by John Creasey
Then Gideon dealt with job upon job in the morning briefing, and by eleven o’clock most of the cases were off his desk. He felt that he could breathe again, and spent some of the next half hour checking in the protection plans for Ruby Benson and her youngsters; everything seemed to be in order, and there was a report that both children had gone to school that morning, escorted by two policemen who were waiting at the school to take them back.
“Keep a special eye on the boy,” Gideon ordered. “He might cut and run for it.”
“Yes, sir.” It was Abbott who had reported, and who was still on duty in the street. “Any news of Benson, sir?”
“No,” said Gideon, “and you keep a lookout, as if you’re expecting him to turn into the street at any moment.”
“Right, sir,” said Abbott, in a tone which seemed to say: “If only he would!”
Gideon put the receiver down, and it rang almost at once; this time it was the A.C. He listened, scowled, and said, “I’ll come along at once,” but when he had put the receiver down again, he didn’t move. Lemaitre looked up at him, one eye screwed up against the curling cigarette smoke, and asked, “What’s that?”
“The P.P.’s still worried about Edmundsun.”
“Why don’t they learn to take our word for it?” Lemaitre was disgusted.
“They might have something,” said Gideon; “and if they have, I’d rather find out what it is for myself, without being told. Oh, well, I’d better go along. Don’t interrupt me unless it’s about the Benson job.”
“Right,” said Lemaitre. “The papers have played it up pretty high, haven’t they?”
“What else could we expect?” asked Gideon. “Benson’s big news.”
He spent twenty minutes with the A.C. and a senior official from the Public Prosecutor’s office. The Edmundsun case weakness was worrying everyone, and one surprise defence witness, or the discrediting of a prosecution witness, could lose the case and set a known rogue free. But the talk got them nowhere, and Gideon went back to his office. Nothing important had come in, unless the newspaper which Lemaitre had spread over his desk was important. It was the Evening Sentinel, with a banner headline:
DID BENSON ESCAPE TO GET REVENGE?
Police Watch on Family
“Here we go,” Gideon said softly.
“Think he’ll let himself be captured alive?” Lemaitre asked. “I should say ...”
Gideon’s telephone bell rang; and with that slow deliberate movement, Gideon lifted it.
“Gideon.”
“I’ve got Mrs. Benson on the line, sir,” the operator said; “shall I put her through to you, or to Superintendent Wrexall? He passed her call on to you yesterday, you may remember.”
“Put her through,” said Gideon quietly.
It was then exactly twelve o’clock on the second day of the escape.
10. Twelve Noon
Gideon first heard Ruby Benson’s agitated breathing, and guessed from that her frame of mind. It was just possible that she had heard from Benson; that she had received a sharper, closer threat. His job was to calm her down. He did not want to spend too much time with her, unless she had news of importance. Too much was pressing, and he had only two specific jobs: to make sure Benson didn’t do her and the children any harm, and to catch Benson if he came down here. Easing Ruby’s fear, soothing out the tensions which tormented her, were incidental; he mustn’t spend too much time on it.
But he could help a bit.
“Hallo, Mrs. Benson, how are you this morning?” His deep voice had a comforting boom. “And the youngsters, they all right?”
“Yes, they —” Ruby broke off for a moment, and was breathing very hard. “Have you got him yet?”
“Not yet,” Gideon said.
He hoped that by going to see her, he hadn’t given her the impression that she could keep asking him for minute- to-minute news, and be continually on the telephone. The woman he had known in the past had realized the position, and been hesitant about taking his time, but now she was driven to desperation because of those fears for the children.
She said, “I know I shouldn’t worry you, but I just don’t know what to do for the best, Mr. Gideon. I didn’t sleep much last night because of the worry of it, and this morning...” She broke off, almost choking.
“Well, what happened this morning?”
After a pause, she said hoarsely, “I’m sorry to behave like this, Mr. Gideon, but it was such a shock. I knew there was trouble for the children and me, but - well, there’s a friend of mine at the shop where I work, I can’t help it if you blame me for going about with him, but I’ve been on my own for so long and I had to - had to have some companionship. He’s the manager at the shop, and this morning he had a – he had a phone call.”
Gideon exclaimed, “From Benson?” - unbelievingly.
“No, not from Syd; he doesn’t know who it came from,” said Mrs. Benson quickly; “it was just someone who phoned up and asked for him, and—and then asked if he preferred lilies or roses. That’s all, but—but it was the way he said it. And who else but Syd would send a message like that?” Her voice shook.
Gideon understood why much more clearly.
“It sounds like one of Benson’s tricks,” he agreed; “we always knew he had plenty of contacts in London. We’ll keep an eye on your friend, Mrs. Benson. We’ve already got a man watching the shop, I’ll have another to keep an eye on your friend - what’s his name?”
“Arthur - I mean, Mr. Arthur Small.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Gideon promised.
“Still feel that you’d rather have the children with you, or shall we find a safe spot for them until everything’s over?”
She didn’t answer at once.
One of the other telephones was ringing, and Lemaitre got up and came across to answer it, had a hand stretched out to pick up the receiver, and then heard a telephone ring on his own desk. He scowled as he picked up Gideon’s.
“Mr. Gideon’s on the other line, hold on. “He went back, and was at his desk and speaking again before Ruby Benson answered Gideon.
“That’s what’s kept me awake all night, wondering what I really ought to do. I know it’s silly, but I don’t want to part with them now. I—I get a feeling that if I let them go I’d never see them again.”
“You’ll see them again,” said Gideon, but knew that it was empty reassurance. “How’s the boy?”
Another pause.
Lemaitre almost shouted into his instrument: “What’s that?” and looked across at Gideon, his eyes blazing. “Hurry up!” he mouthed, and beckoned furiously.
Something big? Benson.
“Just a minute, Mrs. Benson,” Gideon said, and clapped a great hand over the mouthpiece. “What’s up Lem?”
“Edmundsun,” breathed Lemaitre; “got hold of a razor blade, tried to kill himself, they’re rushing him to hospital. Might not live the day out, either. Who shall we send?”
“Cummings,” said Gideon, without a moment’s hesitation and put that out of his mind as he switched back to Benson’s wife. “Sorry, Mrs. Benson. What were you saying?”
“You asked me how young Syd was,” Ruby said, “and the truth is, I don’t know. I knew he was interested in his Dad, I didn’t think it was right to put him against his own father too much. To tell you the truth I always told myself young Syd would be a grown man and able to think for himself before he saw my husband again, and – but that isn’t the point, Mr. Gideon! I don’t know what to make of him. Seeing that prison on the television, and then seeing his father’s photograph, did something to him. He seemed different last night, older if you know what I mean, as if – as if he’d been thinking, and wasn’t so sure of me anymore.”
Gideon said, “Mrs. Benson, he’s a healthy youngster, and he’s got e
verything in him that he’ll ever want. He’ll pull through after this, you just needn’t worry. Now, I must ring off.”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry I bothered you,” Ruby said quickly. “Good-bye, and—and thanks a lot.”
“If you think we can help, any time, call on us,” Gideon said. “Don’t hesitate.”
He rang off, and looked frowningly across at Lemaitre, who was briefing Cummings by telephone. One half of Gideon’s mind listened to that. Lemaitre, who knew every trick in the book and every regulation that hampered or aided the Yard, could do this better than anyone else. If Edmundsun was really dangerously injured, Cummings must try to get a statement, but not offend the doctors. Cummings must also check with the Yard as often as he could.
Other things: “Don’t forget to have someone else as witness to any statement that Edmundsun makes. Don’t forget to try to find out where Edmundsun salted the cash ...”
Throughout all this, Gideon kept seeing mind pictures of young Syd, who was so much like his father. Abbott was watching the boy, so he should be all right. But the problem was no longer a simple one of Syd’s physical safety. It was possible to understand a boy worshiping a father whom he didn’t know, a man whom his friends spoke of as a hero. It was impossible to foresee the consequences of such hero worship.
At twelve noon, the moment when Gideon was holding on for Ruby Benson’s call, Benson was closing the front door of the house where he and Freddy Tisdale had spent the night.
It wasn’t so cold, but the snow was beginning to melt, and walking was difficult. Each of them, Tisdale in the lead, was well wrapped up in clothes found in the locked cupboards in the house; and each had a hat, Benson a bowler which was a little too big for him. Each had a muffler and gloves, too. They might have been exactly what they looked: a man from the estate agency with a prospective tenant who had been over the house. Two neighbours did, in fact, see them leave; neither gave them a second thought.
They walked on cautiously, because the ground was so slippery. At the corner, they could turn right toward a busy main road, or left, to a short cut towards the car park behind the market. Freddy turned left. They didn’t speak, and their footsteps went slsh, slsh, sbh. Everyone on foot was intent on where he was stepping, and avoiding a nasty fall; no one took much notice of Benson and Tisdale. Every other man they saw was huddled up in clothes in much the same way, and no one was likely to single the fugitives out.
They had to cross another main road to reach the car park. They turned into it - and saw a sergeant of police leaning on his bicycle, talking to a constable. Both policemen were looking toward the corner, and I both saw Benson arid Tisdale.
Neither convict spoke or panicked.
Here was a testing time that was never likely to be repeated; they were on the same side of the road as the policemen, who stood close to a crossing. The road was busy. The only place to cross was near the policemen; anyone who tried to cross this side of them would invite attention. The two men had turned toward the policemen; and couldn’t turn the other way without attracting attention, either.
They walked on.
They still watched the ground, picking their steps carefully. Here, outside the little shops, the snow had been cleared in most places, but there were slushy patches, and walking wasn’t wholly safe. Benson, three yards from the policemen, actually glanced up and looked straight along the road, while Tisdale glanced toward the other side.
The sergeant wasn’t looking at them, now.
The constable was.
Benson’s whole body seemed to be screaming. Every muscle was ready, to move, to take him across the road, to go tearing toward the car park, but he knew that if he were recognized he would never get away. He sensed that Freddy suffered from exactly the same screaming tension.
Twenty yards away, a child stepped off the curb.
The mother cried out, a cyclist jammed on brakes which squealed, a motorist hooted. Policemen and sergeant looked round, abruptly, and Benson and Tisdale reached the crossing. They had to wait for two cars. Even when these passed, they didn’t hurry. They were breathing into the thick woollen mufflers, and looking out of the corner of their eyes toward the men in uniform, one of whom was moving toward the woman and the child.
Benson started across the road.
They reached the other side.
Neither said a word as they slipped down a narrow alley toward the car park. Here, the thaw didn’t seem to have been so rapid, and the snow was much harder. A boy came running toward them, making a slide, and Benson moved to one side. The boy was about young Syd’s age, wrapped in a red muffler and wearing a school cap, his eyes a clear blue and his plump cheeks a bright red.
The two men reached the car park.
It stretched a long way in each direction, and beyond it were the canvas-covered stalls of the big market. There must have been three hundred cars in all, side by side, parked as closely as an expert parking attendant could put them. The ground sloped a little in one direction, and there were two big arrows with the words: WAY OUT.
Few people were about.
“One near the exit,” Benson said. “Try the doors as we pass.”
“Yeh.”
The snow was crunchier here, too, because fewer people had walked on it. They passed between two lines of cars. Not far off, an engine started up and a car moved toward the exit, its exhaust fumes thick and smelly. Freddy paused at the back of a small car which had a front window down, and stopped between it and a green Jaguar. The small car’s driving door wasn’t locked, either.
“This’ll do,” he called.
“Okay,” said Benson.
He slid between the car and an Austin Seven which was parked on the other side. He had difficulty in squeezing in, for there was so little room to spare, but he managed. Freddy was already working at the ignition with a piece of wire he had brought from the house. His hand looked cold, although he had been wearing gloves, and he couldn’t get the “key” to work. He began to swear under his breath. Benson watched him, but looked into the driving mirror, and saw a big, fattish man coming toward him - toward this line of cars. The newcomer was talking to . someone behind him, for Benson could see his lips moving.
A small, wizened man appeared by the big man’s side.
Benson drew in a sharp, hissing breath.
“What’s up?” Freddy asked sharply.
“Get it started!”
“Give us a chance. What...”
Benson drew in another hiss of breath. Freddy glanced up, saw the tension on his companion’s face and the way he watched the driving mirror. Freddy couldn’t see anyone in it, from where he was sitting, so turned his head round. He saw the big man going along the line of cars, and the little, wizened man coming toward them.
It was the car park attendant.
Benson had seen the man’s face clearly; the grey stubble, the slobbery lips, one eye which watered badly. He had seen the cap, the woollen muffler tight round the thin neck, the bundle of coats he was wearing, and the ticket machine and leather cash bag which was strapped to his waist.
Freddy said urgently, “What’s he after?”
Benson said softly, “It’s Taffy Jones.”
Freddy’s breath hissed, as if Benson had said: “It’s the Millways Governor.” Until a year ago Jones had been in Millways, a prisoner serving a short-term sentence. He should have had ten years, but had squealed on three men who had done a job with him, so he’d got off lightly. He would always squeal; he was a man whom it was impossible for these two to trust.
And he could not fail to recognize them.
He had reached the back of the car, and was pushing his way toward them, the chinking money in the worn leather bag, the bright metal ticket dispenser shining. There seemed to be no particular animosity on his face as he reached the window near Be
nson, bent down, and looked in. The window was open several inches at the top.
Then, his mouth gaped. His broken teeth showed. He stood like that, half-crouching, hemmed in by the car behind him, one hand at the window, and the other out of sight. His watery eyes, the one half-closed, held an expression of shocked horror. There was no shadow of doubt that he had recognized them.
And he was a squealer.
There was a split second in which none of them moved. Then, two things happened at once: the ignition light on the dashboard panel showed, as the home-made key made contact; and Benson dropped one hand to his pocket, the other to the door handle, the window shot down.
Taffy Jones gave a gurgling kind of cry, and turned, and started to run. The fat man’s car started up, drowning the sounds. There was so little room, and the slush running beneath his feet was ankle-deep. He skidded, gave that gasping cry again, and crashed down, slopping into the slush, splashing the cars, splashing Benson as Benson slid out of the seat. Freddy was out of the other door, almost as swiftly, and he looked right and left, but saw no one. Now, Jones was writhing and squealing, and trying to get to his feet, but he had very little time; and the fat man’s car was noisy as it moved off. Jones twisted his 1 head round. He looked like a cretin as he did that; the expression in his eyes and the slobbering saliva at his mouth were revolting.
“I woan talk, I woan talk, I woan talk,” he moaned. “Doan ‘urt me, I woan talk ...”
Benson skidded, regained his balance, went down on one knee beside the man - and the poultry knife was in his hand. He had used a knife before, expertly. He used it now. It slid through the thick coats, the shirt, the skin, the flesh. It went straight to the heart, and Taffy Jones’ moaning and writhing stopped, there was just the rattle in his throat, strangely subdued, and then a quivering into stillness.
Freddy appeared.