Thugs and Economies (Gideon of Scotland Yard)

by John Creasey

  “Without noise?” The master’s voice was very hard. “With noise, he blow up my ship. Without noise, can you do it?”

  One man, shutting himself away, could defy a small army of police.

  One man, serving behind the counter of a grocer’s shop, looking and smiling at three small children who had come in with their mother, was being sought by another army of police.

  And in the flat overlooking Hyde Park, Keith Ryman and Rab Stone were arguing about the best way of doing what they set out to do.

  10

  THE PLOTTERS

  Ryman was lying on a luxurious couch, placed in the window overlooking Hyde Park, and his feet were up at one end. Stone sat on the arm of an easy chair, close to him. Both had glasses in their hands; only Stone was smoking. There was uneasiness in his manner, as well as a kind of tension. Ryman was looking out on to the beautiful green of early summer, but from his position could see only the tops of the trees; no building and no people.

  “I wouldn’t be any use to you if I didn’t tell you what I think,” Stone said, uncertainly.

  Ryman didn’t answer.

  “It’s one thing to fix the coppers,” went on Stone, with an obvious effort. “You don’t have anything to worry about then, it can’t be done in a jiffy. Run over ‘em, for instance, or shoot ‘em, or——”

  “Shut up,” Ryman said.

  “I’m only giving you the benefit of my advice.”

  “Shut up.”

  Stone got up and went to the cocktail cabinet on the other side of the room, poured himself out more whisky, added a splash of soda, and stared at Ryman’s eyes, anxiety showing very clearly in his own. The sun was shining on Ryman’s feet. He had kicked off his shoes, and showed thin blue socks with a red pattern. The button of his coat was undone, and his tie was a little loose at the neck. He kept swinging his glass round, very slowly. The sound of traffic from Park Lane floated clearly through the window, but it was muted, and did not distract.

  They were silent for five minutes.

  “What I want to make clear is that I’m all for the principle of the thing. I think you’re absolutely right about the way snatching a couple of kids would draw the police off, nothing would do it so well,” Stone said. “But that’s not the only thing to consider, Keith. You may think I’m solid from the neck up, but—”

  Ryman looked across at him.

  “I do,” he said. He swung his feet off the end of the couch and grinned; it was astonishing to see the change in Stone’s expression, reflecting the extent of his relief. “You’re as solid as a lump of granite, but a little light penetrates at times. Okay, I agree with you, it would be risky to snatch a couple of kids. I’m echoing you, too: they would need hiding out somewhere, someone would have to look after them, you’d need top men to do the job, and if you had top men, you’d need to offer a lot of money. Also, two kids kidnapped on the same day are odorously fishy. So, we stick to cops—mainly.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way.” Stone tossed his drink down. “Want another?”

  “No. Two coppers,” Ryman went on, dreamily, “and one kid.”

  Stone stopped, with a hand actually on the neck of the whisky bottle.

  “Just one kid,” repeated Ryman, and smiled lazily at some fluffy white clouds drifting across the sky. “Somebody’s little angel. Just one will be enough, provided the dear devoted dad is rich enough.”

  Stone, who had opened his mouth to speak, did not say a word, but a new expression showed in his eyes.

  “Interest you?” asked Ryman, in the same smooth voice. “I thought it would. What you have to do is think, Rabby, my boy, it’s no use jumping your fences. We want some honest to goodness distractions, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t make a good thing out of one of them. No one could ever make a good thing out of a copper, but a child with a millionaire father and loving momma – how about that? “

  Stone said slowly: “It’s a new angle, anyway.”

  “It’s as old as any angle in the game, the new thing will be the motive behind it. Heads we win, tails they lose! If we can pick up a large piece of money for the little angel, that will be fine, but the main job will still be the appropriating of a certain large sum of used banknotes, the only kind of boodle that it’s really safe to use and store away. We happen to know that the Mid-London Bank in Leadenhall Street has a large sum of ready available from time to time, and we have a contact who will tell us the right day to raid it. The boodle will be loaded into an armoured car. We shall have the driver of the armoured car on our side. Don’t interrupt, and don’t tell me it’s an old trick, there’s nothing new under the sun.” He glanced across at Stone. “If I’m repeating myself, don’t stop me. Beneath this brilliant flow of badinage there is an astute mind ticking away like a calculating machine. The end of the month is the best time for Mid-London, according to my information, and that should suit us nicely. It’s the tenth today. How long will it take you to get two coppers lined up?”

  “I can do it this week,” Stone said.

  “Get information about the two most likely to suit our purpose,” ordered Ryman. “We want two coppers whom someone hates enough to kill. Let me know by the end of the week certain, and I’ll tackle my Mid-London Bank friend. How about that, Rabbie, old boy? Sound better? “

  “Which kid are you going to snatch?” asked Stone, obviously still uneasy.

  “I shall make a survey of the field, and advise you in due course,” Ryman promised him airily. “Have no fears, it shall be done.”

  “Keith—”

  “Now cut out the arguing,” said Ryman, sharply. “You’ve got to lay on the men for those coppers and you’ve got to get a good driver ready for the banknote snatch. I’ll go into that, too. Better lay on two drivers, we’ll want to switch cars as soon as we can. That’s the important thing about a bank van snatch, to leave the van stranded as soon as you can. You’re a practical man, so you work out what we’ll need in addition to two fast drivers. Allow for enough men to empty that van in five minutes, too. Got it? “

  “Yes.”

  “And leave the snatch and the worrying to me,” said Ryman. “I shan’t leave it to you, believe me! I’ll handle the snatch myself, because I won’t want anybody with unsteady nerves to be involved. I’ll fix that, then, you get plans out for the rest.”

  “Okay, Keith.”

  “And look happy about it!”

  “Keith,” said Stone, with a stubbornness which did not come easily, “I’m still not happy about snatching children, I just don’t like it. But you know the risks, so okay. Will Helen be in this?”

  “You bet Helen will be in this,” replied Ryman, softly. “She wouldn’t be sentimental, like some people I know; didn’t I tell you that her heart was made of diamonds!”

  “Well, it’s up to you,” Stone conceded. “Got any preference about the policemen? Are they to be plain-clothes yobs or uniformed men?”

  “Don’t see that it matters,” said Ryman, and grinned suddenly. “Why not one of each? All you have to make sure is that someone hates them enough to put them away with a bit of prompting. Should be easy enough, shouldn’t it? “

  “It’ll be easy,” Stone assured him. “In fact I think I could name them this very minute. I was talking with Si last night.”

  “Who are they?” Ryman asked sharply.

  “A flatfoot named Maybell—”

  “What’s that?”

  Stone grinned.

  “You heard me – Maybell, Horace Maybell. He’s a Sergeant at Hammersmith, been there for donkey’s years. He put Charlie Daw away for ten years – if it hadn’t been for Maybell, Daw would have got away with it. Copped him climbing out of a window. Daw always said he’d get Maybell the minute he came out, and he was released a month ago. Stony broke, too. For a couple of hundred nicker he’d slit anyone’s throat. It needs laying on carefully, but Si’ll see to that. Couple of hundred okay to promise? “

  “Yes, but don’t specify who th
e victim’s to be, yet. Next?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a bad memory,” Stone said, half sneering. “You haven’t forgotten Arch the Hero. He’s the brand new detective officer out at NE Division – just been transferred from uniform to plain-clothes because of the great courage he showed in stopping a smash and grab car from running away. Jumped on the running-board, and had a fight with the driver—”

  “Until it crashed, and the driver was killed, a chap named Cartwright. That the job?”

  “That’s the job. Cartwright’s father didn’t say a word at the inquest, but Si told me he’s looking for a chance to even things out.”

  “They both sound right,” Ryman agreed, thoughtfully. “Just get me more details and talk to Si about it, but don’t make any approach to these chaps yet, I might get a better idea.” There was a hard glint in his clear blue eyes as he stared across the park; he was now sitting up on the couch. “Give it all plenty of time to soak.”

  “Okay, Keith.”

  “And don’t worry,” Ryman added. “I must know two or three millionaires who’d gladly pay a few thousand for their angelic offspring, and when the kid’s missing, there’ll be the biggest hunt ever. We won’t mention ransom until we’ve pulled the bank job, either. It’s a certain winner.”

  Stone said: “Sure,” and finished his drink and went out.

  Ryman settled down on the couch, wriggled himself comfortable, folded his hands across his chest, closed his eyes, and appeared to doze.

  Police Sergeant Maybell was cycling round his district in Hammersmith, stopping to talk to every constable on the beat, whether green or experienced, and also talking to the traffic-duty men. He led a somewhat prosaic existence, and enjoyed it. He had a plumply comfortable wife and three children, two boys in their late teens and a girl aged eleven. He was fifty-nine, and did not intend to retire until he was sixty-five, when he would have to. He was a thorough-going and conscientious officer, who seldom recalled the fact that many years ago he had been instrumental in catching a burglar, named Daw, who had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment for robbery with violence.

  Nothing really sensational had affected Maybell’s life since then.

  Detective Officer David Archer, at twenty-seven, was one of the seven policemen who had stepped forward to volunteer for the attempt to get Micky the Slob out of the van Doom. Archer had a great deal in his favour. He was good-looking, he had done well in a grammar school, spent two years at London University, and then decided that he wanted a career in the Metropolitan Police, because he thought it would give him more scope than an ordinary civilian job. He was extremely ambitious, without offending anyone by it, and without having the slightest desire to tread on anyone else’s toes in order to get ahead. Six months ago he had taken the chance to stop the smash and grab raider’s car and knew that as a consequence he had been put into the detective branch much earlier than he would normally have hoped.

  Recently, he had acquired an even greater reason for being ambitious.

  He had become engaged to be married.

  He was at the dockside, near the van Doom, feeling a little superfluous like most of the men now kicking their heels at Micky the Slob’s bidding, when Gideon stepped out of a big black car; the sight of Gideon’s bulk and the way he swung his arms as he strode towards Hopkinson, the girl and a little group of Divisional men, sent a kind of electric shock through every watcher.

  Archer had a strange impression: that everyone near him wanted to raise a cheer.

  Gideon had the same feeling, and it took him completely by surprise. It was some time since he had been among any of the Divisional police when they were in strength. He knew that he was something of a legend in the Force, that every one of the twenty thousand men on it knew that Gee-Gee was George Gideon’s nickname, and that there was a kind of rude affection in their use of it; as there was for Hippo Hill’s nickname. But it was only occasionally that Gideon had a sense of real enthusiasm passing itself on from the men to him. They had read the Sunday newspapers, of course, and were all solidly behind him; had this been a different occasion, they would probably have given a spontaneous cheer.

  Hopkinson came forward, leaving the girl behind him. He saw Gideon studying the girl, and said as he drew up: “That’s her, George, if we could stretch her out to normal height, she’d be quite something. But what’s brought you?”

  “Had an idea,” said Gideon.

  “You’re changing!”

  Gideon hardly noticed the words, and continued to look at the girl, with her dark hair, her fine colouring, her bright, bold eyes. She was aware of his scrutiny, and did nothing to try to avoid it.

  “Let’s have it,” Hopkinson urged.

  “Right,” said Gideon, and looked away from the girl. “She’s got a conscience, or she wouldn’t have come. You say she said she couldn’t sleep last night, because Taylor had died, and because she was afraid of what Slob would do.”

  “That’s right.” Hopkinson didn’t yet understand.

  “She in love with him?”

  “Incredible though it may seem, yes.”

  “He with her?”

  Hopkinson was frowning, and the bright sunlight, pitiless on his face, showed up every tiny line and every grey hair.

  “That’s how the story goes.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “He keeps her, doesn’t he? But I don’t see what you’re driving at,” the Divisional man said.

  “The girl did a lot for Micky the Slob,” Gideon said, “and now she knows that he’s had it. She’s got guts and a conscience, too. Think she could reason with Micky?” Gideon kept watching her. “Think we could persuade her to go down and plead with him?”

  “It wouldn’t work, George,” Hopkinson declared, and his expression added: “You must be slipping or you wouldn’t even suggest it.”

  “That’s right, it wouldn’t work,” Gideon agreed. “But if he’s really fond of her, and thought she was actually outside the door while our chaps were breaking it down, would he use the nitro? That would mean blowing her to smithereens, as well as our chaps.”

  “God!” exclaimed Hopkinson. “That’s an idea. But who—”

  “This is a job we can’t delegate to anyone,” Gideon said. “That’s why I came out. Mind if I talk to the girl?”

  “You carry on!”

  “Name of Rose, didn’t you say?” asked Gideon, and went towards the girl, towering high above her head. He smiled as he stood in front of her, and spoke very quietly. “I want to tell you how grateful everyone is for your courage,” he said deliberately. “Not only the police, but the crew of the ship are, too. Are you also willing to help us get Micky out before he can do any more harm?”

  She hesitated for a long time. Then: “How?” she asked.

  11

  CAPTURE

  Inside the cabin, Micky the Slob was reclining on a bunk, his head bent so that he did not touch the bunk above him. It was a large cabin for a small ship, and there were four bunks with plenty of space to move around. Men’s clothes were draped on hangers in several places. Four sets of shaving-brushes, tooth brushes, tubes of toothpaste and of shaving-cream crowded the big shelf on the one dressing-table. On a chair by the side of Micky the Slob was a large slab of plain chocolate and some packets of biscuits; on the floor two bottles of beer and an empty glass. He kept his porcine eyes half closed, but stared at the door all the time.

  Sticking in the neck of an empty beer bottle was a cigar-shaped container, and inside this, looking like a fat cigarette, was a tube of nitro-glycerine. The experts at blowing doors and safes had perfected a way of carrying explosive, and for a price it was possible to buy a stick like this. It was enough to blow open three or four powerful safes or strong-room doors; enough to wreck this cabin and start a fire which would destroy the ship.

  The explosive, in its container, looked like a kind of candle.

  A crackling came from the loudspeaker, built into the ceiling;
Micky glanced upwards, but saw only the crisscross lines of the steel lattice work of the bunk above him. There was a sound, as of someone blowing, and then a different voice from Hopkinson’s. Micky sat up, opened his eyes wide, and bent his head so that he could look up at the loudspeaker.

  “Glad you’ve been sensible so far, Micky,” the newcomer said, and there was a deep, authoritative note in his voice. “We’ve got someone here to help you to see the wise thing to do. Rose Lemman’s on her way down the gangway to see you. We’ve pulled her in.”

  Micky was still sitting, crouching, head twisted so that he could see the loudspeaker. It was never possible to be sure what he was thinking, and his expression seldom changed; but now his lips were set tightly, and there was no sign of a slobber.

  “She did the best thing she could for you,” the man with the deep hard voice went on. “Don’t let her down. She’ll be just outside your door by now.”

  Micky eased himself forward and got off the bunk. His leg was within an inch of the beer bottle with its high-explosive ‘candle’. One kick, and it would fall over, out of its safety packing; the concussion would be enough to make it explode.

  “And she knows what’s good for herself, too,” Gideon went on. “She knows that if you do any more harm, we’ll have to charge her with being an accessory to Taylor’s murder. She’ll be the only one left we can get for that job, and she helped all right. But if she persuades you not to blow this ship to pieces, we shall be able to make things a bit easier for her. You could help us. She says she didn’t know you were going to murder Taylor, and you’re the only one who can say whether she did or not. We want to believe her,” the speaker added, and broke off abruptly.

  Micky muttered: “That’s Gideon.”

  A little frothy saliva was gathering at the corners of his mouth, and his lower lip began to drop, as if he could not support it any longer. He looked like an imbecile as he stared at the silent loudspeaker, licked his lips again, and glanced down, as if unthinking, at the ‘candle’.