Sport, Heat, & Scotland Yard

by John Creasey

  Willison had been fascinated.

  At that stage, some men might have found Barnaby Rudge a special ‘fixed’ job so that he could spend most of his time on the tennis court. In this way he could have been frequently tested in tournaments, and regularly exposed to players a little better and more experienced than himself. And in this way, many believed, champions were made. Willison had never quite understood what had held him back; but then, he had never quite understood himself. He had a flair, perhaps even a touch of genius, which told him when to act and when to bide his time. He had not been sure, in those early days, what to make of Barnaby Rudge, except that Barnaby was undoubtedly going to be a brilliant player; his reflexes were as remarkable as his physical strength and endurance. But how brilliant, and in what way it would be best to develop him, Willison did not know.

  He gave Barnaby a job in his building organisation, one which would keep him fit as well as develop his body and leave him ample time for practice. And he soon discovered one strange characteristic about Barnaby which proved very helpful: Barnaby was a loner. The companionship of others did not mean much to him, and he took real pleasure in his constant search after perfection in placing a tennis ball exactly where he wanted it. In other things, he was no more than average, in some ways even less.

  He had to be told what to do and how to do it time and time again. But once he got it into his head, nothing could shake it out and he became set on performing every task to the absolute limit of his capacity. He had a pleasant, humble home life. Besides working in the mill, his father was a Baptist minister, his mother was a midwife: there was no poverty and no hunger in his family.

  One business friend of Willison’s, seeing Barnaby play one day, remarked: “That boy wants some real competition, Lou. He could make the big time.”

  “He’s not ready, yet,” Louis Willison had demurred.

  Barnaby sometimes drove him in a utility truck to one of the working sites: Willison invariably had half-a-dozen different building projects in hand at one time. (“He’ll stretch himself too far one day,” the wiseacres said. But he made more and more money, and took on more and more projects.) Just after his friend’s comment he spoke more seriously than usual as Barnaby drove him to a site.

  “What do you want to do as you get older, Barnaby?”

  “Play more tennis, sir,” came the swift answer.

  “Big tennis? Professional tennis?” asked Willison.

  “Only one place means anything to me in tennis, sir. Just one place – and that’s Wimbledon.” Barnaby uttered the name in awe.

  “Wimbledon!” gasped Willison.

  “That’s what you’ve been keeping me for, sir, isn’t it?” asked Barnaby, and Willison quickly recovered his poise and told his harmless white lie.

  “Yes – but I didn’t think you realised it.” After a pause, he went on: “Wimbledon can be murder, Barnaby. You would need a lot of competition and match-practice to get anywhere near the final. You must know that.”

  “I surely do, sir,” said Barnaby, humbly. “But I got one thing I haven’t shown even you, sir – a sure-fire winner anywhere I use it. I wanted to wait until I had it perfect; you taught me the value of patience real well!”

  Willison, half-amused, half-amazed, pondered; then asked, almost warily: “How near are you to perfection?”

  “I can show you any time,” declared Barnaby. “All we need is a tennis court with no one looking on, Mr Willison. Maybe if one of your friends would let me show you on a private court . . .” He looked shyly hopeful.

  Three days later, he gave his demonstration; and Willison was astounded.

  Barnaby had a fireball service which no player in the world was ever likely to be able to return. He admitted that he didn’t know exactly how he did it: there was something in the way his biceps and forearm muscles flexed and merged in tremendous power at the moment of contact between gut and ball. But he could now use it with devastating accuracy, striking any part of the court he desired at will.

  After the demonstration, shiny-faced, perspiring, he looked to his sponsor for comment.

  “Barnaby,” Willison told him urgently, “don’t show that service to a soul. Not a single person, do you understand? Keep it in practice, but hide it from everyone except me.”

  “I certainly will,” Barnaby promised fervently.

  “And now we’ve got to get you some competition – you’ve got to work on the rest of your game. But understand: don’t let anyone so much as glimpse that service!”

  “It sure is a fireball, isn’t it?” Barnaby said, with a fascinating mixture of humility and confidence. “It sure is a sure-fire winner, Mr. Willison. It sure is good.”

  Only a few weeks later, when he had paid the substantial expenses of the trip, Willison had run head-on against his first business disaster. He put up a bottling and distributing plant for a new nationwide soft drinks company, which went bankrupt. His losses were so great that he had to borrow to meet his obligations, and he came close to cancelling the trip to England. But the more he thought, the more he saw Barnaby as the means of recouping his losses. If he could get long odds on a substantial sum, and Barnaby won, he could not only repay his debts but have all the capital he needed for future business.

  The venture which had started as a model of altruism had become absolutely vital to him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Morning Reports

  Gideon dropped off to sleep in the small hours, and there was by comparison a touch of coolness in the air when he woke a little after seven o’clock. But the morning wasn’t really fresh; simply less hot and humid than the night had been. Kate had her back to him, one bare arm over the bedspread, dark hair with touches of grey in a hairnet, which was half-on, half-off. She was so sound asleep that he felt sure she hadn’t managed to drop off until summer’s early dawn, or thereabouts. He got out of bed, drew up the trousers of his pyjamas, and crossed to the door. The bedroom, with its high ceiling and big, old-fashioned wardrobe creaked as he trod on a loose board beneath the carpet, but the sound did not wake Kate.

  Three other doors led off this landing, all open. Penelope, the Gideon daughter who was still unmarried and lived at home, should be in one room, but her bed was empty. Malcolm, their youngest son, who usually slept late and had to be rousted out of bed, was not in his room, either. Gideon finished in the bathroom, peeped in and saw Kate still sound asleep, and went cautiously down the stairs. As he opened the kitchen door, Penelope turned from the gas stove on which eggs were sizzling.

  “Oh, hallo, Daddy! You up already?”

  “What are you up to, that’s more to the point,” Gideon countered.

  “I thought I’d make my own breakfast and get off without waking Mummy. You haven’t woken her, have you?” she demanded, suddenly accusing.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then don’t you dare!”

  “Why not?” asked Gideon, feeling the brown earthenware tea-pot. He snatched his hand away, and picked up a padded pot-holder before pouring himself some tea.

  “She’s tired out,” Penny said. “This hot weathers almost finished her.”

  “Now, don’t be—!” began Gideon, but he didn’t finish. That was not wholly because of the warning expression on his daughter’s pretty face. It had dawned on him that Penelope had simply pointed out to him what he had already subconsciously noticed yet hadn’t talked about: the fact that Kate was very tired these days.

  “How bad is she?” he asked.

  “I think she ought to see a doctor,” said Penelope, promptly.

  “Have you suggested it to your mother?”

  “She looks at me pityingly every time I do – as if she can’t understand what’s happened to her baby! Seriously, Daddy, she isn’t well. She really isn’t. She needs a rest or a change – surely you know that?”

&nbs
p; “Suppose I do,” conceded Gideon gruffly. He watched Penny put two eggs, several slices of bacon and some fried bread on her plate, sit down, hitch her chair forward, and tuck in with gusto. He wondered idly whether all young women-pianists were such hearty eaters. She played with one of the B.B.C. orchestras, which was often on the air; he could never quite believe it, even now.

  “Malcolm’s gone to play tennis before school – there’s a tournament on,” she offered. “I can’t see why anyone is so crazy about knocking a soft ball about with a bat!”

  “Racquet,” corrected Gideon, absently.

  “Bat is good enough to me! Oh, well, better hit a little ball about than nothing, I suppose. Daddy, darling, you couldn’t give – I mean lend-me ten bob, could you?”

  Gideon studied her open face and candid blue eyes, and felt a great warmth of affection for his youngest daughter.

  “Better take a pound while you’re about it,” he said mildly. “You’ll find one on your mother’s dressing-table.”

  “Bless you!” she cried. “And now I must fly.”

  “Where are you going to fly to?” he enquired, mildly.

  “Oh, Daddy, I told you, last night! The whole orchestra is going down to Brighton, we have to play, this evening. Oh, you’re impossible!” She went racing out of the room, and flung over her shoulder: “Malcolm said tell Mummy he’ll go straight on to school.”

  Gideon nodded as he tightened the sash of his dressing-gown, and contemplated the stove. Cook, or eat cold?

  He decided on bacon and eggs, pondering over Penelope’s remarks about Kate. She was right, of course, Kate had taken the hot weather very badly: he simply hadn’t thought much about it. Was she all right? It wasn’t the change of life; that was long past. Over-tired? One wouldn’t think so, now that all but Malcolm were off her hands. And only a few weeks ago she had been saying she must find something to do, time was too heavy on her hands. He sat down to three eggs, as many rashers, and liberally buttered toast, had some instant coffee, then returned upstairs.

  Penelope, overnight case in hand, was tip-toeing out of the main bedroom. She put her fingers to her lips but did not close the door.

  “Ssshh! Still asleep.”

  “I shan’t wake her,” Gideon whispered.

  “Goodbye, Daddy.” The soft, peach-bloom cheek came forward for a kiss. “You’re a dear, really,” she informed him, whispering as she passed: “Especially for a man!”

  Gideon began to chuckle, stopped himself, went into the bedroom and crossed to the window. As he expected, an M.G. was outside with her latest boyfriend at the wheel. He was a nice-looking, fair-haired youth, who jumped out and took her case. There was a hurried consultation, and the boy glanced up at the window. Then, resignedly, he went to the driving side of the car, and began to push, while Penelope went behind the car and added her own weight. She was not going to allow the noisy engine of a sports car to wake her mother.

  Penelope wasn’t prone to taking things too seriously, so she must really be concerned. Gideon turned and looked down at his wife; frowning, beginning to worry.

  And then the telephone rang.

  He saw Kate start as he snatched the receiver from the bedside table. He could have bellowed at the caller, but instead he watched Kate as he steeled himself to say: “Commander Gideon.”

  “George.” Only one man had a voice like that and only one man could breathe such urgency into one word. Gideon’s anger faded; he was suddenly very intent on Lemaitre.

  “Yes, Lem?”

  “George – that runner for Jackie Spratt’s – you remember?”

  Of course he remembered. “Yes?”

  “They’ve just taken his body out of the river,” Lemaitre told him. “He didn’t turn up at the pub, last night. I feel awful, George. I shouldn’t have arranged to meet him there. Too bloody cocky, that’s my trouble. Never learn! I—”

  “How was he killed?” Gideon interrupted.

  For the first time he was aware of Kate looking at him; from half-closed eyes it was true, but obviously awake and aware of what was being said. He raised a hand to her as he listened to Lemaitre, who was answering with a curious kind of incoherence.

  “Strangled – manual strangulation. And there’s a funny thing, George. He had a rash on his neck – heat, the doc thinks – and had smeared some ointment over it. Oily stuff. We might get a couple of thumb-prints. Strangled by a man in front of him, thumb marks – bloody great bruises, on either side of the windpipe. Thrown in the river off Surrey Docks, caught in the wash of a pleasure boat – they’ve been running all night, making a fortune – and he was pushed up to some barges tied up for painting, wedged between two of them. If it hadn’t been for that, he might not have been found for a week. Had to have some luck.”

  “Who did?” asked Gideon, bleakly. Then: “Where’s the body?”

  “In the morgue, here.”

  “Who’s the doctor?”

  “Webb. But George, we need a pathologist, I’m sure of that, and—”

  “Send for the best one who can get over at once,” ordered Gideon. “Any other clues of any kind?”

  “Not a bloody thing,” answered Lemaitre. “George, I feel terrible!”

  “You’ll feel a damned sight worse if you let any grass grow under your feet,” growled Gideon. “Report again at ten.”

  “Okay, on the dot!” Lemaitre promised, and put down his receiver with anxious alacrity. He had an hour and a half in which to get some kind of report for Gideon and he would go almost mad trying to get at least one piece of permissible evidence. Gideon could imagine him as he put the receiver down and moved towards Kate, who had pushed the sheet further away from her chin. Her marble- white shoulders seemed to glow in the morning light. He bent over and kissed her forehead.

  “Hallo, love! Awake, then?”

  “George! Is it very late?”

  “No – and no need for you to get up, either. I’ve had breakfast and that bright pair of children of ours have gone.” He moved away, still looking at her, seeing faint shadows at her eyes which were quite new to him. He took his tie off the dressing-table mirror, dressed, yanked at a too-tight collar and rummaged in a drawer for one with a larger neckband. All this time Kate lay, half-covered, watching and smiling. But there was a significant difference; normally, she would have been out of bed, pushing him away, putting her hand on the larger shirt in a trice. He put the fresh shirt on and knotted the tie. “That’s better. Stay there while I get you a cup of tea.”

  “No, George, I—”

  “Stay there!” he ordered.

  And she stayed.

  He made tea and toast and took a laden tray up to her, told her gruffly to take it easy, the heat was no joke, and then left, a little after nine o’clock. He had to walk a few hundred yards to the garage where he kept his car, round a corner. He could be fetched and carried by one of his men, of course, but he preferred to drive himself unless it were urgent or very official business. The car started at the first touch. There was no need to drive past his house, nevertheless he did, glancing up at the window. There was no sign of Kate.

  Of course there wasn’t; there never was in the morning.

  He left one of the Constables on duty to park his car in the Yard itself, nodded and occasionally grunted in response to greetings of “Good morning, sir!”, “Good morning, Commander!”, “Good morning, Mr. Gideon!”, until at last he turned into his own office.

  It was ten minutes past nine.

  An unexpected breeze cooled his face as he opened the door, and papers, although anchored to the desk by weights and books, fluttered noisily. He slipped quickly inside, puzzled, until he saw the cause of it – a fan, whirring at speed, perched on top of a filing-cabinet. Wonder who the blazes did that? he thought. His jacket was already halfway off as he went over and look
ed at the whirling blades inside the little iron cage, and the breeze was very welcome on his face. Then he went to his desk and sat down, looking at the pile of folders which had been placed on it. One was Outdoor Events – June. The others, each clearly marked on a tab, were all precisely described. One startled him: Superintendent Lemaitre: River Death Inquiry.

  Lem certainly hadn’t been long and as certainly hadn’t been here, so this must have been put here by Gideon’s own deputy – Deputy Commander Alec Hobbs. So, of course had the others; all hang-over cases on which Yard men were working, some in London, some with Regional and County Borough police forces co-operating with the Metropolitan area. Apart from Lemaitre’s case, there appeared to be no new ones in, which meant that none of the overnight crimes had persuaded Hobbs that it merited Gideon’s personal attention. Only occasionally was Hobbs wrong.

  He glanced through seven reports. Two bank robberies, a case of arson, a fraud case, an assault charge involving a woman against a woman, but not particularly serious. He looked through the rest, saw nothing new in any of them, pushed the last one aside and dialled the number of the office next to his own. Hobbs was within a few feet, but Gideon didn’t want to see him yet; just wanted a little clarification.

  Hobbs answered promptly.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “What kind of a morning?” asked Gideon.

  “Nothing of particular importance,” Hobbs answered, in his controlled and completely assured way. He was the other end of the scale from Lemaitre; Repton and Cambridge, very much the English gentleman. More a Scott-Marie type than a Gideon although they had come to know, like, and admire each other. “No one has specifically asked to see you and practically everything else is routine – except, of course, Lemaitre’s problem.”

  “I’ve no appointments,” Gideon told him. “Have Lem over here by half-past eleven, say. He’s to call at ten.”