by John Creasey
“Roche! Can you hear me? Give yourself up!”
The voice seemed utterly remote from the situation, from the roof which was so near the sky.
Roche was perfectly situated. From where he sat, he could cover the front of the café and the street, and be reasonably sure that he could not be attacked from the back, unless the police used dynamite to break their way through the barricade he had built in front of the door. He nursed a Luger pistol – a heavy, deadly weapon; and every now and then, he smoothed the barrel. In a box at his side was spare ammunition, by him a tin of biscuits and bottles of beer. When he heard the loud-speaker summons, he gave a snort of a laugh.
“I can hold out here for a week, you bloody fool!” he said aloud. “Anyone who comes near me, will get a bullet in his guts!”
But he did not fire wastefully. Let them think I’m short of ammunition, he thought. They’ll bloody soon find out how wrong they are!
“Ready?” Henry asked.
“Yes, sir. But sir—!”
“Let me use your radio.” Henry took it and called his man below: “Have cars driven right past the window, in quick succession – and get them all blaring their horns. Make a pandemonium – a really deafening row! Got that?”
“Yes, sir!” the man below said.
“Sir – you know it’s very dangerous!” persisted the Sergeant.
“It would be a lot more dangerous to let him get away,” growled Henry.
The loud-speaker blared again. A car engine started up; another; and another. Horns began to honk, and Henry moved towards the edge of the roof, his back towards the street.
“Now they’re up to something!” Roche said, and held the Luger more firmly. “The bloody fools! Do they want to die?”
The hooting and honking was getting worse; deafening. A car roared past the shop, and he fired. But as the car disappeared, another engine roared, another car flashed by – its horn blasting. Then another, and another; and all the time, the noise grew louder and more deafening. Wild-eyed, Roche muttered: “They’re going to bloody drive a bloody car right up – that’s what they’re playing at! I’ll kill the bastards – I’ll kill them!”
And his eyes were glittering as he licked his lips . . .
Even up here, on the roof, the noise was so great that one couldn’t hear oneself speak, but Henry had said his last word. He was going down the second length of rope, head-first and very, very cautiously. It did not swing very much, and he only needed one hand to steady himself. The café window itself was now only two feet below him and squinting down he could see a gaping hole to one side, where the glass had been smashed out.
Another car came by, and the man next to the driver hurled a brick right through the hole. There was a roar of a shot, followed by a clang as the bullet struck the back of the car, and as he lowered himself a few inches further, he could hear the Australian swearing viciously below him.
Moments later, he had an upside-down picture of Roche, crouching in a corner, gun in hand.
He was glaring into the street, waiting for the next car; the last thing he was expecting was threat from above.
Henry took out his own gun: a Smith and Wesson 44. He could have shot Roche in the head, right then – one shot fired without warning would be enough. Instead – while the cacophony in the street below seemed to get worse and Roche’s face twisted in wild-eyed fury, he waited for the next car to roar past.
It came, horn blaring; and this driver, too, flung a brick. Roche fired at the car. On that instant, with very careful aim, Henry fired at his gun-hand. He waited only long enough to see the revolver fly from Roche’s grasp, then “Right!” he bellowed to the men above; and as the rope to his waist went slack, swung himself in through the window with the aid of the men above.
The jagged glass caught a sleeve and the back of his hand as he went through, and he winced. But it did not stop him from scrambling to his feet and rushing at Roche, whose right hand was now resting on the counter, a useless, gory mess.
“Don’t move!” Henry warned him, his own gun levelled. “Don’t move, or believe me, I’ll—”
He had no need to say more . . .
Outside, cars screeched to a standstill and men came running. And as Roche stood staring almost stupidly at the window, blood oozed and then began steadily to drip from the cut in Henry’s hand.
“Commander Gideon?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Henry’s compliments, sir – and the man Roche has been caught and charged with murder.”
“Good!” Gideon said, with deep satisfaction. “Very good. I’ll see Mr. Henry in the morning.” He rang off; much more deeply pleased than he could say, and enormously relieved. Kate was getting out of her chair and as she saw his expression, her own lightened.
“Good news, dear?”
“Very good,” Gideon repeated. “All we need now is for Lem to get back tomorrow and clap the darbies on the man who killed Charlie Blake, and we’ll have had the best week we’ve had for a long time. I might even be able to take a weekend off!”
“Do be careful, dear,” Kate said. “You could give yourself a shock.”
He stared – and they both burst out laughing together. The whole mood had changed, and he could not fail to see how much lighter-hearted Kate was, now that she had come into the open with her fears. Really relaxing, now, he switched on the television to make sure of catching the B.B.C. news, while Kate took out some knitting: their eldest son’s wife was expecting her third child in the early autumn. He yawned his way through the latest instalment in a mystery series which was wearing thin, then saw the opening of the news. The announcer, a man handsome enough to make even Kate look twice, said in his unflustered voice:
“We are able to show you some graphic scenes, filmed during the siege at Hampstead this evening, of a gunman wanted for questioning by the police. The scenes were recorded only half an hour ago and we must apologise if some of the clarity of the pictures has been lost due to conditions under which the film . . .”
Gideon stopped listening to the words. He saw everything: the cars, the smashed window, Henry hanging upside down – and then, with a remarkable feat of acrobatics, swinging himself into the shop.
Kate, too, forgot her knitting and sat and stared, as fascinated as Gideon himself, until at last there were pictures of Henry alone, apparently unhurt. And Roche, dishevelled and wild-looking and with his right hand obviously shattered, leaving the shop and entering a police car.
“Good Lord!” Gideon marvelled, when it was over. “I didn’t think Henry had it in him!” He hoisted himself out of his chair. “Sorry, love, but I must go and see him. I can’t let—hey! How about coming for a drive?”
“Oh, I’d love to!” Kate said, and sprang up – and then suddenly cried out and dropped back into her chair, bringing all their fears crashing down on them again.
Penny came in soon afterwards. Kate seemed to have recovered, but Gideon didn’t take her with him. He drove alone to AB Division, saw Henry for a few minutes, and knew he had been right to come as he saw the glow of appreciation in his eyes. But he went straight home again; and by the shortest route.
Malcolm was back, when he got in, and all his family were grouped round the television set, watching the news. Kate seemed herself again. Twenty million people must have seen the film tonight. Gideon’s sense of satisfaction deepened as he watched with them. Henry had done more good for the public image of the police than any one officer had done in years. And in a different way, so had the Jamaican girl. He must make sure they both had some award.
Among those who saw the pictures were the three members of the Action Committee who had not yet been held by the police; and the American, Mario Donelli, who had arrived in England on the France, that day. He was a small, round-faced, round-headed man in his early twenties: a man who would have needed very little make-up
to become a clown. He had a frizz of gingery hair round a big bald patch, a button of a nose, and big, full lips. But there was nothing of the clown about him as he switched off the set and said: “Look – like I told you: we just have to go ahead. Sure, Roy’s a devil – none of us ever teas all that happy about him. But you have to admit, he was one mighty good organiser.”
“And he has money,” one of the others said.
“There’s no call to be cynical. Like I was saying: Roy’s a devil – but Ken Noble was a martyr. You can’t argue about that. He’d been to prison twice for his beliefs, now he’s died because of them. So O.K.; we go through with this demonstration at this Lord’s place – see? We couldn’t build a better memorial to him. We’ve got all the records safe; we know the plan. All we’ve got to do is just go right ahead.”
None of the others dissented. It was no longer a question of whether they should stick to their plan to disrupt the Test Match: it was simply a question of how to ensure that they did not fail.
Barnaby Rudge watched the news, too. And for a little while the bravery of the policeman drew his thoughts away from his obsessing dream. But not for long. He was going to win! He knew he had the capacity. He must do what Mr. Willison said and hold that service back until the last minute – but he was going to win. If he were in trouble in the earlier rounds, he could use the service just once; now and again. Used like that, it was safe enough: a lot of players came up with a ‘freak’ service occasionally, more often than not to their own great surprise. Barnaby had no game next day, and he wasn’t in the doubles. He could practise the service for at least two hours – and still have time to watch his opponent in the next round.
Willison’s English friend called him, a little after ten o’clock that night, and announced simply: “You’re on, Lou – at five to one.”
Willison just stopped himself from a protesting: “Only fives?” Enthused instead, and rang off. So he could win only about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Only. He gave an excited laugh. It would be enough to clear his debts and start afresh. He must go and see Barnaby early tomorrow and make sure nothing could go wrong. He went to bed in his luxury hotel room, happier than he had been since arriving in England.
John Spratt also watched Henry’s feat, as he sat in a pleasant apartment in Knightsbridge with his current mistress. He had never allowed himself to be ‘trapped’ into marriage, but he enjoyed the comforts of home and liked being ministered to by attractive and pleasant women. Oddly, looks and even shapeliness of figure did not greatly influence him. He liked a companion with a pleasing voice, a good sense of fun, and one who did not take life – not even bed-life – too seriously. Naomi, a woman in her thirties, scored full marks on all these counts and had lived here with him for a record time: nearly a year.
“The police have to be brave,” she remarked, and pushed a pouffe more comfortably under his legs. “Coffee, darling? And are we going to have an early night, or late?”
He grinned at her: quite breathtakingly handsome, now, with a touch of devilment in his eyes.
“Early,” he said. “I feel like celebrating.”
“And may I ask what you feel like celebrating?”
“Not if you want to retain all your virtues in my eyes.”
She laughed as she switched the television off.
“One day you may wish you’d confided in me. I might be a very welcome help, in time of trouble.”
“What makes you think I’ll ever get into trouble?” he asked lightly.
“The marvel is you ever keep out of it,” she retorted. “Did you say yes, to coffee?”
“Thank you. Laced, I think, with a trouble-free brandy.”
She moved gracefully across to the cabinet where they kept the bottles and the glasses. He did not watch her as closely as he sometimes did – in fact usually did, when they were going to bed early. In some ways, he was a remarkably simple lover; in sex, he simply liked to abandon himself. It was often breathless but it was always memorable and Naomi invariably shared his anticipatory excitement.
Tonight, she knew, he had something very much on his mind: some different pleasure. He had pulled off some coup, and sooner or later he would tell her about it; or at least, tell her as much as he wished her to know. She was not really curious; yet in a way she was a little afraid. There was a quality in John Spratt which she did not really understand. She knew how utterly ruthless he could be, yet to her he was always pleasant, generous, kind. She only half-wished she knew what he was thinking.
He was thinking of a certain Sebastian Jacobus; young Sebastian Jacobus, one of the few Fascist extremists in Great Britain.
Jacobus was exactly the man he wanted for the attack on Barnaby Budge, for he had plenty of friends to whom violence was commonplace, and who had a paranoiac hatred of all races other than those he and his friends, like Hitler before them, chose to classify as ‘Aryan’. Black, brown, yellow, Jewish – they had the same awful, built-in hatred for them all.
And he, John Spratt, was to see Jacobus in the morning. For the young man had another serious weakness of character: he was a compulsive gambler. He owed several bookmakers substantial sums of money: substantial to him, that was, but trifling to Jackie Spratt’s Limited. Which was very fortunate indeed . . .
It was incredible, Naomi thought; incredible, that two people together could know such abounding ecstasy . . .
Jacobus was a well-dressed, pleasant-speaking, public school type, who showed no outward sign of the viciousness and prejudice which lodged in him. He was a member of the B.A.A. Club and it was there that John Spratt met him, ostensibly by chance, at half-past ten that morning. They sat in a corner of the huge smoking-room, where no one could overhear them, yet spoke instinctively in undertones.
“I fully understand you,” Jacobus said. “You want this man roughed up and you want it to appear to be because of his colour. But in fact you want to make sure he can’t use his right arm for at least a week. Do you want it broken?”
“I don’t want him killed.”
“And I don’t intend to get involved with murder,” Jacobus replied equably. “How much is this little service worth, Mr. Spratt?”
“How much are you in debt?”
“A considerable sum, I fear – nearly six hundred pounds.”
“This little service is worth seven hundred and fifty pounds. One-third will be paid today – I’ll send it to you – one-third when Rudge is out of action, one-third a month afterwards, provided you establish a credible racial motive for the incident.”
Jacobus gave an unexpectedly wide smile, and there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Spratt. There will be no trouble at all. Do you want it done before he plays again, or after?”
“After,” said Spratt. “That is, the day after tomorrow.” He stood up, nodded, and went on in a louder voice: “Nice to have had a chat. Now I must go and get some work done.” He left some money on the table to pay for the coffee – and the sight of the coffee cups reminded him of last night. He was smiling confidently as he left the Club. He must be careful, though; he was enjoying life with Naomi almost too much. The word ‘marriage’ no longer made him flinch . . .
Gideon had read all the reports when he had a telephone call from Scott-Marie to say that the Home Secretary wished to know whether Superintendent Henry would be recommended for the George Medal. Gideon asked for time to consider, then took a fraction of that time to check that Roche had made no attempt to escape or to kill himself. The Australian’s case would be up for hearing at eleven o’clock, at the North Western Magistrates Court. Gideon was committed to the Bligh meeting at eleven, here, but there was no real need for him to go to the Court. He learned, too, that Henry’s injury – a jagged cut – was not serious, and sent him a note asking whether he thought the Lord’s demonstration was still on. Then he checked that Lemaitre’s plan
e was still due at twelve-thirty p.m. And finally, at twenty minutes to eleven, he telephoned the Soudi Western Hospital, in the Fulham Road.
Dr. Phillips, the man he wanted to speak to, would not be in until the afternoon.
“Yes, Commander, I will make sure he calls you,” a helpful Sister assured him. “I know he’s had the X-ray plates developed. He will have some news for you, I’m sure.”
Gideon had to be satisfied with that, and went along to the meeting. He would not be at peace with himself until he knew the facts about Kate. Last night’s attack had left him with a desperate anxiety which nothing could ease.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Idealist
In all, twenty-one men turned up at the ‘Bligh’ meeting, and it was immediately obvious that everyone concerned thought it a good move. Apart from a number of fairly local occasions, there were three major ones – Wimbledon, already started, and Lord’s actually in the Metropolitan area; the Derby outside. But three senior officers had come from the Surrey Police.
“There are two aspects common to all three occasions,” Gideon told them. “And what I’d like is a plan of campaign so that we can move men from one place to another, using the same tactics. The biggest worry, I should think, is the possibility of organised demonstrations. The other, the usual bag-snatching and pocket-picking – it’s grown too swiftly lately, and I have a strong impression it’s being cleverly organised. And there’s a third thing, which probably affects the Derby more than anything else: the possibility of dope.”
“Shouldn’t rule dope out of Wimbledon,” said a tall, fair-haired Superintendent. “The stakes are very high – not only in money for the professionals, but in prestige. Some of the entrants may well pep themselves up.”