Gideon's Fire

by John Creasey

  ‘. . . what we propose to do,’ said Mrs. Ericson, still the main spokesman, ‘is to offer to buy back at par. We have already made provisional arrangements. One difficulty, as my husband had pointed out, is that some of the smaller shareholders especially will suspect that we might be wanting to buy back because we think the shares are already increasing in value. It’s almost as if we will be misunderstood whichever way we act, isn’t it?’

  Gideon’s thoughts were wrenched off Biship.

  ‘Caught between two stools,’ he said, ponderously. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Well, Mr. Ericson, what kind of reputation you have as a firm is hardly our concern. Our concern is simply to make sure that the law isn’t broken, and if it is broken, to investigate all the circumstances and to make a charge whenever those circumstances appear to justify it. I can tell you that doubts about the regularity of this share issue have been raised, and papers are being studied here and in the Public Prosecutor’s Office; but no action has yet been recommended. At the moment you say you are ready to buy these shares back. Such an action could influence the kind of charge made, if any. Certainly no harm could come from it.’

  The woman’s eyes were narrow and watchful.

  Ericson said: ‘But you could still prefer a charge . . .’

  ‘Mr. Ericson, I hope you’ll understand me if I say that I think you might be more wisely represented by your solicitor,’ said Gideon. ‘I’m sure he will agree that your contemplated action would be in everyone’s best interests, and my knowledge of the Public Prosecutor’s Office is that they never make a charge unless they are positive of criminal intent.’ That was as far as he dare go, perhaps further than he should. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I’ve another very urgent appointment. These fires that are worrying us.’ He hoisted his huge frame out of his chair, and towered over Ericson; to the obvious surprise of both husband and wife, he offered his hand. The woman seemed much less tense than she had been, and the gleam in Ericson’s eyes suggested that he felt that a crisis had been passed.

  They went out, Lemaitre opening the door for them, and behind their backs, Lemaitre frowned at Gideon, as if to ask: ‘What’s going on?’

  Bell’s telephone rang, and Bell lifted the receiver instantly.

  ‘Bell speaking . . . Eh? . . . Hold on a minute.’ He looked across at Gideon, and there was the too familiar tautness in his voice; tension was in everyone today. This concerned Biship, of course - and drove all thought of the Ericsons away. ‘Biship was last seen in Blackheath by one of his customers from a round he does there,’ Bell went on. ‘He was by himself, and on foot. No doubt about the identification.’

  ‘Blackheath,’ echoed Gideon, and stared at the map. ‘Better buzz ST and QR. Have all roads watched for pedestrians and cyclists carrying packages, check all buses, all Green Line services, all cars.’

  ‘You’ll have Traffic on your back, George.’

  ‘Better than having London burning about my ears,’ Gideon growled. ‘But I ought to have a word with them. Ta.’ He called the Commander of the Traffic Department of the Metropolitan Police, explained what he wanted to do, and put it in such a way that he seemed to be asking for permission.

  ‘Oh, you hold up all London’s traffic,’ the other Commander said sarcastically. ‘Then see what happens if you don’t pick up your chap by the rush hour. You haven’t got long.’

  ‘We won’t cause any more disturbance than we must,’ said Gideon. ‘Lay it on with your chaps, will you?’

  ‘Do your job for you now,’ grumbled the other. ‘All right, George.’ Gideon said thanks and replaced the receiver. Bell grinned across, and they had a few minutes of quiet, without even a telephone call. Bell made notes, and Gideon sat back and tried to think of anything they had missed in the hunt for Biship. The fact that Cornish hadn’t yet reported began to nag, too, and Mrs. Ericson’s story began to stir in his mind, too.

  Suddenly the door was pushed open and Lemaitre came in, saying: ‘Talk about one law for the rich and one for the poor, but I daresay you’ve been right, George. That was the last thing I expected, and even if she lied like a trooper, you can bet your life she’d go down tops with the jury. We’d never make a case stick.’ Before Gideon had time to comment, a telephone rang on Gideon’s desk, and Bedlam was back. Gideon picked up the receiver, said: ‘Hold on a minute,’ and looked up at Lemaitre. ‘We’ll see, Lem. Nip out to Hoppy’s place, will you, and among other things have a talk with Tiny Repp. Hoppy’s been holding him for looting.’

  ‘Who, Tiny? Hoppy gone mad?’

  ‘He thinks Tiny fell to temptation,’ said Gideon, who knew that Lemaitre had a soft spot for the big burglar. ‘Could be right, too, but Tiny swears he thought he was being a hero. Don’t let Hoppy know that’s what you’re after. Tell him you’re making a tour of the Divisions to keep everything keyed up for Biship.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Lemaitre, ‘and I’ll tell you what I think about the Ericsons another time. Anything in from Cornish?’

  ‘No,’ Gideon answered.

  Lemaitre went out, still deflated, and there was another spell of silence before two telephones rang at once, one on each desk. The two men lifted their receivers with simultaneous movements, and spoke together. ‘Gideon.’ ‘Bell.’ Gideon observed all this, and smiled wryly to himself as he heard a man say in a hurried voice: ‘Smith of Information here, sir. There’s a man on the line who says he’s seen Biship today, says that Biship’s gone off with a dozen sticks of TNT. I’m holding him on. He’s speaking from a quarrying firm in Lambeth.’

  It was like being struck by a blast of hot air.

  ‘Send men there, to stay with this chap. I’ll go and see him,’ Gideon said, and began to stand up while he was talking. Horror seemed to close about him as the full significance of this news struck him. ‘Have a driver at my car, with the name and address of this quarrying company, in three minutes.’ He banged the receiver down and rounded the desk. ‘Biship’s loose with enough stuff on him to blow up whole districts,’ he declared. ‘Keep in touch with me on the radio.’ He went striding out of the office, at his most aggressive, and he did not believe that he had ever been more worried.

  As he neared a corner, Lemaitre came hurrying round it, his face split in two with a grin.

  ‘Hey, George, I’ve just realised what you put me on to Tiny Repp for. I’ve got to lay off the Ericsons, but when it comes to . . .’

  Lemaitre broke off, at Gideon’s expression.

  ‘We’re in trouble, Biship’s got hold of some dynamite,’ Gideon said. ‘See Bell and tell him to alert Carmichael, this could start any time.’ He went striding on, with Lemaitre staring after him.

  17 MADMAN’S FOLLY

  The man, Keen, had very bright blue eyes, narrowed just now, thin lips and a rock-like face; he wasn’t a man to take to. He stood in his office at the big yard, dwarfed by Gideon, surrounded by great piles of crazy paving, rockery stone and wall stone. He wore a check lumber jacket of grey and white, he was unshaven, and trying to put a bold face on the situation.

  ‘I’ve already told your chaps twice,’ he said resentfully to Gideon. ‘I thought Biship came here to collect his dough - he missed last week. It wasn’t until I saw a newspaper with his photograph on that I tied him up with the fires.’ Keen motioned to the dynamite store visible through the open doorway. ‘Then I checked that stuff, and I didn’t lose a sec. calling you chaps. I didn’t dream . . .’

  ‘All right,’ Gideon said. ‘It was a hell of a thing to happen, but no one’s blaming you. How powerful were these sticks?’

  ‘Each one could blow up a house,’ Keen told him, and moistened his lips.

  ‘What time was Biship here?’

  ‘I’ve already told . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It must have been just after twelve,’ Keen said. ‘I was surprised, because he doesn’t usually come on Thursdays, his regular calling day is Monday. He was going out when I saw him. I was on a rush job, and I told myself if he c
ouldn’t wait I wasn’t in any hurry to pay him.

  ‘Turned right out of the gates towards Shooters Hill, that’s all I can tell you.’

  That would tally with the report already in.

  ‘All right, Mr. Keen, thanks,’ he said, and turned round to his driver. ‘Pierce, get the Assistant Commissioner on the radio for me, I’ll be at the car as soon as you’ve got him.’ The driver hurried out. When Gideon followed, the driver was holding out the microphone, and Gideon took it and slid into his seat. ‘Hallo, A.C.’ That was as familiar as he allowed himself to get when subordinates were present. ‘Biship’s running round loose with a dozen sticks of TNT. I’ve alerted Carmichael, Bell’s busy on it, Traffic’s cooperating, but I don’t know whether we ought to use the radio and television to step up the search. Wouldn’t warn the people what he’s got, would you?’

  ‘I’ll talk to the Commissioner,’ Rogerson, the A.C., said. ‘Bell tells me you might have Biship surrounded.’

  ‘Might’s the operative word,’ Gideon growled. ‘I’m going to see Rickett at ST, and I’ll keep to the main roads.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rogerson.

  Gideon nodded to the driver, who was already starting the engine. The headquarters of ST Division was less than a mile away, and Gideon knew that he was going to see the man simply because he could no longer sit and wait in the office. He kept the radio on as reports flashed to and fro, and practically every one had to do with Biship. One man who had gone mad could do this. One man . . .

  He heard a man say clearly: ‘There’s been an explosion in Market Street, Whitechapel. Get all roads approaching Market Street cleared of traffic.’

  Gideon closed his eyes; it was as if a great weight was pressing down upon him.

  Walter Bisbip was astride a motor-scooter, one which he had bought second-hand that morning. On some of his rounds he had preferred a motor-scooter to a car, because it was easier to handle. He was thoroughly familiar with the little machine. His knowledge of the East End - in fact most of London south of the river from Battersea to Woolwich was invaluable, too. He knew the short cuts. He knew the places where a fire was likely to take hold quickest. He knew that on a small machine like this he could dart about the traffic on the main roads, and make it almost impossible for anyone to catch him. He had chosen a route carefully, using a pencil and paper, to trace a map of London, then making pencilled notes of those places where he proposed to start the fires.

  The oil and paint warehouse in Wapping was the first obvious place. It was in the middle of a vast built-up area, with a web of narrow streets, many of them children’s playgrounds, a few big blocks of tenements, warehouses filled to overflowing with inflammable goods, timber yards, petrol stations, and a paper warehouse. He knew that if he could once get a big fire started there, it would bring the major fire services from all the neighbouring districts. He had seen exactly how this concentration had been effected the night before; by day it would not be so easy, because of the traffic on the road. Fire-engines would be later reaching the danger spots, and the risk of the fire gaining a firm hold was much greater. He also knew that it would have to be a widespread series of outbreaks; one isolated fire, even a big one, would be comparatively easy to control. That was why he had planned his route carefully, while sitting at Mrs. Tennison’s.

  It would take him only ten or twelve minutes to ride round, and to hurl a stick of TNT fitted with a detonator which would go off on contact, at seven different places on the perimeter of a kind of circle. He selected the paint warehouse first because he could throw it over the back wall with little fear of being seen. The next spot on the route was a waste paper and rag merchant where big stocks of rags, many of them thick and dirty with oil, were stored. He could drive past the open gates of this place and toss a second stick of TNT in. Beyond that was a timber yard, next on the route a petrol station which backed on to a big warehouse filled with children’s toys and in turn flanked by general warehouses. The fourth place was another, smaller paint store, chosen because it was in the right position. Fifth and sixth were general warehouses, one filled mostly with cigarettes and one with cotton goods. The seventh place was the main works and head offices of a dry cleaning plant, where the cleaning fluids would go up in a flash.

  Now that he had marked out his map carefully, Biship felt surprisingly cool, and also felt a deep, satisfying sense of accomplishment. He would achieve something really worthwhile now. He would not only avenge the death of his wife and daughter, but would have destroyed those hated parts of London where he had lived and worked all his life. It would be The Third Fire of London.

  He turned the corner of the narrow street near the first of his objectives, and saw two cyclists further along, coming towards him; no one else was in the street. He slowed down until the cyclists had passed, then put on a spurt. As he passed the high wall of the paint warehouse, he tossed the stick of dynamite. He put on a spurt, and was fifty yards away before the explosion came. He swung round the corner towards the Mile End Road - and there, standing shocked by the deafening roar of the explosion, were two uniformed policemen.

  They were so shaken that they did not seem to notice him, and the scooter roared past. He made one mistake - looking over his shoulder to see if they were taking any notice of him. Both had turned round. By then doors were opening, windows were being flung up, here and there glass was starred by the blast. There were more explosions as tins of paint exploded under the sudden heat of the fire. Biship swung round another corner, then another, feeling sure that he had shaken the two men off. In any case, they had been on foot, they hadn’t a chance to catch him - and the next objective was only three minutes’ ride away.

  He turned towards it, and as he did so, a police car came hurtling along the road towards him, a man beside the driver waving him down. At the same moment, a fire-engine swung into sight. As he was forced to slow down, the driver shouted at him:

  ‘Keep off the road until you’re told you can move.’

  Biship pulled into the kerb, sat astride his little machine for a few seconds, and then climbed off it. His mind was as alert as it had ever been, and he realised that these policemen didn’t suspect him, yet. But they would soon catch up with the men who had seen him coming round the corner, so he had only a few minutes of safety. He began to walk rapidly away from his machine, glancing behind him every now and again. Already there was a great plume of smoke in the sky, he had started off perfectly. The Third Fire of London! He turned a corner and went into a street where a big crowd had gathered, held back at a road junction so that fire-engines could get past. There were excited people and worried people, there were frightened people and bold ones.

  The police took no notice of the little man who pushed past the cordon out of the road where the traffic was stopped, except one middle-aged policeman named Edwards, from the NE Division. He caught a glimpse of Biship out of the corner of his eye, and was then pushed in the back by half a dozen youths who wanted to get nearer. He kept them at bay, and raised his voice so that it sounded even above the roar of the fire-engines. The Fire Service, standing by for just such an emergency, was going into action like an army.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Edwards bellowed, and a sergeant saw him and heard him and stalked to him. ‘Think I saw Biship!’ Edwards gasped.

  ‘Going down there, wearing a grey raincoat and a trilby!’

  ‘Okay,’ the sergeant said, and ran towards a police car which had a radio.

  Gideon picked up the message as he was swinging towards the NE Division, having countermanded his orders to go to NZ.

  As soon as it came in, he ordered: ‘Seal off the whole of the area within a mile radius of the spot where Biship was seen. Yes, I know it might be a false alarm, but do it.’

  He heard the, ‘Yes, sir,’ and then was told: ‘The Assistant Commissioner would like a word with you, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gideon.

  ‘George,’ said the A.C., almost at once, ‘radio and television progr
ammes are being interrupted to warn people in the East and Central London areas. Information Room is concentrating on this job except for one team. Biship was seen on the motor-scooter at . . .’ Rogerson named a place half a mile from the paint warehouse - and then at the warehouse at Billton Street. Got your map?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gideon said. ‘That means he’s travelling east from the first point, and there’s the big Willison warehouse block there so he’s probably been forced to go slightly south-east.’

  ‘I’ll see it’s all covered,’ the A.G. promised.

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘The first fire,’ said Gideon, and then realised that he had said ‘first’ although so far there was only one. ‘Another thing, we told all factories which were vulnerable to arrange a special guard, and now we’d better send a message to all places within the area of NE and QR Divisions. Better take men off the door-to-door job quick, and send them in detachments to petrol stations, gas-works, petrol depots, warehouses, waste and cotton warehouses, timber yards . . .’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ the Assistant Commissioner promised.

  Gideon sat back. His driver, slowed down at a traffic light, glanced at him curiously, and saw the perspiration on his forehead, the thrust of his big jaw. Gideon placed the map on his knees, drew a half circle round the spots where he thought there was likely to be trouble, and muttered: ‘The truth is he means to start a big ‘un. If he’s worked it out properly he’ll make a circle of fires.’ He stabbed at the map with a ball point pen, and called out the names of streets and places to his driver. He had never acted with fiercer speed or greater decision, and he had never been so frightened.