by John Creasey
“In a few years’ time, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I think not. I have a second choice in mind, from outside the Force. It wouldn’t be popular within the Force, whereas yours would be, but the man I have my eye on is the best one after you. He’s forty-five.”
“I see,” said Gideon. Quite suddenly his heart felt like a leaden ball inside him. He brooded for a few moments. “Will Monday week be time enough? I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to give to the main jobs on hand.”
“Monday week,” agreed Scott-Marie quietly. “I don’t need to say that I will accept and respect your decision, whatever it is.” He stood up and moved round the desk. In the moment of silence which followed Gideon knew from experience that Scott-Marie had dismissed the subject from his mind and was thinking of another. Gideon hadn’t; his thoughts were still in a whirl.
“Is there any prospect of a quick result over the Pallon girl?” Scott-Marie asked.
Gideon was jolted out of his preoccupation.
“I don’t see any, but if we don’t find her quickly I doubt if we’ll find her alive. The only line we’ve got is Schumacher, and if we treat him as a suspect it might have exactly the result we don’t want. I can’t soft-pedal with him for too long, though.”
“I told the Home Secretary that you would find her if it were humanly possible.” Scott-Marie was half-smiling again, while Gideon was wondering: How the hell did the Home Secretary get into this? “He told me that was precisely what Elliott Henderson had already told the American Ambassador.”
Gideon’s expression was bleak.
“Very flattering. But if Henderson talks too much, this will leak into the newspapers. We don’t want that yet.”
“No, I suppose not.”
It was hardly a question, yet it carried the implication that the decision to keep the story of the kidnapping secret might be wrong, and it put a needle of doubt into Gideon’s mind. He made no further comment, but he was already searching his mind.
“You might call this an American week,” Scott-Marie remarked.
“We’ve had ‘em before and will again.” Gideon was almost too blunt in the way he said that.
“No doubt. What do you hope to get out of Parsons’ visit to Milan, by the way?”
“Improved relations,” Gideon answered. “And possibly an indication that Lucci might have had enemies in Italy.”
“Do you think he had?”
“I think he might have had.”
Scott-Marie nodded, then rested a hand firmly on Gideon’s shoulder; in the early days he would have indicated dismissal by saying, “That’s all then,” or something as brusque. Now he said:
“Don’t spend too many hours at the desk.”
“One more question,” said Gideon.
“Yes?”
“I’ve assumed this A.C. matter is strictly between you and me for the time being - that no one else knows.”
“Some may guess. I’ve told no one.”
“Good,” said Gideon. “Thanks.”
When he stepped into the passage and the door closed behind him he stood for a moment, then began to walk slowly toward the lift. It was as if that heavy weight was growing heavier in his chest. Two of the staff passed him, neither more than an acquaintance; they seemed to stare.
“Commander.”
“Good morning, Mr. Gideon.”
Gideon said, “Morning.” Then he drew a deep breath and moved along the passage with long strides and an almost aggressive manner as if going in to attack the whole world of crime. In the lift he felt in a kind of no man’s land. Back in the C.I.D. building he squared his shoulders, half-grinned, and said to himself: “I ought to be feeling on top of the world!”
The he thought, I wonder what Kate will say.
Almost at once he realized that Kate probably wouldn’t be at home, and she would in any case be so anxious about Prudence that it would be unkind to add another preoccupation. He wasn’t quite sure that his reasoning was sound, but it took the edge off his exhilaration. This was a decision he would have to make for himself. He smiled suddenly at the thought of how Lemaitre would try to hound him into saying yes; Lem was the last man to be told at this stage.
In fact there was no one with whom he could really discuss it, except Kate.
He opened the door of his office. Lemaitre was saying to a man sitting in the armchair in front of Gideon’s desk: “. . . that’s the lot so far, Mac. Not enough to bring me haring back from holiday.”
“Man without a conscience, that’s you,” retorted the other man. Then he saw Gideon, and jumped up from the chair. “Good morning, Commander!” There was a Scottish accent in his voice, but the greeting was not quite “Guid mairning.” He was Superintendent James MacPherson, who had been in Oban on his annual leave and whom Gideon had expected back the following Monday.
“Hello, Mac.” Gideon shook hands. “Got tired of being in barbaric lands?”
“Man, there was work to be done here, so where else should a body be?” MacPherson’s eyes were as blue as the calm water of a Scottish loch on a sunny day, his hair was the colour of new corn, paled a little by grey. His skin had the freshness of a man who spent his life out of doors, and his features were clean-cut. He combined efficiency with thoroughness and an over earnest approach to his job with a bright manner which seemed to reflect unflagging good spirits.
Seeing him, knowing that the news of the discovery of the Rite-Time watches had brought him back, did Gideon a lot of good. Everything except the Rite-Time case faded from his mind; he was able to think about it as if it was the only case on the books.
“Where did you hear we’d found some of the watches?”
“I know Ian Roberts at Oban well, and he picked up a report from you about the smash-and-grab in Frisk Street. Och, the moment I heard those watches were on the market I couldn’t do a thing but come back. It cost me a new swimsuit for my wife, mind, and a big farewell party with the family.”
“Which you can’t claim on your expenses,” Lemaitre pointed out.
“Would I dream of claiming more than my fare to London?”
Gideon looked at the file still in his hands, containing many of his own interim reports.
“There were twenty thousand watches stolen in America. We’ve found no more than fifty of them,” he said.
“Fifty-nine,” corrected MacPherson. “George, when those watches didn’t come on the market almost at once I knew there were two possibilities - either they hadn’t come to England at all or else there was a big shipment being held somewhere until the distributors decided it was safe to start selling them retail. Possibly they would be worked on and disguised, but that would mean a very big job and a lot of skilled workmen, so I discounted it. With twenty thousand to dispose of, the odds against individual smuggling were pretty high too, that’s why I settled for the big shipment which would be released in different parts of London, perhaps all over the country. Either would mean a wholesaler with a good number of retail outlets.”
MacPherson paused, as if inviting commendation.
“I didn’t read this in your report,” Gideon said.
“I wouldn’t put guesses in a report.”
“Might be a good idea if you put that kind of guess in,” Gideon said mildly. “So you think a big wholesaler is involved?”
“A wholesaler with many retail outlets,” corrected MacPherson, “or a factory which sells to several different wholesalers. We now know about Orlova, where Klein bought his, but they might be one of several distributors.”
“What will you do now?”
“If you agree I’ll get one or two retailers we can rely on to put out feelers - they can order half a dozen as a trial. If they’re in three outlets already, it shouldn’t be difficult,” MacPherson went on. “If Orlova’s the only firm which can supply them, we’ll have no trouble; if several wholesalers stock them, we’ll have more work to do. We don’t want to jump the gun.”
; “Being a bit canny this time, aren’t you?” asked Lemaitre. “Why don’t you go for ‘em, bang, bang, bang?”
MacPherson hesitated, looking at Gideon.
“Any special reason?” Gideon inquired.
“I cannot say there is,” answered MacPherson, “and I cannot say there isn’t. It’s more than a feeling in my bones, George. It has all the indications of a big racket - the number of watches, the apparent delay in selling them, the fact that New York thought it big enough to warn us about. It could be much more than this one consignment of watches, and if it is, we ought to know the size of it before we decide how to work. We certainly don’t want to charge Orlova if they’re only the little fish.”
Gideon waved a hand.
“Go ahead, Mac. Let me know whom you’re taking on the job with you. An inspector or a sergeant and a couple of officers should be enough. If there’s anything worth talking about I’ll be glad to see you any time. Let me have a note each morning.”
MacPherson’s eyes were bright with satisfaction.
“Pardon me,” said Lemaitre when he had gone, “but don’t be surprised if Mac starts taking a larger size in hats.”
Before Gideon could comment his switchboard telephone rang, and one on Lemaitre’s desk rang at the same instant. They plucked up the receivers as if they operated on the same reflexes, and Gideon felt a familiar flare of hope; that there might be good news of Nina Pallon.
“Gideon.”
‘This is Alec Hobbs,” said the man who had seen Schumacher that morning. “I’ve done everything that can be done for the moment, I think.”
His tone told Gideon that he had no news that could be called good.
14: A Voice of London Origin
Superintendent Alec Hobbs was that rarity among the C.I.D., a public school and university man - Repton and King’s, Cambridge - and one who seemed more fitted to the Foreign Office or the Conservative benches in the House of Commons than Scotland Yard. He was a detective because he had always wanted to be one, and Gideon came more and more to see him as a very good detective indeed. The difference in their backgrounds had created problems of communication at one time, but these were no longer important; that was partly due to Kate Gideon and Hobbs’ wife, Helen, who had become firm friends. Helen Hobbs suffered from Landry’s paralysis, which kept her fast to a wheelchair, but lately she had opened her home to a group of senior officers’ wives for meetings from time to time, such as that which Kate had attended about Hong Kong.
There were three good reasons for putting Hobbs onto the Henderson investigation. He had spent a year at an American university and was a close student of American affairs, including police methods. He was socially Henderson’s equal. And because of his voice and rather ultra British manner he was likely to fool Schumacher into underestimating him.
One thing was certain; if he had had good news to report he would have told Gideon at once.
“What did you make of Schumacher?” asked Gideon.
“I think he’s lying somewhere along the line, but I can’t find anything to support it. He was undoubtedly at the Tate, and also at the National Gallery. He was at the Royal Academy and at the Victoria and Albert too. I took his photograph to each, and he was positively identified at them all.”
“Wasn’t the girl identified?”
“Not precisely,” said Hobbs. “He had a girl with him. She was in her late teens or early twenties, and she wore a black sweater and a red skirt. But only the attendants at the Tate were prepared to state that she was the girl of the photograph. The others all hedged, saying she might be or might not be. And that might or might not be worth following up,” Hobbs went on.
“I’m sure it is,” said Gideon almost sharply.
“I’ve two officers working on it, trying to obtain more specific descriptions of the girl who was with Schumacher, and why the gallery officials hesitate to identify the girl of the photograph. Have you anything in particular you want me to do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I would like to concentrate on Schumacher, and try to find out what he was doing here on his last visit.”
“What do you think is the best way to go about it?”
“I think I might be able to break Schumacher down,” Hobbs said.
“By making it clear we suspect him?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s keep that shot in our locker,” Gideon decided. “What else?”
“I’d like to visit all the divisions you briefed about the kidnapping, in the hope of getting a line on the people Schumacher met when he was in London before, what hotel he stayed at– “
“I’ll settle for that,” interrupted Gideon.
He rang off and stared at the window. Lemaitre was still talking on the telephone. A shadow passed in front of the sun, and it was as if one passed in front of Gideon’s mind - a shadow of doubt. First Scott-Marie, now Hobbs, implied doubt about the wisdom of letting Schumacher think he was getting away with it.
Gideon pulled the original photograph of Nina toward him and studied it. Very gradually the image of her mother became superimposed, and somehow he was alive to the pulsating vitality of the kidnapped girl.
His internal telephone rang. It was Fingerprints, with a few questions to ask about exhibits from last night’s burglaries and car thefts; the picture of a bright-eyed, vivacious girl slowly faded from Gideon’s mind.
Nina’s eyes were still closed, but she could hear that strange roaring sound more and more loudly. It frightened her. Ever since consciousness had crept back into her, fear had been in both her heart and her mind.
She did not see Facey, standing at the foot of the bed and staring at her, and she did not hear him mutter:
“She’s moved. She’ll come round soon.”
“When she comes round, give her some drink and a little food,” ordered Schumacher. “We’ll want her to talk to her mother soon.”
Felisa Henderson stepped across the apartment to the long window which overlooked Hyde Park and so much of London. This was a city she had loved ever since her first visit, at about Nina’s age. She could stand here and look down upon the late spring flowers, the lush spring grass, the fresh green of oak and ash and plane-tree leaves. From this height she could hear but not see the traffic in Park Lane and the new road just inside the park, but she could see the underpass at Hyde Park Corner. Beyond that was another park and the unmistakable outline of Buckingham Palace; the brilliant colours of the flowers in the palace grounds were quite discernible. She could see the twin towers of Westminster Abbey and the severe red brick of the Roman Catholic cathedral; and she could see the tower of Big Ben and, stretched along the Thames’ embankment, the outline of the Houses of Parliament.
In another direction was Knightsbridge, the little shops where the precious things of the world were hers for the liking, where there were tailors and couturiers, jewellers and shoemakers.
As nearly as anyone from another land could feel both love for and affinity with a city, she had for London.
Now she felt as if she hated every inch of the great sprawling metropolis.
She felt that she hated herself.
If only she could do something; if only she could change places with her daughter; if she could just see and comfort Nina she would feel better. This awful waiting and its attendant helplessness were unbearable. She who had everything she could want in the world had lost the one thing that mattered most.
It was as if Nina were already dead. Felisa could not stop herself from going over and over and over in her mind all the things she could have done for her child, and had left undone. She had been the one who had wished Schumacher on to Nina as an unwanted guardian so that she herself could spend a few more paltry hours selecting silks from the exotic East. If only she hadn’t!
She heard a sound, turned, and saw the door open. Elliott came in. She knew from his expression that he had no news, but she had to ask:
“Have you heard anything more?�
��
“No,” he said.
“Elliott,” Felisa said, “I feel so absolutely dreadful.”
“I know how you feel, my darling.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t. You can’t. No one can.” She began to walk about the room.
“Felisa, you must come out for a while,” Elliott said.
“You know I can’t leave here until there’s some news.”
“You must,” he insisted. “You can’t stay caged up here.” Caged. It was exactly right, summing up exactly what she felt. “We can walk through the park, and if there should be a message it can be brought to us. We can be watched so that they know exactly where we are.”
“No,” she refused.
“Felisa–”
“I must stay here!”
“Felisa,” he said, “it is dreadful for us both and you are making it even worse.”
Her eyes became huge, her whole face was twisted in hurt and in anger, but she didn’t speak. Elliott moved slowly toward her, and as she glared he said quietly: “There is nothing in the world I would not do to help you.”
Choking, helpless, almost hopeless, she turned away.
Then the telephone bell rang; the bell of the outside line.
The shock of the ringing jarred through her. She turned and stared at it, and stretched out her right hand. Henderson did not move to take the instrument, although he knew that the call was probably for him.
She lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Who is that?” It was a woman, an English woman.
“This is Felisa Henderson.”
“Nina’s mother?” the woman demanded.
Felisa caught her breath, and her colour ebbed so dreadfully that Elliott strode across and put an arm about her waist. Hastily, she said: “Yes. Do you– do you know anything about my daughter?”
“I know she’s alive and well,” the woman declared. “And she’ll stay alive and well if you do exactly what you’re told exactly when you’re told to do it.”
There was a fraction of a minute’s silence; then the speaker rang off, and there was only the buzzing on the line. Slowly, as if the very movement brought physical pain, Felisa put down the receiver. Her husband stood very close but did not speak, until at last she said in a tiny voice: “We must do it.”