by J. J Marric
Reggie Cole had been enjoying himself that night, partly because of his love of engines and partly because Ethel would be here later. He now knew exactly what he was doing, and still had no compunction or regrets. He had stolen three cars, he had a hundred pounds tucked away, and he had been able to take Ethel to the places she deserved. She had a slap-up little flat, too, and her mother had gone away to the country. So far as Reggie Cole was concerned, everything was exactly right. The fact that there was some risk really gave an added zest to the situation, but he did not think seriously about risk. The day when he gave his mother a second thought was past, he told himself. He was on duty tonight, and had been told that at a sign from the man in the office he was to go quietly into the repair shop and raise the alarm.
Two men were busy in there, and he believed that they were simply doing overtime on cellulosing the stolen cars.
He had seen Lucy Sansetti go into the repair shop, and watched her for a moment. She was really something to look at, as dark as Ethel was fair, and with a heavier figure than Ethel's, but there was no doubt that she had the real statistics. She glanced round as she went inside, but he did not think she noticed him. When she had gone, he saw the paint shop door closed slowly on its hinges. It had not occurred to him to find out what was happening in the paint shop, or to wonder what the girl was doing there. It was none of his business, and he had a girl!
Then he had heard men approach, looked round, and seen the cashier in the arms of a big man while others hurried toward him; then the cashier had screamed, "Go and warn them!"
That was when Reggie realized that the big men were police.
He flung himself toward the paint shop, the door of which was ajar, and almost fell inside. One man was close to the door, without his mask. The other man, also without his mask, was standing with his arms round the girl, whose dress was off her shoulders and whose flesh looked startlingly white. Outside, men came rushing, and the man nearer Reggie rasped :
"Close that door!" He sprang forward and pushed his weight against it, and Reggie did the same. There was heavy pressure, and the door seemed to give way; with a heave, he and his companion closed it again. The girl was backing away from the red-haired man, but Reggie hardly noticed that; he was gasping with the effort to keep the door closed.
Then he heard the sound of the shot. He saw a man's hand appear near the ground and disappear. The weight pressing against him eased. His companion said, "Now we've got it," and they banged the door home. The man dropped a bar into a slot, securing it, and then backed away.
Reggie had turned to look at the other. That was the first time he had seen the red-haired man without his mask, and he recognized him on the instant: this was Red Carter, who had stolen the Black Maria, and whose name had been all over the newspapers. Red had a pistol in his right hand, and there was a queer, twisted smile at his lips.
"So you had to shoot him," the other man said.
"That door was nearly open. We wouldn't have had a chance," Red Carter declared. "Okay, Lucy, over to the side door. Syd, you got the gun ready?"
"Yes," said Syd Carter. "How about our little pal here?" He was looking at Reggie, who still stood by the door staring at them. There was a thudding sound at the door, as if a battering ram were being used, but even that did not muffle the sound of his own pounding heart. He knew that death was waiting for him, that these men would kill him without compunction if they thought that it would help them. Red was already backing toward the door, and the girl had reached it. Were they crazy? Didn't they realize that the police would be outside that door, too? The garage was bound to be surrounded. Didn't they—
"You for or against us, kid?" asked Syd Carter.
Reggie fought for words.
"I—I warned you, didn't I?"
"That's right, you warned us," Syd said. "Okay, you're for us. You'd better be. Go and open that side door."
"B-b-but the cops—"
"Never mind the conversation, just go and open it," Syd said. He was picking up a curious-looking machine, rather like a very fat rifle which had been sawn off close to the stock; he held it like a gun, too, one end against his shoulder. "Open it, and tell them you'll give yourself up, see? Just let 'em in."
"B-b-but—"
"You don't have to understand," Syd said.
The thudding on the big door was heavier and louder, but there was no sound at the side; it was as if the police wanted them to go out that way. Reggie felt an awful constriction at his throat as he went toward the door. Red was standing with his arm round the girl, who was shivering as if it were bitterly cold. Syd was pointing the fat "gun" toward the door. Reggie reached the door, his mind working fast despite his fears, and the sound of the shot echoing in his ears. Red still held the automatic; if he had shot one man, he would certainly be prepared to shoot others.
Red said softly, "Okay, kid. There are two cars outside, with one driver. You go for the black Austin, see, and Syd will come with you. I'll go for the Morris. You're a driver. All you've got to do is to drive Syd away and shake the cops off. We've plenty of places to hide; it will be as easy as kiss your hand."
Reggie gasped, "But they'll be outside!"
"Didn't I tell you they would be? And they'll come in. Like to know what will happen to them when—"
"Shut up," Syd said sharply.
Reggie saw the men exchange swift glances. He saw the gun in Red's hand rise. He saw it pointing toward him, and his breath was almost choking him when he gasped:
"All right, all right, I'll open it!" He threw himself at the door. It was bolted top and bottom, and there was a heavy iron bar dropped across it, to make it almost impossible to break it down. He pulled at one bolt; it slid easily. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the gun still pointing at him; and he saw Syd's, too; he had seen drawings of weapons like it, and suddenly he realized what it was: a flame gun.
When the police came in, Syd would burn them alive to get a chance to escape.
Red mouthed the single word, "Hurry," and the gun was covering Reggie's chest, while the thudding at the main door was heavier, and soon it would crash in. "Hurry!" Red mouthed again, and the third bolt came back, there was only the bar to lift. Reggie put his hands beneath it. It was very heavy, and not easy to shift. Reggie saw the two men standing on either side, and thought again of what would happen if the police streamed in. There were only a few minutes, perhaps only seconds, to spare.
He raised the bar.
He was sweating as if he were already roasting. He had seen what happened when flame guns were used, in pictures of army maneuvers. He got the bar free from its slots, and held it higher, almost shoulder high.
"Open the door," Red ordered.
Then the door was pushed against Reggie. There was a thud, as if the men outside had been waiting for this signal. He was pushed forward by the force of the movement, with the steel bar still in his hands. He saw each of the Carters ready to use their guns—and then something cracked inside him, and he knew that he could not allow this thing to happen. He hurled the bar toward Syd. Syd saw it coming and raised the flame gun toward him—and then the door crashed in.
As it swung back, the big door at the other side of the shop gave way.
Gideon saw everything that happened.
There was a gap between the double doors they had been trying to force. He saw the white-faced youth with the bar, Red and Syd with their guns, the girl by Red's side. One glimpse of the flame gun told him what they were planning, but the door behind the youth was already opening wider, and the police there would run right into that awful flame.
Then, the youth flung the bar.
Syd Carter swung the gun toward him, there was a hiss of sound and a wicked tongue of flame, but the bar caught Syd across the shoulder, and he staggered and nearly lost control. Gideon, first to get into the shop, hurled himself across. Syd Carter still held the flame gun, and was trying to regain his balance. The flame had died down but was still hissing, and any man
who got in the path of a single flare would have little chance of life.
Gideon saw Syd trying to swing it toward him; saw Red raising the automatic; saw Lucy suddenly strike at Red so that he lost his balance; and his own great hand struck Syd across the head, sending him flying and the gun clattering. Flame spat toward the floor, then snaked along the concrete a foot from Gideon, a yard from the boy.
Reggie Cole was sobbing. "I couldn't let them do it. I can't help if I was ratting on them, I couldn't let them do it."
"You did yourself a lot of good, son," Gideon said soothingly. "Just take it easy." He watched as Syd and Red, handcuffed to a powerful man, were being led out. Lucy was not handcuffed, but there was a man on either side of her. In the street there was the bustle of excitement, the inevitable sensation as the police closed in. It had not taken long, but he did not want to live through a minute like that again.
"You'll have to come along with us," Gideon said to the youth, "but you can have someone to see you at the Yard, if you like."
There were tears in Reggie Cole's eyes as he said hoarsely: "Could I—could I see my mother, please?"
"No, I won't be home until very late; you go to bed," Gideon said to Kate. There was excitement in his voice, and she knew that everything had gone well. "We got them cold, but there are a lot of things that ought to be done right away. Night, dear."
He rang off.
He was in his own office. The door was propped open, and there was a continual parade of men in and out. Records found at Mortimer's Garage led straight to most people in the Carter mob; thirty in all in the East End, another fifteen at garages which were all controlled by Mortimer's, one of which was owned by the Carters. Except for the anxiety about Wills, Gideon would have felt on top of the world. Wills was in the operating theater at Fulham Hospital, and word might come through at any minute.
When Gideon left for home just after one o'clock, word about Wilis had not come through.
When he woke at a quarter to seven next morning, there was still no news, and the fact hung over him like a pall, although he kept trying to convince himself that no news was good news. It was going to be a hell of a day. The second hearing of the charge against Borgman was enough in itself, and that could go on for anxious days, perhaps a week or more. Cuthbertson would leave nothing at all to chance, and Richmond would be ready to take advantage of the slightest weakness in the police case. Those prints might be the answer, but he didn't yet know.
Gideon left home at half-past eight, waving to Kate who stood in the doorway, her smile hiding her anxiety. The real cause of anxiety was that he could not concentrate enough on the Borgman case; this day of all days he wanted his mind clear, but there was now this nagging anxiety for Wills, the disclosures about the car thefts and the Carter brothers buzzing in his mind. This was a day when he would leave the routine to Bell, although he would be at the office first, and he ought at least to look through the general reports. He saw the half dozen or so cars parked near the steps, there was always plenty of parking room at this hour of the morning, nodded to the men on duty in the main hall, and sensed that the news about Wills's injury had reached them; it was always possible to tell when there was anxiety at the Yard.
He pushed open his office door, and there was Joe Bell, sitting at his desk, coat off, collar and tie undone.
"Morning, George."
"Hallo, Joe. You're good and early."
"Knew you'd have enough on your plate," said Bell glumly. "Negative cable in from Sydney, Australia. Delaney asked them to try Mrs. Hoorn but she just says she hasn't seen Borgman for years and doesn't want to. We've had it with her."
Gideon grunted, "Anything else?"
"Our famous racing tipster is on top of his form," Bell went on. "Hamm's sent in his report on the dot for once."
"He would choose this morning. Let me see." Gideon slipped off his coat as he went to Bell's desk and read over his shoulder. " 'Seventeen outsiders have come up in the past three weeks, as compared with an average of three a week over the whole country'—not bad, Joe, he's done quite a job. 'Normal proportion outside the Home counties'—hallo, what's this? 'Over the past three years, there have been periodic periods' "—he grinned—" 'when similar phenomena have appeared.' Hamm never could write a report. 'These occur at intervals of six to seven weeks and usually last for three to four weeks. There appears to be reason to believe that . . .' What he means is, it looks as if someone is pepping up outsiders, fixes a short period for it, and then drops it so that it isn't too obvious. Okay, tell him to keep at it. They were too late with the last one, so the next outsider to win ought to have a blood and saliva test, and it had better be kept up until we have all the evidence we need. I'll talk to the Jockey Club." He hesitated. "No, we'd better have the Old Man do that. I'll ask him to fix it." He made a note to tell Rogerson that he would like to make this recommendation to Scott-Marie. "What else is there?" He hoped desperately to have news that Borgman's prints had been found inside a compartment in the late Lord Alston's desk.
"Hoppy's been on the buzzer," Bell answered. "He says he thinks that Mrs. Robson knew all about Carslake killing and burying her husband, and he'd like to pull her in."
"He made a report?"
"No. He says he's afraid she might duck, and we don't want to give the Press another excuse for saying we're asleep."
"All right, if he's satisfied that we can make it stick, let him charge her." Gideon was studying the documents ready for the Borgman case, and then saw the report on the fingerprints inside the secret compartment.
"Still unidentified," it said; so they still hadn't got the evidence they needed. Gloomily, he read on. It was already nine o'clock, and the hearing would be on by ten-thirty; he wanted to have a full hour briefing himself. "Anything else?"
"Got a nasty job out at Chiswick, looks as if a sixty-year-old couple were killed by their only son, but it can keep," Bell answered. "Why don't you go into Rogerson's room? He won't be in this morning."
"Good idea." Gideon gathered up his papers, and asked almost casually, "Nothing in about Wills, I suppose."
Bell dropped his hands to his desk.
"Haven't you heard?"
"No," said Gideon, and felt his jaw going tense, fearing what Bell was going to say and hating it.
"Thought Mike O'Leary called you," Bell said. "Wills died at half-past five. That means the rope for the Carters."
Gideon gave one of his long pauses, and then said heavily, "Yes. Yes, it'll hang them all right." He knew that he had gone pale, and there was heaviness in his step as he went to the door. Wills had been really promising, one of the best of the younger men. In fifteen years' time he would have been a superintendent, or very near it. Last night he had been eager and on top of the world, aware that he had seized his main chance with both hands. One shot—and he was dead. He had a wife. He had two children, each under school age.
Gideon stood by the door, and asked, "Who's seen his wife?"
"Hoppy."
"Hmm. All right, Joe."
He went into the Assistant Commissioner's room, put a note on the secretary's desk in an anteroom, asking not to be disturbed, and spread out the documents in the Borgman case. It was at once simple and involved, and he examined every weakness he could see. At half-past nine, Fred Lee came in and was obviously edgy, while both of them seemed to be brushed by the shadow of Wills's death.
There was young Moss, who had done much the same kind of job as Wills. Funny how it worked out. If the Carters had really wanted to kill for vengeance' sake, it would have been Moss. As it was, Moss and the Gully girl would probably make a match of it, and Moss would get to the top—or nearly to the top. He hadn't the weight needed for this job, but Wills had had plenty; Wills was going to be hard to replace.
At ten o'clock, he said, "Okay, Fred, let's go."
As they drove along Regent Street toward Great Marlborough Street and the police court, they passed a tall, good-looking man wearing an overcheck jacket
and gray flannels: the outdoor type to perfection. He was going into a jeweler's. In his pocket was a small capsule of cortisone solution, similar to that used at Haydock Park only yesterday. He bought a tiepin that had caught his fancy, and left when Gideon and Lee had parked round the corner and entered the courtroom. He went to his flat, and had been in for hardly five minutes before the telephone bell rang.
"Kingsley speaking," he answered.
"How did it go yesterday?" Soames asked, without mentioning his name.
"Easy as ever," Kingsley said confidently.
"Good. We're going to lay off for a few weeks, but it won't make any difference to your salary. . . . No, nothing's wrong, we're just being careful. Come to the club in the usual way, and make sure you show yourself in the stables, it will be a good thing if you're around when nothing unusual does happen. Understand?"
"Perfectly," Kingsley said. "Thanks, old chap."
When he rang off, he lit a cigarette, picked up a copy of the Racing Calendar, and sat in an easy chair with his feet up. He felt that he was made for life.
16. Second Hearing
Gideon's presence in the court for a second time obviously caused a stir. The Fleet Street men present knew that it meant that he was committing himself, and although he might not give evidence, his name would be headlined more than Lee's, or any of the officers' involved. Every seat was occupied, every square foot of space was used. Gideon looked round, sensing the excitement and noting that by far the coolest person here was Clare Selby. Borgman's mistress sat next to Borgman's wife, who looked a little thinner and rather pale—as if she had deliberately not put on rouge and had used very little lipstick that morning.
The magistrate had dealt with two vagrancy cases, and conferred with the clerk in his usual rather ostentatious way. Gideon had an uneasy feeling that, without knowing it, Calahan might be biased in Borgman's favor. There was the anticipated throng of solicitors and barristers, a sight seen only occasionally at a police court, all conferring, all giving the impression that they were absolutely sure of themselves. Plumley was there, looking rather anxious, with other solicitors from the Public Prosecutor's office; Gideon had advised playing the prosecution on a soft pedal, and trying to get the defense to fire all the big guns.