Seven Days to Death

by John Creasey

  “Think Benson’s had anything to do with it?”

  “I think Benson’s had something to do with everything,” said Gideon, savouring his whiskey. “But then, I’ve a Benson obsession at the moment. That man’s running round with a knife, and there isn’t a better knife artist in the country - the way he killed that poor devil near Millways shows that. One thrust, and it went right home. He wouldn’t need long to kill his wife or her beau.”

  The A.C. said, “That’s not like you, George. You know he’ll never get near enough.”

  Gideon shrugged. “Unless he’s soon caught, I’ll believe that anything’s possible. But you’re right, of course; it’s not reasonable.”

  “No. What about this Primrose Girl murder?”

  Gideon tapped the report he had been reading. “I’ve never read a case which looked more open and shut,” he said. “There’s a clear medical history of mental instability when a child, there’s all the evidence that Smedd’s accumulated, and except for one thing, it looks fool proof.”

  “What’s the one thing?”

  “Rose’s sister’s story. Nothing shakes it. And Rose himself sticks to it, too - as well as his lost knife story. He says he had this quarrel with Winnie Norton in the woods, left her in a temper, went toward his home, feeling like hell, and met his sister; and she treated him to the pictures. There’s no doubt at all that if they went into those pictures Rose didn’t kill the girl. Death was at about seven o’clock - the broken watch as well as medical evidence proves that. Mary Rose says she and her brother were inside the picture palace before six - and it’s pretty certain that the girl really was there. It was a busy evening, there were dozens going in just about that time, and a hundred or so coming out. The girl can describe every film, the shorts, the news, the cartoon and the advertisements - she even remembers one of the tunes on the record player during the interval! If her brother was with her, he couldn’t have killed that girl. Smedd says that he’s done everything possible to find anyone who saw either the girl or her brother, without result. And that’s the element of doubt,” Gideon went on. “If someone had seen her without her brother, we’d know where we are. But she was there. She’d announced she was going beforehand, and’ it’s as near a certainty as a thing can be. If she wasn’t noticed, then the pair of them might not have been.”

  “See what you mean,” said the A.C. “That’s all that’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve got a lot of stuff going through the courts tomorrow,” Gideon told him. “Nine C.I.s, as many D.I.s and twelve sergeants are all scheduled to give evidence in one court or other. Falling over each other. Old Birdy will be back in Number One, and Lemaitre will have to go there. We had a squeak that there’ll be a bullion raid at the London Airport tomorrow, so I’ve sent half a dozen men up to watch. It’s probably a false alarm, but we can’t take risks. Take it from me, we could have handled the Benson job much better last week; just now we’re stretched as far as we can go. And if there wasn’t enough on our plate, there’s that attempted rape job out at Wimbledon.”

  “Unrelieved gloom,” the Assistant Commissioner observed; but his looks belied him. “What have you been working late on?”

  “Had a session with young Cummings,” said Gideon. “He says he’s got a feeling that the Edmundsun job will spread a long way before it’s over. I’m seeing Edmundsun’s wife tomorrow. Cummings thinks she might know who her husband was working with ...”

  The A.C. stopped him with a laugh.

  “George,” he said, “I’m not going to let you get away with that one. I was talking to Lemaitre, and he told me you put Cummings up to it. Think it’ll work?”

  “From what I can gather, the wife was in love with him,” said Gideon, smiling. “Bit of a spitfire, and if she thinks she’s got anyone to hate, she’ll hate.”

  “I’ll leave it to you,” the A.C. conceded. “Now if I were you, I’d go home; it’s late.”

  “Can’t grumble about this week,” Gideon said. “I’ve been home for supper two nights out of three, and I’ll be home in time for a nightcap tonight.” He stood up, and stifled a yawn. “Any truth in the rumour that you’re likely to retire?” He smiled as he looked straight into the A.C.’s face. “I’ve been reading the Sunday Sentinel, you see.”

  “That’s one of the things I came to have a word with you about,” the A.C. said quietly. “No, George, I’m not retiring yet. I always planned to have seven years, if they didn’t throw me out, and I’ve four to go. That should make you about fifty-three when you take over, and you ought to hold the job down for eleven or twelve years.”

  “They won’t put me in your place,” Gideon said flatly.

  “They’ll be bloody fools if they don’t,” said the other man and finished his whisky. “Good night!”

  Gideon went through the brightly-lit corridors of the quiet building. Down below, in the Information Room, they would be busier now than at any time during the day; the night’s crop of crimes was being reported. In Fingerprints and Records, in the Photographic Division, in Ballistics - in fact everywhere on the C.I.D. section, there would be experts at work, more than at some periods during the day; and yet you couldn’t make night into day, the place had a dead look. The clerical staff weren’t here, of course, and the administration staff were out at the pictures or watching television or listening to the radio, at church socials, at their hobbies, or perhaps cuddling. Gideon grinned at himself, and had a sneaking thought that he was getting a bit too prosy.

  He drove home at a steady pace.

  Kate, Prudence, Priscilla and Matthew were still, up, having a hand of whist. Tom, the oldest son, was working in the north of England, and only came home occasionally; Malcolm, the nine-year-old, was in bed. Gideon watched the game, winked at Kate when he saw her play the wrong card and so give Priscilla a trick, and then sat back in his armchair. Pleasant. There were times when this seemed to be the only part of life which wasn’t seamy.

  Yet William Rose had spread his influence here.

  What was the truth about that boy?

  It was a little -before midnight when Gideon went to bed, and Kate looked through the newspapers as he undressed. She didn’t pester him, but he could see that she read the reports about young Syd Benson closely. He told her that there was no trace of the boy.

  By half past twelve they were both asleep.

  At two o’clock the telephone bell rang.

  Gideon was in the deep sleep of the early hours, and heard the sound as through a thick mist. Then he felt something stir. Next he felt Kate leaning across him, her breast against his shoulder. He fought to open his eyes, and grunted to let her know that he was waking up. She said something, then switched on the light near the telephone.

  “It’s something about those prisoners.”

  In that instant, Gideon was wide awake.

  “They got the others?” He snatched the telephone. “Hallo, Gideon speaking ...”

  “Where?” he breathed.

  Kate saw his expression, the tightening of his lips, the way the muscles at the side of his face worked. His eyes no longer looked sleepy. He said “Okay, I’ll come right away,” and put the receiver down. Kate didn’t say: “George, must you?” but started to get out of bed.

  “You needn’t get up,” Gideon protested.

  “I’m going to make you a cup of tea, you’re not going out at this hour without something to warm you.”

  He grunted, “Thanks.”

  “It isn’t Benson, is it?”

  “No, two of the others - Jingo Smith and Matt Owens,” Gideon told her. “They’ve been traced to a warehouse and factory near the docks, locked themselves in the laboratory, and threaten to blow the place up if the police don’t let ‘era go. Blurry fools,” growled Gideon, “but it’s the kind of thing Jingo Smith would try, he always was a flamboyant fool. The lu
natics didn’t send for me until the last minute, they’ve the fire brigade out and half the police force, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Kate said, “Oh.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” said Gideon, and stared at her in surprise, for she looked almost frightened. “Here, Kate, I’ll be all right.”

  From the door she said, “Sometimes I wonder if you know what fear is. Get your clothes on, and don’t forget that woolly waistcoat; it’s cold tonight.”

  “Well,” grinned Gideon, “you should know, you’re wearing nylon and not much else.” He tossed her his own woollen dressing gown, and then turned round to dress.

  14. Cornered

  The streets near the warehouse had been cordoned off, and it wasn’t until he had been recognized that Gideon was allowed to go through. As he drew nearer the warehouse, he saw the fire engines with their ladders up and two men perched on a turntable that seemed to be a vast distance up in the starlit sky. The shapes of tall warehouses, of cranes and of the masts of ships showed up dark against the stars. There were the sounds inseparable from a massed crowd of people. Uniformed police and several plainclothes men stood around, and one after another they saluted Gideon. He drove slowly to a point where there was no room to pass other cars, got out, and walked toward a little group of men near the surrounded warehouse. Car headlights and one ship’s searchlight shone on the walls and the windows of this place, and the light was reflected from the glass. Not far from the spot where the group of men waited was an ambulance; two men were being given first aid.

  Gideon drew up.

  “Anyone hurt badly?” he asked sharply.

  Trabert, the Yard man who had summoned him, and the Divisional C.I., named Wilson, turned round at the sound of his voice.

  “Hallo, George,” the Yard man greeted. “Sorry we didn’t call you earlier; didn’t think they’d be such fools. It depends what you call badly - one chap’s got a knife wound in his shoulder and another a cracked skull. Nice lot, those Millways chaps.”

  “Seen ‘em?”

  “No. They’re in that corner over there.” Trabert, a thinnish, greying man whose overcoat looked too large for him, pointed to a corner. “There’s a laboratory up there, with steel doors, and they’ve closed the doors. Only way we can get at them is through the window. They’ve got enough nitro-glycerine to blow the place sky-high, and they could start a fire that would burn out half London. Been talking to the chief chemist, and he says the stuffs there, all right.” Trabert had always had a reputation for being picturesque, and for exaggeration. “I’ve talked to the pair on the radio with a loudspeaker, and they’ve got a megaphone up there.”

  Gideon looked at the window.

  “Any of our chaps inside?”

  “I ordered them out. If the place does go up, I’d rather we didn’t have a lot of casualties.”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea if you moved back a bit yourself,” said Gideon. He looked at the dim light, and he tried to picture the two men inside. Jingo Smith was as hard as they were made; a good second to Benson. The man with him, Matt Owens, had no record of violence; but probably he knew that if he was caught, his sentence would be so long that it was worth making desperate efforts to stay free.

  At heart, each man must know that he hadn’t really a chance.

  But they could do a lot of damage before giving in.

  “Don’t mind admitting it was my own fault,” said Wilson. The Divisional man had a gruff, whispering voice. “I had a flash from one of our chaps, saying they were here, and thought I’d be clever. Didn’t realize that Smith and Owens knew they’d been seen, so I thought I’d pull them in, and make you a present. I ought to be hamstrung.”

  Gideon said, “Who doesn’t make a boner, sometime or other?” It was the only thing he could say, although inwardly he felt the welling up of bitterness against a responsible officer who had taken risks simply to cover himself, or his Division, with glory. Some men didn’t seem to grow up. “Well, we’d better call the A.C. and let him have a word with a big shot at the Home Office.”

  Wilson said, “Listen, George, let me go and have a try to reason with them.”

  “In a minute,” Gideon said. “Anyone here from the warehouse, to tell us how to get inside from the roof or the back?”

  “George,” said Trabert, quietly, “there’s only one way in now - through a window. We can’t break down a steel door, armour plating couldn’t be tougher. If you and anyone else try heroics, you’ll be crazy. We could try to hose them out, but if we do, they might toss some nitro-glycerine down. If it comes to that, we might knock a tube of the damned stuff off a bench, and start the blow-up that way. There isn’t any way of getting into that laboratory. We’ll have to starve them out.”

  He stopped.

  Then a loud voice sounded from the direction of the window. Gideon and every other man stared toward it and the ladder which leaned against the wall near it. No one appeared; but Gideon saw the round mouth of a megaphone, like those used on the docks when foremen dockers needed to make themselves heard above a din.

  “Hi there, Gee-gee!” That was Jingo Smith. “Didn’t think it would be long before they got you out of bed. How do you like it?”

  Gideon - George Gideon made Gee-Gee inevitable, and he was often surprised that it wasn’t used more - put his great hands to his mouth and called back in a voice which was almost as powerful as Jingo Smith’s when amplified by the megaphone. At least fifty people were standing, watching and listening; and more were arriving every minute.

  “I don’t like it at all, Jingo,” Gideon called. “I never like to see a man make a fool of himself.”

  “I’m no fool,” Jingo called back. His weakness, the weakness of so many of them, was vanity. Now he was the centre of attraction, and having a wonderful time. It was at least possible that he had managed to get drunk, if only on methylated spirits from the laboratory. There would probably be pure alcohol there, too, and he wouldn’t lose any time finding out. “They told you what I’m going to do?”

  “No, what’s it to be?”

  “They didn’t tell you? What’s the matter, they gone deaf? This is what it will be, Gee-Gee! I’ve got a tube of nitro in my pocket, and I’m going to bring it out with me. Anyone who tries to stop me will get it - and that goes for anyone within a fifty-foot radius, too. Any coppers wants to come to hell with me? Why don’t you come, Gee-Gee?”

  “Give it a rest,” Gideon called. “You can’t get away, and you know it. Better have a few more years up at Millways than blow yourself to pieces.”

  “Gee-Gee,” bawled Jingo Smith, “we’re coming out in ten minutes; and if anyone gets near us, up will go the balloon.”

  Gideon didn’t speak for at least a minute; everyone within earshot was waiting for him; the tension in the street was like an electric current. Then, just as Smith was going to speak again - they actually heard him clear- his throat - Gideon tossed back his great head and bellowed: “Owens, do you want to be blown to Kingdom Come? Hit him over the head, and knock some sense into him: You’ll get off lightly if you do.”

  Silence.

  Would Matt Owens have the nerve ...

  Then: “No, you don’t!” screamed Jingo Smith, “I’ll smash your face ...”

  His voice fell to a whisper as he dropped the megaphone. Gideon didn’t need to speak, but led the rush toward the ladder - Trabert Wilson and two other men following at speed. They heard the scuffling inside. Behind them there was an awful silence; one which might be broken by a blast which could kill the men in the room and the policemen who were so near. Gideon reached the ladder and climbed up it as fast as any fireman. He heard the gasping and the scuffling. He reached the top of the ladder and could see inside the laboratory as he flashed his flashlight beam into the room.

  Jingo Smith and Matt Owens were on the floor, rolling over a
nd over. The megaphone lay near them. The light of the torch flashed on the glass of beakers, burettes, glass tubes, bottles, on Bunsen burners, on all the paraphernalia of the laboratory. A dim electric light burned in a corner, near the men.

  Gideon thrust the window up.

  He heard bottles rattling. He saw a dozen tubes on one of the benches, shaking when the fighting men rolled against it.-He didn’t know, and couldn’t tell for certain, whether there was nitro-glycerine in one of those tubes; he only knew that if there was, and it fell, he wouldn’t have anything more to worry about.

  He slid into the room.

  Jingo Smith brought a bottle down on Owens’ head, and as Owens went still, jumped toward the bench with his hand outstretched. There was no doubt that he wanted the small, metal tube which stood there, rocking gently, halfway between the convict and Gideon.

  15. Hero

  Gideon knew exactly what he had to do, exactly what the risk was. It was easy, now, to be heroic, for he had no choice. He had to bring Jingo Smith down, and had to stop him from jolting the laboratory bench. The tube was within a yard of Smith’s outstretched hands; and he was looking toward it, lips distended, eyes shimmering. Matt Owens lay on the floor, writhing, yet staring at the tube with the fear of death in his eyes.

  Gideon thrust out his right leg, huge foot plumb on Smith’s stomach, and shoved with all his massive strength. Smith gave a thin squeal of sound and, his fingers only inches from the tube, staggered away from it. He looked like a man who was staggering away from salvation.