Gideon's risk

by J. J Marric

  "Oh, I won't be as long as that," Rachel assured her.

  She put on a green lightweight coat, tossed back her hair, and went into the street of terraced houses which was now becoming familiar; but it was like a new world for her. These houses were all three stories high, and four times as large as the hovel where she lived with her mother. Every one was neat and tidy; each had a small front garden, most were freshly painted, all the windows shone, curtains were spotlessly clean, even the lampposts had been newly painted. The sun was shining almost directly above the rooftops, bringing out the colors in the late antirrhinums, the dahlias, and the asters. The wind was gentle and refreshing, and it gave her a strange feeling of contentment. She had never known such comfort or such kindliness as she had met with Mrs. Moss, and it was hard to believe that only a mile or so away her own mother was probably drinking gin, or leaning on a broom and talking to a neighbor, or waddling to the shops and trying to get groceries or meat on credit.

  She would have to go and see her mother soon, of course; but she would never go back home to live. She had made up her mind about that absolutely.

  She turned the corner. Just beyond was a short street of the same fine houses and, beyond, the High Street, with buses passing, traffic crowding, people thronging. Even the shops seemed bigger and brighter and crammed with more stock.

  She saw a small car parked near the High Street, facing her; saw a man leaning against the wall of a house and reading a newspaper, as a great number of men did in her own neighborhood. She had seen this man before, although she could not place him; and he did not appear to be taking any notice of her.

  But he was.

  He looked at her over the top of the newspaper, until she had turned the corner, and then he put the paper down and stepped into the kiosk. He dropped in his pennies, dialed, and waited, the cigarette dropping from his mouth like a little brown parasite. He listened for the dialing sound until, eventually, a man answered.

  "That you, Alfy?" he asked, and the browned cigarette bobbed up and down. "It's Jake here. . . . Yes, she's out. . . . All okay for me to do the job?"

  The man Alfy hesitated for what seemed a long time, then said, "Hold on, and I'll tell you," and put the receiver down in the little niche provided for it on the wall of the garage office. It was a small one, neatly kept, and, although many of the papers on the little desk were marked with oily fingers, there was no dust or dirt anywhere. Most of the papers were held down by sparking plugs, spanners, piston rings, and washers. On another, even smaller, table stood a typewriter with a chair pushed back from it, and a girl's hand-knitted red cardigan draped over the back.

  Alfy stepped into the repair shop behind the office.

  There were a dozen cars in various stages of overhaul, and in the next archway, marked Paint Shop, were five more, two of them being completely resprayed, one being touched up after an accident. Working with spray guns and wearing masks to keep their lungs clear of the sickly cellulose were three men—two of them a little taller than average. One of these wore a skullcap pulled right down over his head, so that not a vestige of hair showed; but he had a freckly skin of the kind that often went with red-haired men.

  Alfy went to him. The other, taller man stopped using his gun, and the only hissing now was in the far corner, where a younger man was working.

  "Red," Alfy said, "it's Jake."

  "So what?" Red Carter asked.

  "He wants to know if it's okay to do the job on Rachel Gully?"

  "Boy," Red said, in a very soft voice, "you can tell him he can make any kind of mess of her he likes. Sure, it's okay. If it wasn't for little Rachy we wouldn't be out on a limb like this, if it wasn't for—" He stopped speaking, as if the words were choking him, and there was a glint of rage in his pale, greeny-gray eyes. His right eye was swollen, where he had banged it while fighting the detectives in the Black Maria. He had been here for two and a half hours, and still felt edgy, still hated the slightest movement at the doors. His brother seemed to be taking things more calmly; he always had.

  "Okay, if that's the way you want it," Alfy said.

  "Hold it," interrupted Syd. "I don't know that—"

  "Stow it," Red said viciously. "That girl's a witness against me, the only witness. Get that? If she takes the stand she can put me away for a long time, but if she's in her box they won't have a real witness, and I can get away with mistaken identity on the murder rap. So don't try to hold anything up. The quicker it's done the better I'll like it. Go tell Jake, Alfy."

  Alfy looked at Syd, as if for confirmation. Syd shrugged, and turned away. He wore a cloth cap and overalls which looked as if he had been getting more paint on them than on the car. As Alfy disappeared into the repair shop, he said:

  "Why don't you stop worrying? They aren't going to catch up with us. We've a dozen places to go to, and there isn't anything to stop us now."

  "That so?" asked Red, and put back his mask and picked up the spray gun again.

  Alfy said into the telephone, "Okay, Jake, go ahead."

  "Yes," thought Rachel Gully, "it's a different world." She actually used the words to herself as she came out of a small grocer's shop, where an elderly man with a gray beard had treated her with a courtesy she had never realized existed. The shop was old-fashioned and rich with the smell of fresh-ground coffee. Next to it was a dress shop, rather like the one where she worked, and she found herself comparing prices; they were ten per cent or so more here, so it might be a good idea to shop nearer her own home. She passed a policeman, who glanced at her but appeared to take no special notice, and her heart missed a beat. As she went by, she smiled to herself, not knowing how her face lit up, for she had no need to be nervous of policemen, although all her life she had been taught to be.

  She went to a zebra crossing, and remembered the man leaning against the wall near the telephone kiosk. He wasn't there. She had never been so near real happiness. A motorist stopped to wave her over the crossing, and she reached the other side. As she passed one of several parked cars, she heard an engine start up, but she did not give the driver a thought. It was nearly four o'clock, and Cyril's mother liked her cup of tea at four. So she hurried.

  As she neared the corner, she heard a car coming behind her, but there was nothing alarming in that. She reached the corner and hesitated, looking round before she crossed this road. The car was on the other side and looked as if it were going straight on. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another man walking after her, and with a flare of alarm she recognized him as one of the Carters' men.

  She stepped into the road hurriedly—and heard the engine roar.

  She looked round, to see the car swinging toward her, and she felt sure of what was going to happen. She sprang forward in a desperate, despairing effort to save herself. The roar of the engine seemed deafening, she could almost feel the thud of the car against her body. She heard different sounds, as of a man shouting, a thudding, a shrill, high-pitched noise, a police whistle. Then she kicked against the curb, tripped up, and sprawled headlong in the road, with the car almost on her.

  She saw the face of the driver, his lips parted, his eyes staring, as if his fear was as great as hers. The whistle kept shrilling. The shouting grew louder. The car swung past her, and something seemed to snatch at her ankle, causing a sharp pain.

  14. Missing Men

  Gideon pushed an empty cup away from him as the telephone bell rang, picked it up and announced himself, and went on reading the top report of several that had come in during the afternoon. It was half-past four. He sat with his coat off, perspiring a little, but not consciously hot.

  "Mr. Hooper of ST Division would like a word with you, sir."

  "Put him through."

  "Yes, sir." Gideon finished reading the report, scribbled: Check with Northern Ireland, and then heard the broad Dorset burr of Hooper of ST. He tried to think of anything on in that Division, south of the river, which would warrant the call, could think of nothing, and thought gloomily th
at it must be a new job; Hooper wouldn't call him about a trifle. "Hallo, Sam," he said. "Don't you think I've got enough on my plate?"

  "Never known anyone up there to overwork yet," retorted Hooper. "Thought you'd want this at once, George. There was an attempt to run down Rachel Gully. You know, the—"

  "She hurt?" Gideon asked sharply.

  "Sprained ankle. A wheel took off the heel of her shoe."

  "Get the driver?"

  "No. It was a newly painted Hillman Minx, they're two a penny. Our chap watching the girl managed to distract the swine. If it hadn't been for that she'd be a goner. She says she's seen him before with the Carters, but doesn't know his name. I've got a call out for the car, and a description of the driver—he'd been seen lounging by a telephone kiosk earlier."

  "Did your chap get a good look?" asked Gideon.

  "Yes."

  "Can you spare him for an hour or so?"

  "I know, I know," said Hooper. "Will he come up and look through the Rogues' Gallery? Yes—want him right away?"

  "Please."

  "You'll have to pay him overtime. He's done his stint today."

  "You can afford that," Gideon said. "What's his name?"

  "Watson—George Watson."

  "Have him go straight to the Gallery. I'll lay it on," said Gideon. "Any tire marks, or anything?"

  "It's all being taken care of, and as soon as I've some photographs or anything else worth seeing I'll call you."

  "Thanks," said Gideon, and rang off; and heard Bell saying into another telephone:

  ". . . yes, in about half an hour, a man named Watson, from ST. Give him all the help you can." He rang off in turn, and said, "See, I'm learning to do what you tell me before it occurs to you. Well, you're right."

  "That's a change. What about?"

  "The tie-ups between the snatch of the Black Maria and the car thefts," Bell said, quietly. "It was all so slick. Only expert drivers could get away with it, and after this job we know that Red can lay on cars and drivers. A newly painted Hillman Minx fits, too—pity we couldn't get it and check the engine number to see if it was stolen." Bell was talking more freely than usual. "George, Red Carter's a bigger shot than I ever thought. How far do you think he really goes?"

  "It's just beginning to worry me, too," Gideon admitted. "Anything in about the men in the Black Maria?"

  "Bruises and shock, that's all." Bell found himself grinning.

  "You've got to hand it to them, George—they'd looked out the exact spot for the van. If it hadn't been for the tire marks it would have stayed in that warehouse for days."

  "I don't feel like handing anything to the Carters," Gideon said. He turned over a report, and found the next one was attached to a letter from the Surrey C.I.D. and headed Suspected Horse Doping. He skimmed the letter and the general details. "See this about the Epsom job?"

  "Yes. I could tell you the names of a dozen chaps who went down on the favorite on Saturday, George."

  "Daresay," said Gideon, and read aloud: " 'Running of Disc in the September Stakes exceptional and believed to be due to some kind of stimulant. . . . No indications of the usual drugs in blood or saliva except a faint trace of cortisone.' That's the latest pep dope for horses. How many outsiders have come up lately, Joe?"

  "There are always some," Bell said, "but I'm not a horsy man."

  "No." Gideon lifted a telephone. "Give me Mr. Hamm." He had not long to wait. "Hallo, Hamm, got anything for me at a nice long price?" Gideon asked, grinning. He paused. "You're right, the Derby and the Grand National are my limit. Have you noticed any exceptional number of outsiders coming in first lately, though? . . . Yes, I had a feeling I'd seen them in the headlines more than usual. Will you check through and let me know? The morning will do. . . . Tomorrow morning, not next week! Thanks." He rang off. "He says he thinks that there have been an abnormal number of outsiders at the courses near London. Chase him tomorrow, Joe—we'll be lucky if we get a report from him this week, but it's worth trying. Heard anything from Brixton?"

  "Nothing new," Bell answered, while making notes. "They're still sending food in to Borgman from the Gourmet; he's getting VIP treatment all right. Wonder what his wife is really thinking?"

  "I'm more interested in what Borgman's really planning," Gideon said, "and what Delaney's got out of that nurse. Nothing in?"

  "No. Tell you what did come in," Bell went on. "This blonde of Borgman's spent a lot of yesterday with Mrs. B. and Cuthbertson, at Mrs. B.'s flat. So they're not scratching each other's eyes out."

  Gideon said heavily, "Pity."

  Charlotte Borgman hardly knew what to think, and hardly knew how she felt. From the time she had heard of her husband's arrest, she had felt numbed; and when she had seen him in the dock, and heard him remanded in custody, she had felt as if her world was coming to an end. A simple, honest woman, she had never been inside a police court before, and that had helped to unnerve her; but there was also the awfulness of the charge, that John had poisoned his first wife.

  If he could kill one wife, what was there to prevent him from killing another?

  Emotionally, she rejected the very possibility that he was guilty, but every now and then a sliver of doubt crept into her mind, cold and frightening; would the police have made such a charge if they were not sure of themselves? The newspapers carried the hideous story all the time; she had read about the exhumation, and the fact that the arrest had followed soon afterward seemed to prove that the police had found what they had been looking for. Now that she was forced to make herself think, she realized how often John had been away from her in the past year or two. It was partly her fault; she was a poor traveler, always air- and sea-sick, even short car rides could be unpleasant; and she had her world of the fashion salons, her hairdresser, her beauty specialists, her bridge and tea parties, her gooey cakes and cream. She knew that she was putting on weight, but it was very gradual, and it did not occur to her that she had lost much of her attractiveness.

  Now, she began to wonder, and to study her face in the mirror of her luxury bedroom; study her figure especially and the rolls of fat at the waist, the extra heaviness at the breast and the hips when she stepped out of the sunken bath in a luxury bathroom. She had always admired the smoothness of her flesh, and liked the satiny feel of it beneath her hands, but in the few days since John had been arrested, she had begun almost to hate herself.

  And she had begun to hate Cuthbertson.

  At first she had turned to him as the only man who could really help her in this time of awful need, but there was a quality about him which she did not understand; he seemed to be trying to do something without telling her what it was, and he made it obvious that he had little regard for her intelligence.

  He had much more for John's secretary.

  Charlotte Borgman had met the girl several times, once in this Mayfair flat, with its main rooms overlooking Hyde Park and all the beauty of the countryside in the heart of London. Clare Selby had come with an urgent message, one afternoon when John had been off color and had not gone to the office. A thin, cold type, Charlotte had concluded, the antithesis of what she was herself, absolutely different from any woman who would appeal to John.

  This evening, she was expecting Cuthbertson and the girl to dinner. She could almost hear the solicitor's voice as he had said:

  "One of the essential things, Mrs. Borgman, is to establish the loyalty, the love and the honor of your husband and his absolute devotion to you. We have to show that it is utterly unthinkable that a man of his character could consider committing such a crime. That is very important indeed. We do not yet know whether this case will in fact be brought to trial, and I have hope—very sound hope—that we may be able to establish that there is no case to answer. One of the things to be established is your own personal friendship with Clare Selby."

  "Why?" Charlotte had asked flatly.

  "My dear Mrs. Borgman, you know how damaging scurrilous gossip can be, especially in a large organization wher
e there is a great deal of jealousy. We must make sure that there is no possible risk that your husband might be considered—what shall I say?—unfaithful even in thought. Miss Selby—Clare—is a very attractive young woman, she is his personal secretary, it has been necessary for her to make certain journeys with him."

  "And I didn't know," Charlotte had almost cried aloud.

  "That is not uncommon, but since she is a very able young woman, and was promoted quickly, there is jealousy at the office, and there might be imputations of an affaire. Nothing could be further from the truth, you know that as well as I do, but in a case of this kind it is not always possible to rely on the truth being established. The police are extremely vindictive. That is already obvious, since they have taken five years to bring this charge—if they had had good reason to believe John guilty, they would have brought the charge before. I am convinced that someone with deep malice has laid false information before the police, and that is the kind of factor we have to combat. So we must establish that you were fully aware of all the journeys that your husband made with his secretary, and it would be a very fine thing if it were made clear that you and Clare are great personal friends."

  But she had only met the girl casually.

  "The best way to establish that, I think, will be for us to have our discussions here, and for Clare to come and see you occasionally when you are on your own. After all, she is almost young enough to be your daughter!"

  Oh, dear God, so she was; and she was slim and she had that beautiful complexion and the clear, calm eyes. . . .

  Clare Selby arrived that evening a little after half-past six, ahead of Cuthbertson. It was a warm evening, and yet the girl looked immaculate and cool, without a hair out of place. She was wearing a model cocktail dress, too, and Charlotte had no doubt that it had cost nearer sixty than twenty guineas. Had she money of her own that she could afford such luxuries?