by J. J Marric
Yes, Gideon had a lot of cause for domestic satisfaction, and nearly everything was going well at the Yard, too. For once, it looked as if the police were pegging crime down: prevention methods were beginning to work. There had been some slight increase in the uniformed branch's strength, which helped, and four out of five of the worst crooks were inside; unless a new bunch grew up in the next year or two, organized and professional crime was likely to be subdued perhaps for as long as five years—until the men now in jail began to come out. There would be the amateurs, the big and the little Borgmans, the wife murderers, the poisoners, the embezzlers, the hundreds and the thousands of people who became criminals more by accident of events than by intent.
Which was true of Borgman?
What should he do about this bête noir of his? The easiest thing would be to say to the Assistant Commissioner and Plomley, of the Legal Department, that he had come to the conclusion that there was insufficient evidence to justify an exhumation. They would shake their heads and say how sorry they were but they would be relieved, for all senior officials dreaded the possibility of the failure of a big prosecution.
This might be the last chance of getting Borgman though, and it remained a fact that if he got away with one wife murder, he might try another. His second wife was very wealthy in her own right.
Kate came in first, bright-eyed, rested after enjoying the film, but wise enough not to say too much about it. Then Matthew arrived, dark-haired, big, and bony, whistling the kind of tune that made Gideon suspect that there was a girl on his mind; and within minutes plump, fair-haired, merry-eyed Penny arrived. They crowded into the kitchen-dining room, eating sandwiches, drinking coffee, talking about a dozen things but not once mentioning crime.
Gideon gave crime hardly a thought when he got into bed beside Kate.
That was about the time that Borgman was kissing his wife and saying how sorry he was that he had been kept so late at a dinner with an American agent; and then, because it was on the top of his mind, he told Charlotte about the discovery that Ben Samuel had been swindling him.
"What a nuisance, dear," Charlotte said absently.
Borgman thought, with clinical detachment: "I wonder if I would have married her if I'd known what a witless fool she was?"
5. Argument
Rogerson, the Assistant Commissioner, had been on sick leave for nearly seven months, and back in the office for two; he was looking bronzed and well, thinner than before the leave, and perhaps a little less inclined to leave everything to Gideon, who had acted as his deputy during those seven months, as well as handling his own job. Rogerson was a brisk, pleasant, friendly type; a good-natured man, a little self-conscious because he had been away so long. Plumley, of the Yard's Legal Department and the chief liaison with the Public Prosecutor's office, was an elderly man who knew practically every trick in the prosecution's locker, and was an expert at picking out the flaws in a case; his motto was: When in doubt let them get away with it. He would put this into words, smiling as he did so, for he was an affable man whose geniality concealed excessive caution.
They met in the Assistant Commissioner's office, just along the passage from Gideon's, at ten o'clock.
"Well, George," Rogerson said, "I'll bet you a pound I know what you're going to recommend."
"So will I," said Plumley.
"Like me to write it on a piece of paper, and put it in a hat?" Gideon asked easily. "What's your view, A.C.?"
"I'm open to persuasion."
"More than I am," said Plumley. "George, only a lunatic would go ahead against Borgman on the strength of this." He rested a pink, well-manicured hand on a file of papers nearly two inches thick. "I've had everything checked and rechecked. If we could go to that Nurse Kennett, get a signed statement from her, and make sure we could put her in the box, I might be inclined to take a chance. But—"
"Never known you to take a chance yet," Gideon rejoined.
"Forgotten Fred Lee? Forgotten the Ditchburn case? We got two adverse verdicts, George."
"Nothing to do with taking chances," Gideon retorted. "You didn't prepare the cases properly."
"No use trying to needle me," Plumley said, and looked as if he even relished the thrust. "A.C., don't listen to him. He wants to go ahead with it regardless. I see from Appleby's report—and he's as shrewd a Yard lawyer as we've got—that he agrees with me. Borgman would get Richmond, and Richmond would tear this case to shreds. It wouldn't get past the police court."
Gideon said mildly, "I've been about myself quite a bit, Plum."
"We can all make mistakes."
"That's what I'm anxious about," Gideon said. He felt as if he were arguing with one of his sons, when they were just beginning to feel old enough to differ from him; it did not exasperate him, but made him feel stubborn and set on his purpose. Plumley was equally set against the Borgman case, and the more they argued the broader his smile would become, the nicer his tone, and the stiffer his opposition; at times he would become positively childish. Rogerson was really an unknown quantity; but if he said no, then Borgman could be forgotten unless new evidence was obtained, and Gideon had regained the feeling of urgency which he could not properly explain. "All this talk about not having a chance doesn't ring a bell with me," he went on. "We would have to prove murder, and could work two ways. In the first place there's the accident, so-called, and—"
"But that old woman said she was poisoned."
"The death certificate says that she died as a result of multiple injuries following a car accident," said Gideon. "So that's where we would start. We've some evidence that the brakes of her car had been tampered with; we know that a good lawyer could say that this was not with malicious intent, and that Borgman actually tried to improve the holding power of the brakes. The point we would need to prove was that he did tamper with them. If we can—"
"Steady, George." Plumley's smile was very bright. "In the first place, how can we prove he himself touched the brakes? And, in the second place, how could we prove malicious intent or intent to murder? That's the weakness all along; there are too many ways in which Borgman can wriggle out."
"Mind listening for a minute?" asked Gideon, with a deliberate touch of asperity. "We checked his garage and the chauffeur-gardener he used to employ, and they swore they hadn't adjusted the brakes, but expert witnesses said they had been adjusted."
"The same witness said there was a flaw in the metal of the brake drums," Plumley interpolated.
"The point is, the brakes had been tampered with, and Borgman was pushed for money at the time. We won't have any trouble in proving that. Then we have the fact that his wife was wealthy and the fact that she was three months' gone. We know from the terms of her own inheritance that a large proportion of her money would have to go to her child or her children. We can show that if a child had been born, Borgman wouldn't have been able to get anything like so much of her money. As it was, he got nearly half a million, the foundation of his fortune. There's motive enough, and there's the reason for the timing of the attempt."
"It could look good in a police court, I suppose," Plumley said grudgingly. "But once Richmond got on the job at the Assizes—"
"Plum, there are times when I wonder if you think you're talking to a lot of first-year recruits," said Gideon heavily. "If ever there's a job on which we'd have to use our big guns in the police court, this is it. We can only pull our surprises there; at the Assizes we'd be hamstrung. We need a definite plan of campaign—say, get the usual remand in custody at the first hearing, and be ready to put all our cards on the table at the second hearing, when they'd expect us to ask for another remand. Borgman will have to get Richmond in early to try to save himself from being sent for trial, anyhow. See what I mean?"
"You'd stand or fall on the police court hearing, would you?" Plumley was thoughtful.
"Yes. We'd work up the case on the accident, and have Richmond pulling out all the stops to demolish it. We'd say the brakes were fixed so as to caus
e an accident, although the motive is our weakness and Borgman's strength. I think—we all think—that Borgman found the manufacturing flaw, made it worse, and was able to sit back and let the coroner blame the manufacturer. We'll spend a lot of time on elaborating that, but won't be able to prove it, and nearly everything we build up Richmond will mow down."
"I won't deny that," interpolated Plumley.
"When he's made us look fools and put all the doubt he wants to in the mind of the magistrate, we'll come up with the morphine angle," Gideon went on equably. "We'll do a hush-hush exhumation, get a secret report, put Bolting up. Bolting's just the right pathologist to feed Richmond with when he thinks the case is going his way. We'll try to get that nurse back in time, but if we can't we'll work in the old woman's statement, which—"
"It would never be admitted," Plumley snapped.
"We can bring it out when asking the doctor who'll testify whether he knew this nurse. I've told you we know we haven't got a cut and dried case, so we've got to worry Borgman," Gideon insisted. "This will worry him badly. We want—"
"We don't even know there will be a lot of morphine in the remains, but everyone knows there'll be some," Plumley argued. There was evidence of strain behind his smile. "I don't want to appear unreasonable, George, and I agree that if we could get the Public Prosecutor to adopt these rather dubious tactics—"
Gideon broke in angrily, "What the hell do you mean—dubious tactics? What's the matter with you—the man's a killer, he may kill again, he's in the right position for it. We want to get a committal for trial and a conviction—and we won't get it by pussyfooting along as if we were scared of a Queen's Counsellor. What's the matter with you? Even if we lose the verdict and Borgman gets away with it, his present wife will be warned what to expect and he would never dare to try it again. That's the worst that can come out of it. And you talk about dubious tactics because I want to get a guilty verdict on a murderer! If that's the way you propose to advise the P.P.'s office, I might as well throw my hand in. I thought our job was to prevent crime as much as catch criminals."
Plumley had stopped smiling.
Rogerson's face was straight, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at Gideon, while Plumley stared down his plump nose.
After a long pause, Plumley said, "Well, if we do go ahead and come a cropper, don't say I didn't warn you. I won't oppose an exhumation order, if that's what you're really after for a start."
"If there's not much morphine we can forget it," said Rogerson. "If there is, we'll advise the P.P. to go ahead. Agreed, Plum?"
"Under protest," Plumley said. "Where is she buried?" He actually seemed to brighten up. "Or was she cremated? If Borgman really poisoned her, you'd think—"
"Her will directed that she should be buried," Gideon said. "She's out at Maidenhead. Borgman's flying to Paris tomorrow, and we can get everything done and the result known before he's back. If we find nothing he can protest if he wants to, if we find what I expect to find it won't matter what he does."
"Well, that's all the time we need spend on that," said Rogerson, as if with relief. "Now there's the Tiny Bray murder. You've got Syd Carter up this morning on a charge of attempted murder of the girl Gully, haven't you?"
"Over in NE Court, yes," said Gideon. "His brother will be in the same court, charged with the murder of Tiny Bray. There's no problem. We need a formal eight-day remand; then we can put up some of the evidence and have them both committed. Right, Plum?"
"For once I agree with you," Plumley said.
He was smiling, if a little tautly, when the conference broke up, just after eleven o'clock.
That was the time when Ben Samuel was standing in Borgman's office, white-faced, staring at Borgman as he lifted the telephone and said:
"Get me Scotland Yard at once—the Criminal Investigation Department."
It was Gideon's custom to go through all the cases being handled by his Department at least once a day, and to discuss the next move with the officers in charge, and, as often as not, with the Divisions. On conference mornings there was no time to do this, and he liked to leave it until the afternoon, although it was not so satisfactory, as many of the men whom he wanted to talk to would be out on the job. That morning, he made notes about what to do once the result of the exhumation was known, laid everything on with the Berkshire Police, who would visit the cemetery after dark tonight, but keep the exhumation as quiet as they could. With great deliberation, trying to make sure that every step was absolutely sound, he prepared the opening stages of the case against John Borgman. Occasionally, an uneasy thought obtruded: what would he feel if Plumley were proved right, and there were not sufficient traces of morphia? But there was no need to dwell on that.
Remembering Kate's upbraiding the night before, he went to lunch at a nearby pub, and returned to the office at a little after two o'clock. Chief Inspector Bell was now his chief aide, an elderly man by the Department's standards, in his middle fifties. He was a quiet, good-humored old trooper who knew almost as much about each job as Gideon, but who had always lacked Gideon's subconscious aggressiveness and sense of purpose. He looked sticky and warm as he sat at a small desk opposite Gideon's, the sun striking a corner of the window, and rippling on the river which was only a stone's throw from the room.
"Hallo, Joe," Gideon said.
"Had a nice nap, George?"
"Don't you start," said Gideon, and took off his coat, hooked it onto the back of his chair, loosened his collar, and picked up a thick file of reports. "Was that furrier raided?"
"No. Looks as if the Carters were planning that job."
"I've asked Christy to dig; he'll find out. Anything fresh in about Rachel Gully?"
"She'll have a week on the sick list."
"Staying home?"
"No—staying with some friends. Friends of a copper named Moss, if you ask me."
"Wouldn't be surprised. Any news from Australia?"
"Not a word."
"Bound to be, soon," Gideon said.
"Unless Borgman had the nurse bumped off," Bell said, and grinned.
"You're worse than Plumley."
"I had a word with Ellis, and he says Plumley got back to the office profaning the sacred name of Gideon."
"I can believe it. How'd that case go in Horsham?"
"The old man was committed for trial."
"How can seventy play around with seven?" Gideon asked himself, and was sorting through the reports in front of him, marking with a pencil those he would want to return to. "Fred Lee in?"
"Yes. Know what I'd do, if I were you?"
"What?"
"Give Fred a couple of months' sick leave."
"Not on your life. He'd apply for his pension before it was over," Gideon said. "Know what I'm going to do?"
"I've got a nasty idea. You're going to put Fred Lee onto the Borgman job, because this will bring him up against Richmond again."
"That's right."
The Chief Inspector said, "George, I know what's on your mind; you think if Fred can be on the winning side against Richmond, it will put him right on top of himself again. Don't forget the other possibility, will you? It might finish him off."
Gideon said, very slowly, "He's finishing himself off as he's going now, and if he went quickly after another shouting match with Richmond, it would be kinder."
"I hope you're right," Bell said. Then he gave his friendly and rather tired smile, and eased his damp, crumpled collar. "You usually are, I suppose. Tell you what came in just now, I haven't put it on paper yet: that Robson woman's husband turned up."
"Okay?"
"Under two feet of garden soil."
Gideon jerked up his head. "That a fact?"
"Would I pull your leg? In the garden of an empty house round the corner from his home. I've been talking to Ragg at HI. He says there's been talk that Mrs. Robson has a boy friend, and that's why she didn't trouble to report her missing hubby. If his employers hadn't forced the issue, we prob
ably wouldn't have known about it. Ragg's digging."
"What kind of hole?"
"When I said two feet, I meant it."
"Remember what the soil's like out at HI?" asked Gideon.
"Heavy clay—according to the report."
"Good thick clay. I know that spot," said Gideon. "And the description of Mrs. Robson is that she's about five feet three, and small."
"All right, all right," said Bell. "She probably didn't dig her husband's grave. George, did I ever tell you that I marvel at you?"
"Forget it," said Gideon, and marked another report, then glanced down at the one beneath it. He was aware that Joe Bell was behaving as if nursing some secret he found difficult to keep to himself; now he glanced up and saw the other man grinning. He looked down at the report again. It was in Bell's writing, and there was no doubt that it had been slipped into the middle of the pile so as to make sure that he did not see it at once. Bell had been able to savor the waiting period, getting a silent laugh every time he, Gideon, had turned over a report. To rob the other of his triumph, Gideon kept an absolutely straight face, but his heart was racing.
This was a report from the information room about a request from Borgman Enterprises, Limited, to investigate irregularities in a cashier's accounts: an invitation from John Borgman to make free in one part of his businesses.
Gideon looked up, and gave an expansive grin. Bell started to chuckle.
"A little bit of what you fancy does you good," he said. "I told Appleby to go over and stall a bit, just to size up the situation, and he's probably there still. It looks as if an old chap has been diddling them for years. Don't know very much about it yet, but it means we're right inside the sanctum sanctorum, so to speak, on Borgman's invitation. If he knew what you've been cooking up, he'd have a shock."