Gideon’s Sport g-1

by John Creasey

  “What is it?”

  “Have a word with- Sir Maurice Forbes, sir, and try to stop him from harassing us. We caught the Madderton bank thief, we’ve got most of the money back, and unless there’s some special reason not to, I’d like to treat that case as routine.”

  “I shall have a word with him,” promised Scott-Marie. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  Gideon rang off, relieved on two counts, and once more confirmed in his confidence that he could rely on Scott-Marie. It was now a little after twelve o’clock, and the Outdoor Events meeting should soon be over, unless Bligh made the oldest of all mistakes and went on too long. He rang for Hobbs, but there was no response. So the meeting was still on. He pulled the day’s reports towards him and had been going through them for five minutes when there was a tap at his passage door. He called “come in”, and the door opened and Chief Superintendent Thomas French of CD Division, which included Wimbledon, came in.

  Gideon had never been sure whether French cultivated his appearance to suit his name, or whether there was some remarkable natural coincidence. Whichever was true, he looked a Frenchman, with his dark, waxed moustache, rather blue jowl, thick-lensed pince-nez and suits cut so that shoulders and neck seemed to be part of one another. He was brisk-moving, and his accent was slightly ‘off’ the natural London Cockney and equally ‘off’ the natural Oxford. His appearance always suggested that he was trying to create the impression that, if he only cared to divulge it, he could tell a great deal that was known to very few.

  “Good-morning, Geo — Commander.”

  “Hallo,” Gideon said. “Come in.”

  Two or three men passed in the corridor, hence the sudden switch from the familiar to the formal. The door closed and Gideon shook hands.

  “Sit down, Tom. I had your note,” he added. “Is the meeting over?”

  “They keep throwing questions into the ring,” French answered. “That chap Bligh is quite a riot. Better switch him to public relations! As a matter of fact he’s covered much of the ground I wanted to cover about this bag-snatching lark,” he went on, obviously determined not to over-praise Bligh. “Pickpockets are getting so damned brazen they almost say ‘excuse me’ as they put their hands in your pocket!”

  Was this just a ‘for old times’ sake’ visit? wondered Gideon.

  “But there’s one thing I didn’t mention out there — you know what it is when you make a fool of yourself in front of a crowd. Don’t mind taking the chance with you.” French’s smile was quite ingenuous. “I’ve — er — I’ve got a young chap, constable, over in my manor. Chap named Donaldson, Bob Donaldson. Nice lad. Used to be a hairdresser, but it gave him hay-fever. The thing is . . .”

  He was talking too much because he was nervous, Gideon realised with a shock. It was a long time since he himself had been truly nervous of anyone and it amazed him that any man of his own age- should feel like this. He set himself to make the situation a little easier.

  “Want to give him a few months here?” he suggested.

  “Lord, no! I don’t want to lose him yet. He’ll be up for the C.I.D. before Jong and he’ll walk in. No, it’s not that, George. Fact is, he’s got a long memory and he used to work in Stepney before he joined the Force — learned his hairdressing there. He always thought his teacher, a woman named Triggett -Martha Triggett — was a fence for loot taken from the crowds. Since Wimbledon’s been on the go, he’s been on duty. He’s seen some of Martha’s old hairdressing and beauty-parlour pupils lifting stuff and putting it in cars or vans, and he says he’s sure she’s behind it. He hasn’t taken any action against individuals; just consulted me. And here am I, George, consulting you!”

  Gideon did not hesitate. “Tell Bligh this, and lay on a special watch this afternoon.”

  “Good as done,” French assured him. “Of course Donaldson may be crackers, but —” He broke off.

  “You wouldn’t be here now, if you thought he was,” said Gideon, drily. “All right, Tom. Thanks. Now I’ve got to be off to lunch. In the City,” he added, and picked up his hat.

  The special survey fitted in perfectly with Bligh’s hopes and plans. He had never been more confident, and all his old fears were gone.

  At a quarter-past three that afternoon, Barnaby Rudge stood at match point in the fourth and what should be the final set of his second round match. His opponent, a young Australian with a lot of promise, had not really been a match for him, and the temptation to let loose his service just once was almost overwhelming. He controlled the impulse, tossed up the ball, and was about to strike when he heard a man call in a clear,• carrying voice: “Go home, nigger!”

  He faltered, and the ball dropped, He did not strike. The umpire called: “No service.”

  Barnaby was suddenly on edge, every nerve in his body set a quiver. That call had come so utterly out of the blue. But now he was ready for anything. He wouldn’t miss this time, even if the man shouted again. He had to clench his teeth and at the moment of impact between strings and ball, the man did shout again: “Go home nigger!”

  Barnaby served. The ball hit the top of the net, hovered, and fell back.

  Someone cried: “Keep quiet!” Another man called angrily: “Who was that shouting?”

  “Second service.”

  Now, Barnaby was trembling from head to foot; a curious, tension-quiver which came from shock. He had been so superbly confident, had not realised how much he was living on his nerves. He let his second ball slide into his fingers, ready to toss it up. He was oblivious of the crowd, as such: did not see the people looking this way and that, seeking out the offender. He served, at half-speed, and the Australian drove into the right-hand corner, passing him.

  “Deuce,”

  He crossed over, and wiped his forehead. There was tumult inside him, coupled with a slow-burning anger; and Barnaby Rudge was a stranger to anger. He drew up to serve. There was no call, nothing to put him off except the fact that his concentration was shattered. He served, with greater ferocity.

  “Go home, nigger!”

  The Australian, covering the service, struck high, and the ball hurtled off the edge of the racquet into the net.

  “Advantage, Rudge.”

  “I’ll wring that swine’s neck!”

  “Who the devil is it?”

  “Can’t anyone stop that man calling out?”

  “Hush!” a woman shrilled.

  Barnaby served in the hush which followed, but there was bedlam in his mind — as if a hundred things were whirling round and round, wildly out of control. The service was good, but not nearly an ace. The Australian played over-hard, and the ball passed Barnaby and went over the baseline.

  “Game, set and match to Rudge.”

  The bedlam was still in his head, but now there was something else: a deep-throated roar of cheering, which seemed to lift his spirits and send them soaring. The lightness of heart put spring into his legs and he ran to the net. The Australian greeted him with a warm smile and a firm handshake.

  “I hope you reach the final!” he said.

  Barnaby Rudge’s heart was nearly singing. Now, he was aware of the cheering crowd; aware that they were as enthusiastic for a good loser as they were for him. He put on his sweater, picked up his racquet, draped a towel round his neck and walked off the court with the Australian. A girl pushed her way through; pretty, grey-eyed, freckled, with an accent that Barnaby did not know was Scottish. She flung her arms round the Australian.

  “Oh, Bruce,” she said. “I’m so very proud of you!”

  Of a good loser, Barnaby presumed she meant. The happiness in the girl’s eyes touched him with a gentle glow.

  The cheering increased as he and his opponent ran. on, and he saw a young woman in the Royal Box. “Bow!” the Australian breathed in his ear; and as he paused to bow, awkwardly, he saw the young woman smile acknowledgement. Then he ran on into the men’s changing-room. No one, here, knew what had happened. Dozens
of men were changing, two or three coming or going, naked, to the showers.

  Barnaby showered, dressed and went out, the glow spoiled only now and then by a recollection of that high-pitched: “Go home, nigger.”

  He did not want to think about it because it made his nerves shiver whenever he did. He must drive the recollection away, he would not think about it. But trying to dam those thoughts was like trying to dam a torrent. That it should happen here! In England! At Wimbledon! Oh, for heaven’s sake, it didn’t. matter . . .

  He went out by the main entrance, and stood at the top of the steps. A roar of applause came from the Centre Court, behind him to his right; another from Court Number Three. For a few seconds, he just stood there; hearing, seeing, absorbing — oblivious of that stunning, tainted moment, lost in a still-incredible enchantment.

  This was the Wimbledon of his dreams, and, much, much more beautiful than ever he had imagined. In the distance, soaring above the unbelievable green of these English trees in young leaf, a church spire glowed dove-soft in the warm sun: like a blessing. To the left, the Members’ Enclosure was a walk among roses: more like some private garden than a club. And over all, the attentive hush and intermittent roaring of the crowds, who stood so patiently round every court. He would never recover from his surprise that there were no stands, no seating at all, at most of the courts. But then, why should this place conform in any way to other, more accepted norms? There was only one Wimbledon in the world, and he would not have it any different.

  It was such a perfect day to be here.

  Even the busy refreshment stalls seemed strangely quiet, as if the heat somehow muffled all sound and movement. It was a pleasant, almost homely, and yet idyllic scene.

  Another burst of applause came from the Centre Court, and he wondered who was playing. He had to pass along there to get to the meadows which were used as parking places: he had left his machine in one of the nearest.

  Then, suddenly, he saw a man who looked like the one who had shouted: “Go home, nigger!” And in a Sash, his exaltation dispersed, and gloom replaced it. For that to have happened here, at his beloved Wimbledon!

  Instinctively-knowing the only way to forget, the only way to salve his injured spirit, was to practise his service: practise it until he dropped — he increased his pace. All he wanted, now, was to get to that secret court at The Towers.

  He saw several men about the park, three of them close to his motor-scooter. But he did not give them a second thought until he was astride it. Then, very slowly, three of them converged on him, and suddenly he realised what they were here to do.

  For a split second he was thunder-struck. Then, with the nearest man only three yards away, he leapt off his machine and backed towards a car; lessons learned bitterly in his youth now racing through the years to help him.

  Then the first man struck at him with a stick or bar, and the full horror of his purpose flashed through Barnaby’s mind. If he took one such blow on his serving arm, he had no chance at all to win the crown. He jerked aside, desperately — and somewhere, a whistle shrilled out. For a split second, he thought these men had sent for others: that he had no chance at all. Then they turned away and began to run!

  He could not believe his eyes. The whistle shrilled again and Barnaby saw a policeman in the far corner, helmet high above the sun-brightened roofs of the cars, a whistle at his lips. His relief was so great that for a moment, he went limp. Then, as he started shakily forward, he struck his left leg on the bumper of a car and crashed down, instinctively thrusting his right shoulder forward to take the weight of the fall.

  The first thing he felt was the sharp pain in that shoulder and in his shin.

  The second was near-panic, because of the shoulder. He was deaf to the shouting, the shrilling of whistles, the pounding of feet. He was simply filled with blind panic at the unbearable shattering of his dream. Because he could not use that shoulder again for days: the precious, vital days.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Despair

  Police Constable Donaldson was in that particular car park because he suspected that the pick-pockets and bag-snatchers used two or three cars in the park, near the direct entrance from the courts, to stow away their loot. He was still in a flush of satisfaction because Superintendent French had told him that his report was being taken seriously and he was to see Chief Inspector Bligh later in the day. Meanwhile, French had pointed out, if he could find more evidence against Martha Triggett, then the stronger his case and the better his chances of transfer to the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Donaldson’s attention had first been aroused by the frequency of the visits to that particular car park during playing-hours. People came in late, often enough; but few, once they were at Wimbledon, left early. While keeping watch, he had noticed three different youths and two girls go up to one of three cars, open the boot, put something in, close and lock it, and return to the courts area. There were always hundreds of people moving about, going from one court to another -drawn by rumours of a close match or of a personality, or of trouble — so the pathways were always thronged.

  What they do, Donaldson reasoned, is go and take a wallet or what-have-you and unload it into the car. Then, I’ll bet, someone comes and takes the stuff away.

  He had been there at that particular time, standing behind a. big, old-fashioned Rolls-Royce which gave him fair cover, to watch the three cars he believed were being used as a temporary cache. He had seen the four men come into the park and although he had recognised none of them, there was something in their manner which had made him suspicious. The way they looked around, for instance; the way they gathered in a kind of cordon, and waited — for what? His first suspicion was that they were car thieves, here on a lightning raid: but there was nothing hurried about what they were doing.

  Then he had seen a tall negro coming across the park, and had noticed the way the waiting men tensed. The young negro had made his way to a motor-scooter and the policeman had looked from him to the four men. He did not fully understand; did not realise what was going to happen — until three of them began to approach the negro menacingly. And in the instant that one man struck with savage force, P.C. Donaldson blew his whistle.

  Within seconds, other police were hurrying to the scene as the four attackers fled. Once they reached the crowded pathways, there was little chance to catch them, and all four got away.

  But Chief Inspector Bligh, who had heard the alarm, had caught sight of one of the fleeing men. And he had no doubt at all that it was Sebastian Jacobus, the well-known Right-wing troublemaker and a ring-leader in the agitation against immigrants living in Britain.

  Gideon’s lunch, with two prominent bankers who wanted to discuss general security for bank transport, was useful, but there was little he could promise. He would have to ponder deeply, as well as contact the City of London police and other forces in the Home Counties. As he left the City restaurant, close to the stark, new Barbican and mellowed St. Paul’s, he saw a coloured bus conductress, and his thoughts flew to Juanita Conception. The lunch hadn’t lasted too long, and he could just fit in a visit.

  His driver ventured: “I had a bet with myself that you’d go to the hospital, sir.”

  Gideon grunted.

  Ten minutes later, he went into a small ward, where the girl was dozing. He half-wished he had not bothered her, for she was so obviously under sedation that the name ‘Gideon’ did not seem to mean anything to her. He murmured a few platitudes, and left, carrying a picture of her young face and the huge pad on her lips.

  Once back at his office, he felt glad that he had been to the hospital. Such visits were never a waste of time. He had begun to look through some papers when Bligh telephoned.

  The note of excitement in his voice was very noticeable as he reported.

  “Quite sure it was Jacobus you saw?” asked Gideon.

  “Positive, sir,” said Bligh.

  “And they attacked this American just after he’d co
me off the court?”

  “About half-an-hour afterwards, sir. And there’d been an incident when he was on the court, during his match. Just as he was at match point, a man in the crowd shouted out ‘Go home, nigger! I — er — happened to be there.”

  “What happened?” demanded Gideon.

  “Well, a rather fine thing, sir,” Bligh told him. “He was playing young Bruce Hamilton, one of Australia’s most promising young players. Hamilton obviously heard the baiting, and threw away two points. He was outclassed, mind you -this chap Rudge is a very powerful player. But his nerve was badly shaken and Hamilton might have turned the tables -very sporting gesture, it was. Afterwards — it’s a bloody shame — young Rudge fell and hurt his shoulder. It’s probably going to make him drop out and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d beaten some of the top seeds.”

  “Pity,” Gideon grunted. “Bad enough if he’d just had an accident.” He was sifting through some papers on his desk and couldn’t find what he wanted. “Hold on, Bligh.” He pressed a bell for Hobbs, who came in at once. “Alec, I read something about Sebastian Jacobus today, he met a — ah! I’ve remembered. Wait a minute, Alec, will you?’’ He spoke into the telephone again: “Jacobus has cropped up in another job -we’ll find him and talk to him, but you concentrate on Wimbledon. How are things going on the pick-pocket front?”

  “Not much doubt about what’s happening, sir-and Donaldson’s right,” Bligh answered. “It’s a very well-organised business. If I could come and report in the morning —”

  “All right,” Gideon told him. “Ten-thirty.” He rang off and looked up at Hobbs, half-smiling. “How did Bligh do at the meeting?” he asked. A

  “He was brilliant,” Hobbs said simply.

  “H’mm. Watch him — we don’t want this to go to his head. He’ll be here at half-past ten tomorrow.” Gideon sifted through his notes: “Here’s what I want — Jacobus and John Spratt were seen in a huddle at the R.A.A. Club, this morning — no, yesterday.” He frowned. “And Charlie Blake died after telling Lem there was something being rigged over the Derby. And Lem certainly thinks Jackie Spratt’s are involved. What about those two Americans — Colonel-something-Hood and Thomas Moffatt?”