by John Creasey
She laughed. “I do, rather.”
“Is that what you want, Kate?”
“George,” she said, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t pretend I haven’t thought about it occasionally, moving out further or moving right into town, but things are pretty expensive at the moment.”
“We’d get a very good price for the house,” Gideon remarked, when she paused.
“Would you move, George?”
“Of course, if you wanted to.”
“I don’t mean that, I mean of your own accord, without any prompting from me, would you want to move away from Harrington Street? Be honest with me, darling – would you?”
He wanted to say roundly: “No,” and that would be the truth. It was the last thing he wanted to do. But—”be honest with me, darling”—there were times for honesty, times for literal truth, times surely for half-truths. He wanted her to be happy. If she were not, he would not be. They were a long way from the evening of their lives but they were at cross roads; he could remember Winston Churchill in his war-time speeches using a word he had never heard before: climacteric, meaning a period of life at which vital force begins to decline. He would soon have more time and they ought to be able to use and enjoy it together, but he would be out and about more, she would by the very nature of their lives, be the home anchor. If she wanted to move from the house where they had been for so long then she must be free to move, but a round: “No!” from him would put invisible bars up at the windows and the doors of Harrington Street. All of these things passed swiftly through his mind, but not so swiftly that she was not aware of the silence.
“You’d hate to move, wouldn’t you?” she said.
“No,” answered Gideon, with great deliberation. He gave a smile, quick and warm, one which he contrived to keep entirely for her, and then went on: “But I’d hate to move and then find we wished we hadn’t.”
“I don’t follow you!”
“We could let the house,” Gideon said.
Obviously, the thought had not occurred to her and she was completely taken aback. Before she could comment, the waiters arrived with a lemon soufflé, known to be their favourite, and a gentle white wine brought with the compliments of M’sieur Boulanger. Kate was watching Gideon warily, while he was looking about for Boulanger, who would normally come, at this stage in the meal, to make sure that all was well. He appeared at the telephone again and there was now no question: he was worried.
“Let it furnished?” asked Kate, wonderingly.
“Or partly furnished,” Gideon replied.
“Are you really serious?”
“I am wholly serious,” he assured her, forcing his thoughts off the unknown troubles of the restaurateur so that he could concentrate on his wife. “I don’t mean let’s put it on the market tomorrow, but I do mean let us think seriously about living somewhere else for a year, even two or three, without getting rid of the house entirely. At the end of that time we would know what we really wanted, and wouldn’t spend the rest of our lives regretting a hasty decision.”
“You’re quite right,” she said, as a waiter hovered. “Are you going to have a brandy, dear?”
“Coffee, m’sieur, madame? Et le cognac?”
“I’m not sure,” Gideon said, and put his head on one side. “Kate, would you like to go on somewhere?”
“Go on?” She was startled.
“Well, why not? One of my chaps tells me that a new show has opened at the Moon World.”
“You mean a night club?” she exclaimed.
“Believe it or not, I mean a night club,” Gideon said solemnly.
“George,” declared Kate Gideon. “I don’t think I’ll ever get to know everything about you. I would love to go to a night club, and we can have coffee and a liqueur or something there. Is there any hurry? I’ll have to tidy up, and—”
“There’s no hurry at all,” he assured her. “The first show doesn’t start until half past eleven, and I’ve already arranged for a table. Take your time.” He stood up, moving his chair so that she could pass more easily. She had hardly gone down the single step towards the cloak-rooms when Boulanger appeared, his expression not only worried but frightened. There could be no doubt that he had waited for the chance to have a quiet word with Gideon, but now that it was here he seemed tongue-tied.
“What is it, mon ami?” Gideon asked. The polite little venture into French might help to loosen the other’s tongue; the reminder that he was not simply a detective but that they had been good friends for many years; from the time, in fact, when a young Gideon had made an arrest in this very place but so quietly and with such little fuss that none of the diners had realised what had happened.
“Mr. Gideon,” Boulanger said. “I am very much troubled. I do not know whether you can help me. If I should ask, you will forgive me, please.”
“There’s nothing you can’t ask,” Gideon assured him. “What is it? Something that has happened tonight?” He thought perhaps there had been a thief at work, in a cloak-room left unguarded for a few moments; or a clever pick-pocket discovered in the guise of a waiter. He thought in fact of virtually every possibility except the one which Boulanger now mentioned in a tone so low it was obvious he did not want to be overheard.
“Two of the people who have dined here tonight have been taken ill,” he declared. “One of them is very, very sick, and in the hospital. Each of the customers had some eels, a very special delicacy, and each customer also had some pork. I have had the check made, Mr. Gideon. In all, seven customers ate those two things – just seven. Two I know. One of those in hospital I know. The others are strangers. If – and I must consider it – if this illness is poison from the food then the people I do not know should be warned. But—think of the consequences for the restaurant. Is there a way to enquire and warn them, M’sieur, and at the same time be discreet?”
“What makes you so sure the others will fall ill?” Gideon asked slowly, but his mind was racing.
“I am not sure. Simply, I am afraid. If I do nothing and others fall ill and die, what of my conscience? And such poison can affect some people in an hour or two, other people may not be affected for three, four, five hours. I cannot take the chance, M’sieur Gideon.”
“No,” Gideon agreed.
He saw Kate out of the corner of his eye and wished this had happened on any other night. He had no choice, however, no more than Boulanger, and he had so much less to lose than the little Frenchman. As Kate approached he reached one decision and said quietly to Boulanger: “I think if we name the kind of eel and where it comes from, and the shop from which you bought the pork, we can put out a call without bringing you in by name.” He put out a hand to Kate, who needed no telling that something was wrong. “Kate,” he said, “I have to talk to the Yard but it won’t take long.”
“You mean others, besides those who are here, could be affected?” Boulanger asked.
“Obviously it’s possible,” Gideon said. “And we can’t find out too quickly. Will you explain to Mrs. Gideon while I talk to the Yard?”
4
NIGHT LIFE
GIDEON finished talking on the bar telephone to the man in charge of the Yard that evening, put down the receiver and rejoined Boulanger and Kate; Boulanger had got round to the subject of Penelope’s piano playing; she had played a solo in a short presentation of Liszt on the BBC a few weeks ago, and he had heard it. So great was his courtesy that he did not turn too hurriedly to Gideon although he must be aching to hear what had been done.
“Calls for people who have eaten eels or pork anywhere this evening are going out on television and all radio stations,” Gideon said. “Anyone who feels the slightest stomach cramping or nausea is being advised to go to a doctor or a hospital at once. I don’t see what else we can do. And the two cases might be coincidental, I s
hould try not to worry too much.”
Boulanger put a hand to his forehead and said huskily: “Only one time have I heard of trouble with the Oise eels, M’sieur Gideon. Hundreds of people were made ill and some died.”
“You don’t often get epidemics of food poisoning as serious as that,” Gideon said.
Outside, while the doorman went to get a taxi for them, a sharp wind blew and Kate shivered. Gideon slipped his arm round her. She leaned against him for a few moments, not solely for warmth, and he was almost sorry when the taxi arrived. The doorman opened the door for Kate, accepted Gideon’s tip with a flourish and saluted as they went off.
There was a hint of laughter in Kate’s voice as she settled herself. “A busy night for Commander Gideon.”
“You don’t know how busy,” Gideon said, and told her about the Flying Squad case. Almost as soon as he finished he wondered whether he should have done; she murmured something which he didn’t quite catch, but he did not press her to repeat it. Soon, they were in Soho, and approaching the Moon World Club, passing the inevitable crowds of tourists, striptease and topless show touts, the pimps, the narrow doorways with their post-card announcements of French massage and off-beat sex attractions. The gay lights crossed and recrossed Kate’s face and she was gradually won from her thoughts to the scene of Gideon’s square mile: Soho, and the streets nearby. It was some time since he had been here, and ages since he had brought Kate. The taxi slowed down and Gideon said: “There’ll be one more message for me here. That should be the lot.”
“When the evening’s over I might believe that,” retorted Kate.
The Moon World Club had a narrow entrance, the doorway festooned with lighted moons, crescent shaped, half-moons, full moons, even a few with female models whose breasts were made to look like the full moon with the man in the moon winking at the passers-by. But if the entrance was cheap and tawdry the foyer was of a fair size, the photographs on the red-papered walls of modern-day singers and pop stars. At the foot of a staircase covered in thick, rich carpet and which grew wider the lower they went down, a youthful-looking man in a dinner jacket and black tie came forward.
“Commander Gideon?”
“Yes.”
“I am Charles Todd, the manager here. We’re very glad you can be with us. I have a message for you. Your office would be grateful if you will call them, Commander. There is no hurry,” he added. “We will delay the start of the show if necessary. What will you have to drink, Mrs. Gideon?”
Kate watched George disappear into a room marked “Private”. If he hadn’t warned her about the call, she thought, she would have been as mad as a hatter, as it was she was resentful; they, the nebulous “they” of the police, could not leave him alone for five minutes.
George was gone only for a very short time, and she thought there was more spring in his step as he crossed to her.
“I had the Yard check with the hospital about Mrs. Moreno,” he said. That was the name of the young girl who had lost her baby. “She’s holding her own and the chances are very good. And the hospital wouldn’t lie to the Yard, love.” A great wave of affection welled up in Kate, and overflowed, encompassing this man who, among all his preoccupations, had taken the trouble to find out the one thing she longed to know. Not once again that evening nor in the early hours, did the restless mood return. She looked on indulgently as he watched the stage and roared with laughter at jokes both childish and sophisticated. It was much more than a night club show, much nearer a musical; and if the dancers wore no more than G-strings and an occasional ostrich feather, there was a certain forthrightness about it that disarmed criticism. As Gideon finished the last of a bottle of champagne and called for his bill, the manager appeared.
“I hope you’ll be our guests, Mr. Gideon.”
“Not for as long as I’m in the Force,” Gideon said. “But thank you all the same.”
The bill came and was much smaller than he had expected, but was this an occasion to make a fuss? He followed the crowd out, Kate close to him, and as he reached the narrow street and stood beneath the moon-lit doorway, a doorman pushed forward.
“Your car’s here, sir.”
He hadn’t ordered a car, and hesitated.
“Mr. Gideon,” the manager said from his side, “it is my car, and I won’t need it for at least half-an-hour.”
It was very quiet in the bedroom.
Kate lay still and he wondered whether she was asleep, or pretending; whether, lying with her back to him, she was looking at the light in the attic flat across the road. Whether she would welcome his hand upon her bosom; whether this was a night for gentleness and quietness and sleep. The clock in the front room downstairs struck two, and he would have to be up by half past seven and off by half past eight.
Her voice came sleepily: “George, tomorrow’s Friday.”
“I know,” he said, surprised.
“We’re near the weekend. Can we—oh, I’d forgotten, of course we can’t.”
“Can we what?” he insisted.
“Go away for the weekend, somewhere not too far? On the river, perhaps, with a room overlooking it. I’d forgotten Alec was away.”
“I had weekends off before I’d heard of Alec Hobbs,” he said, drily. “If anything prevents us, it’s going to be very serious indeed.”
She put a hand out to cover his; and very soon he felt her arm go limp and knew that she was asleep, he was going to prove nothing to her tonight; unless this had been the best proof of how he felt towards her. He drew his hand away carefully and eased over on his other side, where he had learned to sleep so that if the telephone bell rang he could simply move his left arm over and pluck the instrument up before Kate did more than stir. He stifled a yawn and expected to drop off to sleep soon—but he did not. He found himself going back in his mind to the night when he had been forced to choose between staying with Kate or doing his job, his “duty” was the more formal way of putting it. There really had been no choice. Occasionally he wondered whether, even today, Kate realised that: really understood it; and whether the time had come when in her heart she had forgiven him.
Which was the more important? Understanding or forgiveness?
Could one, over the years, have one without the other?
A creak in the floorboards made him suddenly more alert, and when he had satisfied himself that the noise was no more than that, his thoughts were off on another track. None of the Flying Squad men tonight had hesitated to take a chance which might have led to a serious, even a fatal collision with the bandits’ car; and in these days of increasing violence all of them must have known that the others might be armed. The police had responded almost in a reflex action; thank God, so had he!
The balance on this particular day’s police work seemed good. The fact that a rapist and a killer was at large was on the debit side but at least the whole Force could concentrate on that man. There was no major hunt on, apart from that, at the moment: a thousand criminals on the wanted list, but that was normal.
What were they planning, these criminals, and others as cunning, or more so?
That was a question which often struck him with great force. Someone had plotted the jewel raid this evening; Pitton and Dalby must have been planning their escape for a long time, no doubt with help from fellow prisoners. And – a strange thing to enter his mind, except that in its present receptive mood almost anything was likely to pop in and out of it! – there was that lorry load of citrus fruit stolen from Covent Garden Market. No thieves would steal such a load unless they had a market all ready; one didn’t go round trying to find a vendee for such goods. So, where were these going? A point to remember: they would have to be sold soon or they would be worthless, unless they had been in a special van at exactly the right temperature, and nothing had been said to him about that.
It wasn’t a thing to worry about now
; by the time he reached the office, the lorry might have been discovered.
Vaguely he thought of Boulanger and the two poisoned customers, wondered if by chance each could have eaten the offending food before getting to Boulanger’s, thought more vaguely that he was glad neither he nor Kate had eaten the eel and the pork, or the eel or the pork for that matter; and at last he fell asleep.
So much was being planned, or was being born in the mind of man, that would cause trouble or at least activity for the police.
At the hospital where Daphne Moreno lay inside an oxygen tent, looking near death, her husband Paul kept muttering to himself, although the nurse who was constantly in the curtained-off section of the ward could not distinguish the words. Even if she had done so, she would not, in all probability, have taken them seriously, for he was distraught, she told herself, and tired to a point of collapse.
“If she dies,” the young husband muttered, “I’ll kill him.”
Jonathan Kelworthy, in a twin bed next to his young wife, could not sleep. He was too unpractised in his chosen vocation to be able to throw off the effect of the death of that child. How had he come to lose her? Why, of all the tens of thousands born each week, had that soft-skinned, gentle girl been so robbed? Was it some error of his, of commission or omission? He went through every stage of his treatment of her and could think of nothing, nothing at all. He would check each step in the morning, and talk to Sylvester about it: Sylvester was the obstetrician who was counsellor and friend to youngsters like himself.
He pushed the bedclothes back slowly and cautiously, and crept out of bed. The springs creaked. He watched Janice, not wanting to wake her, because—oh, never mind, because. He must go downstairs, warm some milk and have a biscuit; that might break his obsession with the stillborn child, the dangerously ill mother and distracted father. He was halfway to the door when he heard Janice turn in bed, and then call in a voice heavy with sleep: “What’s the matter? Have you had another call?”