, and it was opened by a middle-aged, greying sergeant named Jefferson. “Jeff, stay here until Mr. Lemaitre or I get back, will you? I’ll be with the A.C.” Gideon nodded and went out walking in that characteristic way, not hurrying, and giving the impression that if anything should get in his path he would push it aside.
He heard the hurried footsteps of a man who couldn’t move fast enough, and smothered a grin. This was Lemaitre, who came swinging round a corner, eyes very bright. He almost skidded to a standstill.
“It was Benson!” he blurted.
“Lem, there are times when you’ve got second sight,” said Gideon. “Jefferson’s in the office, I’m going to see the old man. You nip down to Records and get Benson’s file will you - and the files of Benson’s pals, Wally Alderman and Jingo Smith.”
“They out, too?”
“Yes. Get the names of the others, have the files out, then call the five people I’ve jotted down on my note pad, and tell them to keep their eyes open. If we don’t pick up Benson soon, we might run into a lot of trouble.”
“It had to break sooner or later,” Lemaitre said. “Been too quiet for a long time. Okay. Like a cushion for your pants?”
The A.C.’s office was on the same floor as Gideon’s, overlooking almost an identical scene. It was much larger, it had only one desk, and there was a communicating door to his secretary’s and personal assistant’s office. Tall, lean, tough-looking, the A.C. was dressed in a suit of light grey tweed tailored to fit so perfectly that it looked almost too small. He had thin, crimpy hair, parted in the middle with a wide, pale parting.
“Hallo, George, come and sit down. Have a good weekend?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“About the first you’ve had in six weeks, but at least you had some sun yesterday. Sit down.” Gideon lowered himself into a wooden armchair. “What have you done about the Millways business? Or haven’t you had a chance, yet?”
Gideon smiled in the way he did only when he was with someone he liked.
“Not much,” he said. “Lemaitre’s on the job now. I’m warning the Divisions where the London men came from to watch their homes. I’m having two of our chaps go round to Mrs. Benson’s place to keep an eye on her, better not leave that to the Divisions; and I’m putting out a general call, London and Home Counties as from now, to keep their eyes open. Then I’m getting photographs printed of all the men for the Police Gazette and for the police stations. If we pick Benson up in a few hours, we’ll have wasted a little money and a lot of time. If we don’t, then we’ll be off to a good start.”
“Every now and again, when I get to thinking seriously, I tell myself that I ought to spend more time in the garden; while you’re here, this place works better without me.” The A.C. wasn’t smiling. “Benson was a man I didn’t have much to do with, I’ve only read and heard about him. This is the first time I’ve ever believed that he was as bad as the report said. You’ve convinced me.”
“No report is bad enough,” Gideon told him flatly; “but when you work it out, he hasn’t much chance of getting far, has he? The country’s snowbound north of a line from the Severn to the Wash. Manchester’s picked up two of the escapers already, and there’s a sound chance they’ll all be in their cells again before the night’s out With a bit of luck, it will all die down.”
“All right, let’s look on the bright side,” agreed the A.C. “But I didn’t really want to talk about that - I’d hardly got round to it.” His eyes smiled. “This man Rose and the Primrose Girl murder - have you seen the Divisional report?”
“No, just a precis.”
“It looks cut and dried,” said the A.C., “but Smedd over at H5 has put in reports that made me think.” He passed over some papers, including a photograph of William Rose; and a note said that Rose was twenty years old. “Usually, when a kid is caught and held on a job like this and told what the build up is, he confesses,” the A.C. observed. “He retracts afterward, of course, under the influence of a lawyer who tells him he must do better than that, because lies might save him. But this boy just insists that he didn’t do it. Smedd says he keeps quite calm - not at all like most youngsters. Comes from a family with a good background; his father died only three months ago. The mother’s distraught. He’s got two sisters - one older, one younger than he is.” The A.C. had a habit of dispensing information like this in a casual, offhand way, almost as if he felt guilty at having it. “Smedd seems absolutely sure of himself, but I’d like to see young Rose. Will you ring Smedd when you can fit it in? He’d bring Rose here - unless you’re going over that way.”
“Could do, a bit later,” said Gideon. “I’ll have a look at it. That the lot?”
“Not quite.” The A.C. grimaced. “The Public Prosecutor’s wishing a new boy onto us, and he’s coming over to have a talk about the case against Edmundsun. It’s the new chap’s first embezzlement prosecution; and if you ask me, he’ll want wet-nursing. Who would you let him talk to? I don’t mean Gideon!”
Gideon said thanks, as if he really meant it. Then, “Cummings knows that job inside out. He’s a bit young, but if he sees this through and we put Edmundsun inside, I’d move him up. Not that it’ll be easy, Edmundsun’s pretty fly. That the lot?”
“Yes. In a hurry?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if things keep us on the go all day,” said Gideon. “There’s enough on my plate until middle afternoon already.”
He went out, without hurrying. He had long passed the time when he paused to reflect that he and the Yard were lucky with the A.C., yet a conference, as this one, always did him good. He was completely over his sour mood, too. He’d recovered from the sharp blow of the news from Manchester and was moving into a different frame of mind, the attacking one, in which he could really spread himself. And he’d find a chance to slip out for an hour. Much better to see the Rose boy at Divisional H.Q. than it would be here; Scotland Yard had a peculiar effect on many people, especially people on a charge but new to police methods.
Gideon went into his office.
Lemaitre was saying, “Half a mo, here he is.” He lowered the receiver and pressed it against his chest
as he looked up at Gideon. “Girl downstairs in the hall asking for you, George; says it’s important. Won’t give her name, but says she’s a friend of your Pru, too.”
Gideon was almost knocked back on his heels in surprise.
“Friend of Pru’s, wanting me?”
“That’s the size of it.”
Gideon said, “Well, all right. I’ll go and see what she wants. You haven’t finished those calls yet, have you?”
“No one’s called me lightning yet,” said Lemaitre.
Gideon went out and made his way in the opposite direction, toward the lift. It wasn’t often that he was completely at a loss, but he was now. Prudence, his eldest daughter, had a lot of friends in a world that Gideon didn’t even begin to know: the musical world. She played the violin well enough to win a place in the Home Counties Philharmonic Orchestra, and he understood that at nineteen that was remarkable. She could hardly have sent this friend to see him, or she would have said so; at least she’d have rung him up and warned him.
The unexpected was always the thing to tackle first.
Gideon had a word with Joe, at the lift, and two CI.’s, the only topic being the Millways break. Then he reached the hall.
The girl waiting there was about Pru’s age, he thought, rather fresh and pretty, with a very smooth complexion, blue eyes and not much make-up. She looked rather familiar. As he went toward her, Gideon thought that if ever he had seen trouble, it was in this girl’s eyes. She was nervous, too, although obviously trying hard to conceal it. She recognized Gideon on sight, took a short step toward him and then hesitated, as if she didn’t know what to say. To try to put her at ease, he smiled as he might have at Prudence.
Then he realized why she looked familiar.
She was like William Rose, who had been arrested for the Primrose Girl’s murder, like him as a sister might be.
3. Alibi for Rose?
There was a hard streak, in Gideon; had there not been, he would never have reached his position. He dealt in facts and had learned to repress any emotion which might entice him to look on facts from the wrong angle. His master was the Law; and he not only served it but knew that if he or anyone else deviated from it he was likely to store up serious trouble. So over the years he had cultivated the hard streak; and there were some who saw this but did not see the other side of his nature, the sentimental side. This revealed itself particularly where young people were involved. It wasn’t surprising, seeing that he had his own brood of half a dozen, but the real explanation lay in the past. There had been a seventh child, a boy who had died while Gideon had been out on a job, although his wife had beseeched him not to go. The tangled emotions, the self-blame, the remorse, the emotional upheaval within Kate, his wife, for long afterward, had made a deep mark on Gideon; but at least he knew that he was most vulnerable whenever the young were the trouble. That was why from the beginning he had been so anxious to know about the Primrose Girl and her murder - and the boy under arrest. Now, he did not doubt that he was face to face with the boy’s sister.