Criminal Imports

by John Creasey

  “Who’s Gideon?” asked a boy.

  “The boss at the Yard. Didn’t you know?”

  Inevitably a thought flashed across Gideon’s mind: I could be. I could be top man in the Criminal Investigation Department just for the asking.

  Then Henderson and Hobbs appeared in the small wicket doorway let into the main doors. Sight of the American’s face drove every other thought from Gideon’s mind. Without thinking, he found himself shaking hands: as if Henderson needed and Gideon tried to give some kind of reassurance. Hobbs went off.

  “I know the score,” Gideon said to Henderson. “Allow me three minutes.” He stepped into the huge arch, rather like a high-domed aircraft hangar bright with fluorescent lighting. Along one wall were carpenters’ benches, along the other were handsaws and two lathes, everywhere the floor was littered with shavings and sawdust. Stacks of planed timber in a great variety of sizes stood in the middle of the big shed, and the aromatic odour of newly worked wood mixed with the stronger odours of stains and polishes.

  A dynamo was throbbing: boom, boom, boom, boom; that was the sound they had first heard over the telephone and later on the tape recorder.

  Hobbs and two plainclothes men were at the foot of the wooden ladder, like a ladder leading to a hayloft. At the top of the ladder, the hatch was down, it looked as tight as if it were dovetailed. Other policemen were here from the Yard and from the division, and one was in front of a two-way radio set which stood on one of the workbenches. A middle-aged man with a greying beard, which made him look both old and old-fashioned, approached Gideon and Naylor.

  “Mr. Higginbottom, Commander - the manager here,” Naylor introduced him. “He’s been most helpful.”

  “I only wish I could do something more than pray,” Higginbottom said. He sounded wholly sincere. “I’ve thought of nothing else since I realized–”

  “Is there a fire escape?” asked Gideon.

  “There is, but Facey has blocked it from the attic,” Hobbs said.

  “Is there any way in from the top?”

  “The railway line has no service pits or manholes up there,” Higginbottom volunteered.

  “Any approach from the arches on either side?”

  “Both walls are four feet thick, it would take hours to break through. I wish I hadn’t to be so negative,” Hobbs said, “but Mr. Higginbottom is quite sure.”

  Henderson, within earshot, neither moved nor spoke. Gideon, glancing at him, saw the anguish in his eyes.

  “Who talked to him?” Gideon asked Hobbs.

  “I did. Facey says he’ll open the hatch in half an hour - that’s in ten minutes’ time. He added that if we try to shoot or throw tear gas inside, he’ll close the door, and set the place on fire.”

  “Think he means it?” Gideon demanded.

  Hobbs said very quietly, “Yes, I do. If there’s any forced entry, though, this time it’s my job.”

  There was no point in arguing; if Hobbs felt as sure as that he had good reason. Gideon turned to Henderson. His mind was scarred with the other man’s agony, but it was also alert and pulsating, searching for some way of saving the girl.

  “Please,” Nina managed to say in a voice which did not shake. “Let me go. Don’t keep me here.”

  Facey was staring at her.

  “If you let me go my father will do everything he can to help you. I’m sure he will.”

  She felt sure of that, and yet she felt quite hopeless, because there was no way of reasoning with this man who seemed to hate her for what she was, not because she had done anything to deserve such hate. He stared stonily at her. He had not shaved for days, and his grey beard was like a barricade about his deep-lined face.

  “Please listen to me,” she began again.

  He did not stop her from talking, but he did not seem to hear. Suddenly, when she was in the middle of a sentence, he stood up and went to the bench. On it was a large can marked Turpentine Substitute - Inflammable. Next to this were small tins of paint. On the bench and on the floor beside it were piles of shavings which would burn like tinder.

  “Why don’t you listen to me?” she cried; and then her voice broke. “Please, oh, please.”

  Only forty feet below Nina, Gideon was thinking, They’re expecting a miracle from me. Both Henderson and Hobbs seemed to be waiting on him. Miracle it would be if the girl was saved, yet his thoughts still raced and he considered one possibility and rejected it, another and rejected that.

  “Gideon, let me talk to him,” Henderson said.

  “That may be the only way,” agreed Gideon. It would certainly be the only way of making Henderson feel that he had tried. “We ought to consider how best–“

  The radio operator exclaimed, “Mr. Gideon!”

  Gideon was glad of a chance to look up.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Lemaitre on the line.”

  Gideon moved across, hands outstretched for the headphones. He clipped them on. Lemaitre’s voice, although sounding disembodied, carried a note of eagerness.

  “George, I got some dope on Facey. Dunno what you can do with it, but it’s got some meat. Disappointed artist, never had a chance, sorry for himself, got a hate complex for all connoisseurs–“

  “Hold it!” Gideon beckoned Henderson and Hobbs, and repeated, “So Facey has a hate complex for art collectors and connoisseurs. That it?”

  Henderson’s eyes were glittering; he had never seemed so dominant or of greater stature, although he stood quite still, hands clenched by his sides, as the radio officer clipped a set of earphones on him so that he could listen in. Hobbs was frowning in concentration, as if trying to divine what was going on.

  “I talked to Facey’s wifey,” Lemaitre went on. “They brought her in from Division. She knew he was involved in some game with Schumacher. He came over three months ago and they laid something on. She thought it was a big art theft, and she’s been shaking in her shoes every time she’s opened a newspaper.”

  “What does she say about Facey?”

  “She says he’s crazy,” Lemaitre answered bluntly. “I told her what the situation was, and she’s terrified in case he kills the girl. He’s got a hate complex for–“

  Henderson’s eyes were like glass.

  “All right, Lem,” Gideon interrupted. “Anything more specific?”

  “Wouldn’t call it specific, but the impression Mrs. F. gave me is that this was to be Facey’s big chance to get his own back on the big shots of the art world who go for the Old Masters and the modern abstractionists and let the good painters of the day starve. Mind you, it’s only–“

  “Thanks, Lem. Have a word with Hobbs, will you? Hold on.” Gideon pulled off the earphones and handed them to Hobbs, as Henderson handed his to the radio officer.

  It was only a minute to the moment when Facey was due to open the door in the ceiling.

  “He hates art collectors. He thinks his work has been ignored. Got the angle?” Gideon asked Henderson.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll lead in and give you your cue.” Gideon moved toward the wooden ladder, which was solid enough to hold two men his size, whereas Henderson was not much more than half his weight. He climbed up with Henderson a step behind him, but almost at once Hobbs pushed a big stepladder into position. The ladder had a platform at the top, and Henderson moved to this.

  With a few seconds to go, a deep hush fell upon the arch. Every man down on the floor was staring at the hatch door, and Gideon was within inches of it. He craned his head back until his neck hurt, watching that door.

  Almost to the second, it moved.

  Almost to the second, a gap appeared, two inches at one side. Without warning, a blazing ball dropped through the gap. It passed within inches of Gideon’s head, touched his shoulder and brought the stench of burning cloth, bounced on to a tread and dropped to the shavings and the sawdust below. It burned so fiercely that Gideon knew it was a screw of paper or cloth soaked with inflammable liquid.

  He slapped
at his shoulder, where a flame licked up at his cheek, and put the flame out. Hobbs had his jacket off in a trice, smothering the flames, and called, “Fire extinguisher. Quick.”

  “I warned you!” Facey’s voice sounded clearly above the scuffling of men rushing about yet trying desperately to make no noise. Hobbs’s coat was smouldering. “I told you I’d burn the place down if you came and tried to get in.”

  “Facey, don’t talk so much,” Gideon interrupted.

  “Talk!” screeched Facey. “I’ll show you if it’s talk! If you bloody cops aren’t away from the arches in ten minutes, that’s the end. Understand me, that’s it. And don’t think you can fool me.” The shrillness of hysteria wailed in his voice. “I can see the alley, I can see the road, I can see the High Street from here. Understand me? I can see if you bloody narks are trying to trick me. Clear out. Understand? Clear out, or I’ll burn the place down and this arty little bitch with it!”

  The strange thing was that Nina felt calmer than she had been since she had come round enough to realize what had happened. She could not move but she could see and hear Facey. She could also hear the man with the deep voice. She felt as if she was resigned to the coming of death.

  Gideon seemed to be quiet for a long time, far longer than the circumstances warranted. Henderson’s eyes were screwed up with the agony of waiting; a man below said in a grating whisper: “For gossake say something!’’

  “Hush!” ordered Hobbs.

  For a few moments the only sound was the hiss of the foam from the extinguisher.

  Gideon asked in a casual-sounding voice, “How many of your paintings are up there, Facey?”

  “Plenty of them!”

  “Going to burn them too?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Go on, tell me, why shouldn’t I? No one will buy them. They buy all the stinking abstract muck they can lay their hands on, they pay daubers like Picasso fortunes for little bits of canvas not worth spitting on, but me–“

  “How many, Facey?”

  There was a pause.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Commander Gideon.”

  Facey gasped. “Gideon. That’s a good one, that is. That makes me tops, that does! What do you know about pictures, Gideon? Going to become a collector on a copper’s pay?” His laugh was a series of squeaks. “Why, you couldn’t afford to buy–“

  “I know I couldn’t afford to buy anything of yours,” Gideon said quietly. “When I saw your pictures at the Gulliver Street shop I knew they weren’t for me. But someone else - who knows art - What would you value them at, Mr. Henderson, you’re an art buyer.”

  Facey caught his breath again.

  Henderson spoke in a voice as matter-of-fact as if he were in an art shop. “I wouldn’t like to set a price on them - not a market price, that is. They’ll appreciate in value, of course, but no one could say how quickly.”

  “Would you buy them?” Gideon asked.

  It was almost possible for Gideon to believe Henderson’s quiet “If I had the chance, yes, of course.”

  There was a sobbing noise from the attic floor; whether Facey or Nina it was impossible to say.

  “For how much?”

  “I wouldn’t want to pay more than five hundred dollars each,” Henderson said, “unless I could have a lien on all he’s done. But I don’t see how–”

  Gideon leaned back, placed the palms of his hands flat against the hatch cover, and thrust with all his might. The cover swung upward. He caught a glimpse of Facey crouching down and listening, saw the man dodge back, saw the hatch cover wobble, as if undecided which way to go. He thrust up again with one hand, sent it crashing back, gripped the edge of the hole and hauled himself up and over, met by a stench of turpentine.

  Facey was scratching a match along the side of a box.

  Gideon flung himself at the man. The match fell, the box fell; the match went out as Facey was sent thudding to the ground under Gideon’s weight. Gideon felt the frail body go limp, twitch, and lie still, and he realized that Facey had banged his head and was unconscious.

  Gideon stood up slowly.

  Henderson was climbing in, Hobbs behind him. Nina, lying on her back on a narrow bed, was craning her neck to see. She recognized her stepfather. Radiance that was like a benediction shone from her eyes, and radiance of another kind shone in Henderson’s.

  Gideon had never known a greater moment of serenity.

  Hobbs said in a dry, unemotional voice, “What an incredible man you are. I’ll go and call off the hunt.”

  23: Homecoming

  Two plainclothes men carried Facey down the steps; he was still unconscious. Gideon took a final look round the studio workshop, the narrow bed, the heap of clothes on which Facey had slept. Close to that were four pictures, two against one wall, two against another. They were all of nudes-middle-aged nudes with raddled faces and big pendulous breasts. The photographers were already busy, and, one joked: “I could sell these to the Beautiful Body magazines.”

  Henderson reappeared, climbing through the hatch.

  “Hallo,” said Gideon in surprise. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “I’ve talked to my wife, and Nina is being looked after by your police doctor.” Henderson paused. “Gideon, I don’t know what to say. I haven’t the words.” Strangely, he looked nearer breaking down now than he had at any time.

  “Don’t try to say anything,” Gideon said. “Just be thankful we got her.”

  Henderson moistened his lips.

  “Thankful, yes.” He looked at some of the paintings, and winced. “The man must be mad.”

  “Lot of sane people like this kind of muck,” said Gideon. “The devil of it is, he could have earned a good living, sketching and painting among his friends.” He changed the subject. “I’m afraid we’ve had no news of Schumacher and the money.”

  “Schumacher I would like you to catch,” said Henderson gruffly. “The money,” - he broke off, as if biting his tongue on the words - “doesn’t matter.” His eyes were glowing.

  Gideon wished he could be present to see Felisa Henderson’s eyes when she was reunited with her daughter.

  The strange and the wonderful thing to Elliott Henderson was the way Felisa looked at him, over her daughter’s head, and how brilliant her eyes were through the shimmering tears. It was as if she was trying to make him understand that all she felt for Nina she could forever share with him.

  Michael Dunn opened the door of the flat above the shop, stood for a moment, and listened for some sound: some coughing or asthmatic breathing, or the rustle of movement as Cynthia struggled to get up. The silence was both welcome and puzzling. He went across the living room, noticing that everything was spick and span, the newspaper folded, the flowers - tulips - beautifully arranged. She shouldn’t have worked so, it must have worn her out. His heart began to thump as he approached the bedroom, out of love for his wife, out of gratitude that she should have made such an effort for his homecoming.

  As he opened the door he expected to hear her breathing, but he did not. Could she have gone out? It seemed unthinkable–

  There she lay: sleeping.

  He approached the bed, still puzzled by the silence, filled with heartache because of what the exertion must have cost her. She was not in bed, but on it, fully dressed even to her shoes, one of which lay by her foot; the other dangled, half on.

  He reached the bed, his puzzlement growing, because of the silence and her stillness, and the way she lay, one arm halfway over the edge of the bed, head forward, lips parted, eyes closed.

  He touched her. She was cold.

  He placed the palm of his warm hand upon the bareness of her arm and she was cold.

  He breathed, “No.” After a pause, he breathed, “No, no!”

  Then he saw the bottle of sleeping tablets by the side of the bed, almost empty. The screw cap was on, the cotton wool was inside the bottle but all but two or three of the tablets, twenty or thirty at least, were gone.

  Oh,
my God!” He rushed to the telephone, and as he reached it saw the note propped up against it. In Cynthia’s handwriting were the words “Mike darling.” His hand trembled as he picked this up. His teeth grated against one another. He wanted to open it but he picked up the receiver. The ringing sound seemed to go on and on, but when it stopped a man answered in a familiar voice.

  “Dr. Soames speaking.”

  “Doctor! It’s Michael Dunn. My wife– my wife’s unconscious, she seems to have taken all those sleeping tablets–“

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Dr. Soames said crisply.

  With the letter clutched in his hand, Michael Dunn put the receiver down heavily and then moved hesitatingly, fearfully, back to his wife. He knew she was more than unconscious. That she was dead.

  He tore open the letter, and the tearing seemed to go on inside him.

  Mike darling, I can’t go on. I know I’ve got cancer, and I can’t go on. You’ve been wonderful, so, so wonderful, but I can’t live like this any longer, it hurts so much. Forgive - please forgive.

  When he opened the door to the doctor tears were streaming down his face.

  “Honey, what’s eating you tonight?” demanded Jill Pommeroy, half an hour after Pommeroy had come home from the office at Kismet Cosmetics. The furnished apartment was bright and airy, the touches Jill invariably gave to a room or a home were everywhere. “You look as if you’ve discovered that the company’s going to close down.”

  Pommeroy said heavily, “It won’t close down, hon. But I’ve discovered that one of our suppliers has been defrauding us.”

  “You mean, cheating?”

  “Yes, he–”

  “The heel!”

  “Jill,” Pommeroy said, “he’s been putting in false invoices and collecting on them to pay for his wife’s illness - that’s what it looks like. But I’ll have to report to the other side, and they’ll tell me to have this man booked. I’ll hate doing it.”