by John Creasey
The description of the girl seen working at the shop wasn’t good enough for general circulation yet, but there was no doubt that she must have been passed off as Nina by Schumacher. Before long he had to make up his mind what to do about Schumacher. He had enough on the man to charge him; but there was no way of being positive that if Schumacher were held it would lead to Nina. When the identity and perhaps the character of the artist were known, it would be easier to decide.
Gideon pulled himself up with a jerk. “The truth is I’m scared of pulling Schumacher in,” he said in muted tones. “Why should I be?”
Was it because Henderson and Henderson’s wife were influencing him? Did he want to give the Hendersons a chance to pay the ransom, so that no one could say that by following proper police methods he had led to the girl’s death?
That was another thing: why had he felt so sure that her life was in danger, even from the beginning?
Footsteps sounded in the passage and turned toward the door. Gideon expected a tap on it but instead the door was pushed open and an elderly man came in, whistling; he was one of the messengers. He was halfway toward the desk before he saw Gideon, and came to a standstill as if petrified.
“All right, what is it?” Gideon demanded.
“I– I didn’t know you were here, sir.”
“I should hope you didn’t. What is it?”
“Teletype message just in from New York, sir, for your attention.” The man, a near-retirement police constable, handed Gideon one of several papers from a folder. “Will that be all, sir?”
Gideon nodded dismissal, smoothed out the paper, and read:
Mayhew parent received p.c. today from Kensington stop Advise extreme caution with Schumacher in new circumstances stop Have just learned from Los Angeles police department he was once suspected of part in kidnapping of teenage girl found murdered after ransom paid stop Telephone or teletype all possible information. Nielsen.
It was as if some evil genius was protecting Schumacher. If he, Gideon, had known about the suspicion of kidnapping, Schumacher’s interest in the Hendersons would have screamed a warning. But were the California police any less culpable than he?
The truth was, he should have had Schumacher watched.
18: So Much at Once
If Rogerson were coming in, Gideon would have gone to his office and talked over the tactics with the Assistant Commissioner. He couldn’t do that with Scott-Marie. With a sense almost of shock Gideon realized that until this moment he had not thought of the Commissioner’s offer since before Hobbs’s call last night. Here was the most important thing in his professional life, and he hadn’t given it a thought!
To himself, he said, “So it can’t really be that important.”
That was a fleeting reflection, gone almost as soon as it came. The outside telephone rang. This must be about the artist - no one else was likely to know he was here.
“Gideon.”
“What’s the matter, George, can’t tha’ sleep?” It was Ormeroyd from the North, and he knew nothing about the kidnapping. Gideon switched his thoughts to the factory sabotage case, but it was not so easy as usual. “I rang to leave a message, and they told me you were in,” went on the Yorkshireman. “I’m leaving Glasgow this morning. I’ll be at Macclesfield this afternoon, God and the weather permitting. It’s raining cats and dogs up here.”
Gideon glanced at the window and saw that the sky was overcast.
“Just want to talk about the weather, Jake?”
“Touchy this morning, aren’t you?” Ormeroyd scoffed. “George, the damage at the biscuit factory in Glasgow was the same kind as the damage at York - no doubt about it. And some of the damage was done the same night so it couldn’t have been by the same person.”
“Organized sabotage in small factories, is it?” Suddenly this was the only case in Gideon’s thoughts. “What does it look like? Spite?”
“No,” Ormeroyd said, so positively that Gideon knew he had something of importance to report.
“Then what?”
“In every case so far the damage has been done to machines which are busy with export orders,” answered Ormeroyd; then, as if he really savoured what he had to say next, he went on: “And most of the export goods go to the same country. Care to guess which?”
Gideon was in no mood to play guessing games, but half-a-minute would make no difference and would humour Ormeroyd.
“Russia?”
“No, it’s not anti-Red. The reverse in fact.”
Gideon exclaimed, “The United States?”
“Right on the nose, George. Someone wants to damage our export trade to the U.S.A. in their own small way. I thought you might have some ideas.”
Gideon spoke almost without conscious thought.
“I’ll send someone over to the Faculty of British Industries and have them check if any other manufacturers are having trouble with goods for America. That what you want?”
“Yes. Good old George.”
“Telephone late this afternoon and we might have something for you,” Gideon said. “If I’m not here, talk to Elm.”
“Right-o,” Ormeroyd said, and added with a chuckle in his voice, “What’s the weather like in London?”
“Bright and sunny,” said Gideon. “No Yorkshire man would recognize it.” He rang off before Ormeroyd could answer back, savoured the moment, then considered the best man to deal with the FBI. He thought of Hobbs, then rejected him as impossible while the Pallon case was on. Then he thought: FBI for Faculty of British Industries, FBI for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He made notes:
Best man for our FBI.
Advise their FBI (they to check imports from G.B.).
? Do (2) through Nielsen.
As he finished he had another thought: that the job Ormeroyd was on could develop into one of the kind that developed only once in a decade. He must be very, very careful whom he chose for the job, take a man off another job if needs be. It must be someone who could work well with Ormeroyd and with whom Ormeroyd could work. Would Hobbs be right, even if he were free? Suddenly he thought: Ormeroyd himself ought to be in charge of it. That was a facer . . . .
He picked up a red pencil, and marked Self on the notes he had just made, put them in the Pending tray, and brought his mind to bear on Schumacher again. He was not immediately aware of it, but the interruption from Ormeroyd had drawn something of the emotional tension out of his attitude toward the kidnapping. He should talk to Schumacher very soon, and in view of the warning from Nielsen, there might be a lot to be said for arresting the man this morning.
He heard footsteps outside. This time there was a timid tap at the door. On his “Come in” the messenger entered most circumspectly, carrying a letter basket piled high with mail and reports. This was the usual morning delivery, reports from divisions and reports and requests from the county and country borough police forces. Lemaitre usually sorted these out for him.
“Thanks. Put it there, will you?” He pointed, the messenger put the basket down, and hesitated. “Want something else?” he demanded.
“I– er– I just wondered if you would like some coffee, or tea, or anything, sir.” The man was sixty or more, grey, nervous, anxious to mate amends for a trifle, which doubtless loomed enormous in his mind. “Not a bad idea. Coffee, cream, toast - fix it right away, will you?”
“Yes, sir!”
Gideon smiled at such eagerness in a man so old, and promptly thought, Old? I’m within six or seven years of him. He began to sort through the mass of letters and papers, looking for reports on Schumacher. He found two, close together. The Yard man on duty at the hotel until six o’clock that morning reported: S, in his room since 11:15 p.m. The hotel detective reported: No calls to or from S. room since last report. There was a third report near the bottom of the pile, which covered Schumacher’s known movements between three o’clock on the afternoon of the kidnapping and midnight last night. Attached to this, which came from Information, was a neg
ative report about the girl believed to have gone round to the art galleries with Schumacher.
“That artist’s our best bet,” he said aloud. Then he heard loud footsteps outside again, as if the messenger had found fresh confidence. In fact the door burst open, and Lemaitre stood gaping.
“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “Might as well kill a man as frighten him to death.” He let the door bang behind him; then his eyes lit up. “Got anything on Nina Pallon?”
“Not enough,” Gideon answered, and told him. He was just finishing when the messenger came in, with everything Gideon had ordered plus three pork sausages under a dish cover.
“Thought these would keep hotter than bacon, sir.”
“Good idea,” Gideon approved. “Good thing you discovered I was in early.” Relief showed in the man’s eyes as he went out.
Lemaitre gathered up the papers.
“I’ll sort out these while you eat that. Kate back?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think she was or you wouldn’t be stuffing yourself. Want to see anyone who asks to see you this morning?”
“Yes.” Gideon almost swallowed the word as he bit into a piece of toast, realizing that he was very hungry; he hadn’t had a good meal since yesterday’s breakfast.
As Gideon was eating, a middle-aged chambermaid at the Rosemount Hotel knocked on Florence Foster’s door, and tried the handle awkwardly, for she balanced a tray of morning tea in her left hand. There was no response and the door didn’t open. The chambermaid had been at the job for nearly thirty years, and memorizing the habits of guests was second nature to her.
“That’s funny.” She knocked again, then took her passkey from her apron pocket, unlocked the door, and called, “Coming, miss!” She stared at the bed, which was undisturbed, at two letters from Wiltshire which lay on the floor, at a room just as she herself had left it the previous morning. A nylon stocking which she had put back over a chair arm had slipped off again; that was the only difference. She took the tea away, and at a service pantry at a half-landing found the chambermaid from the floor sitting down and sipping a cup of tea.
“It’s a funny thing, but my Miss Foster’s been out all night.”
“Tell you another funny thing,” said the other maid, half-leering, “but my Mr. Mason didn’t come home either. How about putting one and one together, Daisy?”
“Not that girl,” Daisy declared. “She isn’t the kind.”
“They’re all the kind,” declared the other chambermaid.
“Well, I’m going to report it,” Daisy said.
Michael Dunn was getting his own breakfast. He felt almost guilty at feeling so hungry when Cynthia hardly ate at all. He was really worried this morning, because she had coughed so much during the night. Now she lay limp and pale, and he did not know whether she would have the strength to make the train journey to Bournemouth by herself. He had planned to drive her to Waterloo to catch the 10:30 train.
When he went in to see her, her eyes were open.
“Hello, Cyn darling,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “Feeling a bit better now?”
She moistened her lips, and a weak voice came from the wasted body. “Mike - I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be a goose.”
“I– I don’t think I can get to Bournemouth.”
“Of course you can! If necessary, I’ll carry you there.”
“Mike,” Cynthia said, “I think you ought to send for the doctor. I’ve got such an awful pain in my chest.”
Maria Lucci was drinking coffee and watching her son Antonio as he nibbled at a roll and butter. He had never been a hearty eater, and since his father’s death he had touched hardly a thing. Maria had expected him to be upset, but not so upset as this. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry that the school vacation would soon be here. At school there were lessons and games and other boys to take his mind off his grief.
“Antonio, my son, you must finish quickly,” she said. “You do not want to be late at school.”
Quite out of the blue, he cried: “I don’t want to go to school! I hate school! All the boys hate me. They hate me! And they say beastly things about my father!”
It was as if a knife had plunged into his mother’s body, and for a few moments she was silent, simply staring at the boy. Then standing up with great dignity, she said: “The things they say about your father are not true. I, your mother, promise you that. Even today I am going to see the police, who are finding out the truth. Say this to your friends, Antonio. They are wrong. You have good reason to be proud of your father.”
She did not know whether that helped her son, but in a way it helped her. She had in fact an appointment to see Colonel Nocci, head of the Pubblica Sicurezza in Milan. Now she would fight even harder to make him try to clear the name of her son’s father.
At eleven o’clock she was shown into Nocci’s office, in a new building near the Fort. Nocci stood behind his square, shiny desk, looking a little like II Duce in the far off days, but it was the presence of the other man that most impressed her. He was the English detective, the man who had told her of Benito’s death, and whom she had seen at the cemetery.
The lieutenant smiled at her gravely.
“Already you know Signor Parsons from London,” he said. “Signor Parsons believes it possible that your husband did not commit suicide, signora.”
“I am sure that he did not,” declared Lucci’s widow.
“Then we need your help, to try to prove that,” said Nocci. “His partner from England is in Milan. We wish you to see him, and . . .”
Frank S. Mayhew alias Mason was eating breakfast and reading the Daily Express in the big cafeteria at Lyons Corner House at London’s Marble Arch. He was enjoying bacon and eggs, buttered toast and coffee, and he was feeling quite pleased with himself because there was no report of the finding of Florrie’s body.
“They probably won’t find it for weeks,” he reassured himself.
He glanced up at the railed-off passageway that led to the food counters. Two teenage girls were walking along there, on their own. Both had short skirts, high-heeled shoes and yellow-blonde hair, but there any resemblance stopped. One was thin, with tiny, pointed breasts; the other was plump and stocky, with big but well-shaped curves, big hips and jutting breasts. Mayhew could not keep his eyes off her. The girl sensed something and glanced his way; she had fine, bold, brown eyes.
She tossed her head and turned her gaze away.
Mayhew moistened his lips.
“Now, she’s really something,” he said to himself. “She really is a lay.”
There was a jeweller’s shop in the Edgware Road, near the Corner House, and during the night two men had burgled it, and got away with £7,000 worth of watches and jewellery. Divisional police had been there for two hours, and one of the men working on the Rite-Time watches investigation had been over. Forty Rite-Time watches were in stock, but were marked: Not for sale yet. They had been supplied by the Orlova Company and, according to the manager, Orlova had telephoned to ask him to keep them back.
“Something to do with tax,” the manager had said. “If they were smuggled in, I didn’t know anything about it.”
The officer, named Furbisher, was standing just behind the two girls. He saw one of them glance toward a man sitting at a table, and turned his head. A man was sitting alone, staring at the girl, but his back was towards Furbisher; who did not give him a thought. He was too preoccupied with his own discovery.
After a good night’s sleep Jerry Klein had a big breakfast. His wife had felt much happier about him, for the fears of the early part of the week seemed to have been dispersed. Jerry himself was beginning to feel secure. Darkie had not been to see him again, nor had any policemen been to question him. He was more determined than ever to refuse to have anything more to do with hot goods.
He was sitting in a tube train when a man came and sat next to him and jogged his elbow, making him let go of his Daily Mail. It was because the
man did not apologize that he looked up.
He almost froze.
“What a remarkable coincidence, seeing you here,” said Darkie Jackson. “I’ve got some instructions for you, Jerry. Don’t sell any of those Rite-Time watches until I give you the okay. They could lead you into a lot of trouble. And if the bloody coppers stick their noses in again, tell them I told you not to sell. Understand?”
It was after ten o’clock before Nina Pallon was given some dry biscuits and lukewarm tea. The man who had jabbed the hypodermic needle into her was with her while she ate, but he did not say a word. In desperation, she asked: “Why are you doing this?”
No answer.
“Are you holding me for ransom?” No answer.
“Please tell me! I’ll give you anything, anything at all, if you’ll let me go.”
Her voice was almost inaudible. Her head ached with awful throbbing which beat time with the dynamo. Hardly a minute seemed to pass free from the roaring sound, which now seemed not only above her head, but inside it.
“Let me out of here!” she cried.
He pushed her back on the bed. He took the arm he had freed and tied it to the little bed again. He got up, went out, and closed and locked the door.
“Let me out, let me out, let me out!” Nina cried.
There were twenty men within fifty yards of her, but none could hear because of the other noises, and the thickness of walls and floor.
Felisa Henderson sat up in bed about that time, with a silver breakfast tray in front of her, and everything but the coffee untouched. Elliott was in the sitting room, on the telephone. It would not be long before he would have to talk to his business associates and his office. He could not stay with his wife indefinitely.
Remembering his “You must eat something, honey,” she lifted the lid off a silver salver, which held the hot toast.