Gideon's Day

by John Creasey

  Now he was back on his own native ground; in the narrow streets, among the towering warehouses, within sight of the silent river and the silent docks. Some kind of homing instinct had brought him here, after the sickening failure to get clear away on less familiar ground. He knew every inch of this, every hiding place, every hole and cellar; and he now tried to believe that he had more chance to save himself here.

  He did not know if he was being closely watched.

  He tried to persuade himself that this was his lucky night; the police car had saved him, he’d seen Lefty just in time, he’d beaten the Snide. But there was something else which filled him with terror. He’d left the Snide writhing in pain on the ground, where the police would pick him up. That would fill the others, especially Ali and Lefty, with a vindictive hatred.

  He’d hurt one of the gang; in a way, had shopped him. Now it was more than a job for money, it was a vendetta.

  In this narrow street, it was very dark. That worried Birdy more than anything else. There should be a light on, jutting from a warehouse wall. Had it been broken? Had Ali put it out, so that he could confuse the hunted man?

  Birdy moved quietly toward a corner. Round it, there was the ruin of a warehouse destroyed by fire; it was no use as a hiding place because it was the first spot where the others would look. But beyond the warehouse was a church.

  Birdy worked his way toward this.

  He knew the church, as everyone did, but he had never been inside. He knew people who had; among them his daughter, before her death. He knew the elderly vicar whose chin was always on his chest as he walked about the parish, as if the dirt, the squalor, the crime, the vice, all the evil incarnate in man and so visible there, had weighed him down and sickened him, so that he served God only on sufferance and with a heavy heart. Birdy also knew the curate by sight, a spindly, unimpressive young man with a pointed nose, already a victim of catcalls and stink bombs, a man likely to be led a hell of a life in his parish.

  Birdy was very near the church. He had only to pass the ruins of the warehouse to reach it.

  He had been hunted before, but never like this, never to feel in deadly danger. That was why he saw the church as a very different thing; he saw it as a sanctuary, for no one would expect him to go there.

  It offered him life, and it was only a few yards away. The doors would be open, as always. No ordinary criminal would go in and break open the offertory boxes; that was a crime which only perverts committed.

  There was a yellow light at one window, at the far end of the church.

  Birdy wondered who was mere.

  He reached the yawning entrance to the ruined warehouse, and as he did so, a figure leaped at him.

  It came from the warehouse: a dark figure with arms raised, like a great bat. There was a sliding sound, a deadly rush of footsteps. Birdy knew that they had him; both of them were here. His terror seemed to explode inside him.

  He screamed.

  He leaped forward and kicked against an outstretched leg and pitched forward. The fall drove the wind out of him. He banged his head so painfully that tears stung his eyes. He heard the thudding of his own heart, which was swelling and pounding with great fear. He saw pictures: Ethel, Murphy, Gideon, Ethel; Ethel.

  He felt the sharp, searing pain of razor cuts in his cheeks; another in one wrist.

  He felt a man kneeling on his back, knee grinding into the vertebrae, agonizing, and enough to break his back. But he couldn’t think about that, only about razors and knives. He tried to twist round, but couldn’t.

  Suddenly, he felt the pressure relax.

  That was only for a moment.

  Lefty, the bottle artist, caught Birdy’s right wrist, twisted him, and turned him over so that he now lay on his back. He stamped his heel into Birdy’s stomach, so as to paralyze him. Birdy felt hands at his wrists, pinioning him to the ground. These hands belonged to Ali, and they were coming for his face; his throat…

  Unbelievably, the pressure at his wrist relaxed.

  The awful thrust didn’t come.

  He heard other sounds, gasping, thudding, grunting. He realized that men were fighting, and thought that the police had come again. He rolled over, but couldn’t get up; his back felt as if it had been broken.

  He groaned and sobbed.

  Then he heard the engine of a car, and although his eyes were only open a fraction of an inch, saw the swaying beams of head lamps. Had he been able to see properly, he would also have seen Lefty reeling back against the warehouse wall, and Ali and another man locked together, gasping and struggling.

  He did not recognize the spindly curate.

  The police car screamed up, men jumped out, a door slammed, a police whistle blew.

  Every instinct Birdy had was to try to get away, but he could not even roll over. He was vaguely aware of footsteps and of a man running. Then came sharp, authoritative voices; next, sharp metallic sounds – the click of handcuffs. A man bent over him, and the light of a torch fell into his face.

  “Better get a doctor,” said the man behind the torch.

  “You take it easy, Padre,” said another man gruffly. “I’ve radioed for an ambulance.”

  Birdy didn’t know …

  Lefty had escaped, but Ali was handcuffed and already inside the police car. The ambulance was on the way. The unhappy curate of the church had saved Birdy’s life, and risked his own; the news of that would spread, his stature would rise; he might be hated but he had a chance to win respect.

  Birdy just didn’t know any of this.

  He lost consciousness before the ambulance arrived, and while the policeman was giving him first aid for nasty cuts in his wrist and cheeks.

  Gideon, looking solid, stolid and unimaginative, was still in the waiting room with Lemaitre, but he knew that it was virtually a waste of time. Mazzioni had not said a word that mattered. Occasionally he said “no” to a leading question, but the main burden of what he had said was simple: he wanted a lawyer.

  He’d been charged with complicity in the Waterloo raid, and had every right to legal representation.

  The AC, behind that window, might now have some idea of the frustration that the law itself created for the police. They had a man they were quite sure was guilty of a crime of violence and of highway robbery, and all they could do was ask him questions; there was no way to make him answer, no way to get past that silent, sullen front.

  Then a sergeant came in.

  “Can you spare a moment, Mr. Gideon?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Outside, sir, if it’s convenient.”

  “All right,” Gideon said. He looked at Mazzioni, who was sneering up into his face. The Italian’s fingers were stained dark brown with nicotine, but he hadn’t tried to take out cigarettes, and Gideon hadn’t offered him one. Gideon had an intuitive feeling that he was looking at someone really evil: one who could kill and maim remorselessly, who seemed to have no redeeming feature. Nothing in Mazzioni’s manner suggested that he was worth a moment’s compunction; or a cigarette.

  Gideon went out.

  The A.C. was coming out of the room from which he had been watching, and the sergeant glanced at him, then back at Gideon.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a Mr. Ledbetter at the main hall, asking for—er—Mr. Mazzioni. He asked whether it’s true that Mazzioni is on a charge, and insisted on seeing you personally, sir.”

  Gideon echoed: “Ledbetter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmm,” said Gideon heavily. “All right, tell him I’ll see him in a few minutes.” He waited for the man to walk briskly along the corridor. “Well, they didn’t lose much time, did they?”

  “Who?” asked the A.C.

  “Ledbetter’s already done two jobs for Chang, or friends of Chang,” Gideon said. “I don’t trust him an inch. Hard to say why. Good solicitor, done some first-class work; until a year or two ago there was nothing rumoured against him, but now – how did he get to know about
the arrest, unless Mazzioni has friends who passed it on? That’s what I’d like to know more than anything else. How did Ledbetter get to know?”

  The A.C. didn’t speak.

  “Can’t stop him from seeing the Italian,” Gideon went on gloomily. “I could stall, but it’d be a waste of time. Better let them meet. There ought,” added Gideon with feeling, “to be a law against allowing accused and his solicitor to have a tete-a-tete.”

  He looked and sounded tired and disappointed.

  He was much more disappointed, twenty minutes later, when he heard about the “alibi.” More; he was angry, feeling quite sure that the alibi was faked. He sensed a hidden nervousness in Ledbetter’s manner, too.

  He could have used an alternative charge, of being in unlawful possession of dangerous drugs, but he didn’t; he could hold it over Mazzioni’s head, and it might help in the next day or two. Mazzioni, “cleared” of the mail-van job, was better free to meet his cronies than on a charge.

  Gideon tried to bluff by holding the Italian for the night.

  “I take the strongest exception to that,” Ledbetter said decisively. “There is nothing to prevent you from asking the witness whether she can offer supporting evidence, and if she can, then it’s up to you to check it at once. My client was miles away at the time of the crime you’ve charged him with. I’m. sorry you’ve made a mistake, but I’m more sorry for my client than I am for you.”

  Gideon looked at him thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know whom I’m most sorry for,” he said. “Yet.”

  Ledbetter coloured… .

  When he and Mazzioni had gone, the A.C. looked in on Gideon, approved the decision to holdover the dangerous drugs charge, and asked: “Think you can make Mazzioni crack in time?”

  “Dunno,” said Gideon frankly. “More than anything else, I want that dancer Estelle.”

  “Any news?”

  “Not yet,” Gideon said.

  The A.C. went off, as glum as Gideon, and Gideon sat back and studied transcripts of Mazzioni’s statements, and the record of the woman who’d given him an alibi. He wanted to talk to her, but—

  Before he could even think about visiting her, he had to check what reports were coming in. He hadn’t yet heard about the night’s biggest job, at the Mid-Union Safe Deposit in the City.

  17. The Biggest Job

  Every part of London had known its moments of crisis that night, every Division received its urgent call for help. The placid men in the Information Room had taken call after call to 999 without fuss, quietly reassuring agitated callers, extracting the necessary information, passing it through to the Flying Squad, the patrol cars or the Divisions for action.

  The Yard seemed more alive by night than by day.

  The reports were on Gideon’s desk, in a thick sheaf of notes written in a bold, legible hand and a welcome economy of phrase; and the sergeant stood looking at Gideon as if he hoped the Superintendent would make a favourable comment.

  There were the burglaries: dozens of them. Attacks on women alone in the streets, smash-and-grab jobs, two club raids with fifty-seven names taken. Great Marlborough Street was overflowing with the so-called flower of the aristocracy, most of whom took a raid on a gambling club for a joke, or pretended to.

  There was the inevitable crop of charges of soliciting; there were two men accused of attempting to murder their wives. One was still belligerent after being stopped from thrashing his; the other was cowed and frightened, so much so that it was hard to believe that he had ever been brandishing a knife, as if ready to kill.

  Three men had been picked up in the Occident Hotel for passing sludge, or forged money. A man who had already served two sentences for fraud was held on suspicion of trying to earn his third sentence; crimes of all kinds and all varieties were committed in the few hours that were left of Gideon’s day, but there was only one which held dynamite.

  The note read: “City Police glad if you will call them, suspected burglary Mid-Union Safe Deposit.”

  “Oh-ho,” grunted Gideon.

  He skimmed through the other notes, and then the telephone bell rang. The sergeant could have answered it, but Gideon’s hand was already on the smooth black surface.

  “Gideon here.”

  He listened… .

  “Are you sure?” His voice rose, his face brightened!

  “Oh, that’s fine,” he said. “How badly hurt? … Well, he’ll get over it. Tell his wife, won’t you?” He rang off, and looked up at the door as it opened, and Lemaitre came in, very subdued. “Thought you’d gone home,” he said.

  “Daren’t,” said Lemaitre gloomily.

  Gideon chuckled.

  “What’s pleased you?” demanded Lemaitre. “The last I saw of you, you looked—”

  “They’ve picked up Birdy.”

  “That so?” Lemaitre brightened. “Okay?”

  “Cuts on his right wrist and cheeks, and some nasty bruising on his back and stomach, but an X-ray showed nothing to worry about,” said Gideon. “They got Ali, too.”

  “You mean that little lascar swine?”

  “He’s being held – was caught with the knife on him and in the act of using it. Actually a curate over there stopped it, young chap who’s new to the district.”

  Lemaitre whistled.

  “If he hadn’t been new, he wouldn’t have interfered! Ali would have knifed him as soon as look at him. That’s a bit better, anyhow. We’ve still got the chance of getting somewhere through the Snide and Ali. One of them will probably squeal, and if we could tuck Murphy away for a few years it would be something. What do you think of that crook, Led—”

  “Okay, sergeant,” Gideon interrupted, “I’ll call you when I want you. Thanks – very good job.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The sergeant hurried out.

  “Hell, what would it have mattered if I had told him what I thought of Ledbetter?” growled Lemaitre. “And to think what I’ve done for this night’s work – proper mucked things up with Fifi. If you’d seen the way she looked when I told her I had to stand her up.”

  “Go home, wake her up, and tell her you love her,” said Gideon, “and blame me for standing her up.”

  “Strewth!” exclaimed Lemaitre. “It’s bad enough when I wake her if I just get home late. Anything much in?”

  “The City chaps want me,” said Gideon. “Some trouble at the Mid-Union Safe Deposit. Better call them.” He stifled a yawn. “And then come hell or high water, I’m going home.”

  He felt flat again as he spoke. The temporary stimulant of the news about Birdy had faded in fresh gloom about Mazzioni. Ledbetter’s part depressed him, too; there were plenty of unreliable solicitors, but they didn’t grow on trees. Few of them were crooked for the sake of it; usually they drifted, some were blackmailed.

  “I wouldn’t mind a bit of action,” Lemaitre said. “Got anything?”

  He really funked going home.

  “Go and see this woman,” Gideon said, and tapped the card with the name and address of Mazzioni’s ‘alibi’. “Try to shake her about where she was and who she was with this afternoon.”

  “Ok”, Lemaitre promised.

  Gideon called the City police.

  Earlier in the evening, the night staff of the Mid-Union Safe Deposit Company had settled down to the usual quiet night’s work. Most of this would be keeping records. There would be some business in the early hours of the morning, when the really sensible, who had taken out jewels for wear, brought them back instead of taking them home. That “rush” would last for an hour, and after it there would be nothing until the morning staff took over. Only three men were on duty; a fourth, usually present, was on sick leave.

  Three could cope.

  The building of the Mid-Union Safe Deposit Company was a large stone-faced one, in narrow Wattle Street, and was sandwiched between a block of offices let to a hundred different firms – from lawyers to tea brokers, rubber merchants to shipping companies, accountants and insurance b
rokers – and the head offices of one of the largest insurance companies. Mid-Union actually owned the building, but let off the ground and upper floors, retaining a basement level. The entrance was through Wattle Street and past a wide doorway which was protected, when necessary, by a strong steel door. This was always open.

  No one could step through the doorway without sending two warnings through to the officials on the floor below; one warning was electric, the other was by secret ray; neither rang a bell, but each flashed a light which would be seen at once by the men on duty.

  These were behind a strong grille, heavily protected, and entrance could be gained only through a small doorway which was kept locked and unlocked for every fresh customer. No customer was allowed in the vaults by himself – neither the one at first level, where the more frequently needed deposits were stored, nor the deep vault. An armed official always accompanied him. By night, it was sometimes necessary to keep customers waiting, but if they wished they could drop their packets into a night safe – much on the bank system – and this would be put in a community safe until they came to put it in their own box.

  The staff took the daily and nightly handling of valuables for granted. On really busy days, a million pounds’ worth of precious stones would be brought in or taken out, and no one thought twice about it.

  Except Fitzroy …

  About the time that Gideon had finished his dinner, one of the three members of the staff had gone into the bottom vaults, to check some entries. That was regular enough, and he should be gone for about half an hour. In fact, he was longer. Neither of the others was worried about this, for some jobs were difficult to estimate.

  All the men on duty carried guns, but in the forty-nine years of its existence, the Mid-Union had never had an attempted robbery. This did not make anyone careless; the warning system was perfect, and each night-duty official was trained in the use of his gun; They were selected men with brilliant war records. No one over forty-five was employed by night.

  The big general office behind the reception desk was empty by night, too.