by John Creasey
Gideon said, “You kowtow to anyone? That’ll be the day!”
Lemaitre drew a deep breath and stood very still. Then his whole body relaxed, and Gideon knew the crisis was past. He thought (without consciously thinking), “Thank God.” He gave a little smile, stood up, and with a gesture rare in him, placed a hand on Lemaitre’s shoulder.
“Do you know Dean Howcroft?” he inquired.
“I’d know his face in a church, if that’s what you mean.”
“He’s probably in the front hall, now. Go and bring him up, will you?”
Lemaitre’s eyes lost their strained unhappiness.
“Come to hallow the ground of the old place, has he? Must say he’s taken his time. Okay, George.” He strode to the door, hesitated, turned round and said in a voice in which amusement overlay a suddenly revealed truth, “Now there is a man I might kowtow to!” He went out and, before the door closed, began to whistle.
Gideon felt a marked lessening of tension.
He had two or three minutes in which to clear his mind of Lemaitre and the administration problem and to prepare for the Dean. Standing in front of the desk, he skimmed through the file, which simply reported the facts: an unknown man had telephoned at one-twenty-one, saying that a thief was inside St. Ludd’s Cathedral. The caller had seemed breathless and agitated. The Flying Squad had been alerted, and cars from the City Police as well as from the Yard had converged on the Cathedral. Entry had been made from the south door, near the Lady Chapel, by a detective sergeant from West Central Division, and by Detective Inspector Goodways of the City of London Police; Gideon knew both men by sight. The thief, caught red-handed, had attempted to escape and had been cornered by a City policeman at the northwest door. He was an old lag with a record as long as his arm. Gideon glanced down the list of his offences but saw none involving a church.
There was a sharp tap at the door.
“Come in!” he called.
“Here we are, sir,” said Lemaitre, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “The Commander’s expecting you.” The door opened wide. “Commander Gideon, the Very Reverend Dean of St. Ludd’s.”
Gideon held out his hand.
Dean Howcroft, a man in his early sixties, would have stood out in any gathering simply because of his snowy white hair; quite beautiful hair which had a natural wave and was brushed straight back from his forehead, like a lion’s mane. He was not, in other respects, particularly good-looking, for beneath an exceptionally broad forehead his nose was snub and his chin rather vague; nevertheless his appearance was that of a fine-looking man. He had a reputation for pungency in his comments on social behaviour, a pungency which fell short of placing him among one of the lunatic fringe which lapped the church.
He was shorter than Gideon, and perhaps a little too well-fed, for both his collar and his clerical-grey jacket fitted over-closely. There was an unexpected briskness about his manner, however, and warmth in his smile.
“So we meet again, Mr. Gideon.”
“The last time was at the wedding of the Home Secretary’s daughter,” Gideon remarked, pleased that the other had remembered him. “Do sit down.”
“Thank you. This is an unhappy business, I’m afraid.”
Gideon said cautiously, “Any crimes attached to a church could be considered so.”
“Yes, indeed. I understand you caught the man.”
“We did.”
“Such very quick work,” approved the Dean.
“Thank you.” Gideon was wondering what all this was leading up to. At the back of his mind there was Scott-Marie’s reference to the Dean; someone had told the Commissioner in advance.
“Do you know the man?”
“He’s an habitual criminal.”
“Are you sure?” The Dean’s voice sharpened and he looked taken aback.
“We certainly are.” Gideon tapped the file. “Four times in jail; the last time he was sentenced he asked for seventeen other cases to be taken into account. He could hardly be more professional. He’s always stolen silver or jewellery. I don’t know him personally, but I shall soon have a report from someone who does. Have you any special interest in this man?”
“No,” said the Dean. He frowned, and myriad wrinkles appeared at his eyes and forehead. “Only in what he did last night. I am interested in certain other offences which may affect you, Commander. I have just been to the Abbey, as you know, where I discussed with the Dean a problem common to many of the big churches, perhaps more common than we like to admit. It is somewhat ironic that I’ve come to you as a consequence of a very different kind of offence, very different indeed.”
Why not say “crime”, wondered Gideon.
“Why have you come, sir?”
“On a somewhat delicate mission from our point of view, perhaps a very ordinary one to you. I asked Sir Reginald Scott-Marie whom I should see, and he unhesitatingly said that I should see you.”
“Oh.” That was one little mystery cleared. “What’s the delicate problem, sir?”
“Commander,” said the Dean, leaning forward and looking very earnest, “the Church - all churches - have many problems, perhaps the greatest being that of our relationship with the people. Forgive a blunt question, please. Are you a Christian?”
Gideon, momentarily taken aback, recovered and smiled at the directness of the approach.
“Nominally, yes, I suppose.”
“Ah,” said Dean Howcroft, repeating with a certain ironic inflection: “Nominally. One of the great host of nominal Christians.” He hesitated, his slate-grey eyes searching, and the wrinkles puckered his forehead again. “And yet from my knowledge of you and your reputation, I would not have thought you would be nominal about anything.”
“Can I be blunt, sir?”
“Please.”
“I’m a policeman. I deal with criminals from all classes and all religions - Christians from all sects, Jews, Mohammedans, Buddhists, Hindus - I repeat, sir, all religions. Under the law, all men are equal whether they have any religion or none. As a policeman, I am committed to neutrality. That means nominal, surely.”
After a long pause, Howcroft said, “And as a man?”
“I’m a policeman first, and you have come to see me as a policeman.”
“No,” said Howcroft, quite sharply. “That is evading the question.” When Gideon stared at him expressionlessly, he went on: “I’m sorry, Commander, truly sorry - and of course I, too, am being evasive in my own way. It is perhaps a simpler question than I am making it out to be. The Church cannot be quite so ruthless in its attitudes as other organizations. We cannot come to the police with the same alacrity as could, say, a business house or a hotel. We have a wider, more embracing duty to all people, even when they break the law.”
He paused, allowing a chance for interruption; Gideon let it go.
“And we have to worry about our public image, too. If we are severe with offenders, we are likely to be judged too harsh; if we try to help by understanding, we are judged too lenient. Either way, our image is smeared; and yet we need a clear, true image, Commander. Don’t you agree?”
Gideon said, “I hope you do, sir.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Gideon gave a grim little smile. “A true image isn’t necessarily a good one, is it? In the moral sense.”
After a moment’s pause, the Dean smiled more freely than he had since entering the room.
“No indeed,” he conceded. “But I will settle for an accurate one. I like to think you would find it good enough. I shouldn’t have asked you if you were a Christian, you know, it was the wrong word. People are apt to jib at it.” He went on quickly: “But I mustn’t waste your time. Commander, in the past few months there have been a great number of trifling - I say trifling in the material sense - acts of vandalism in many churches. St. Paul’s, the Abbey, Westminster Cathedral, St. Martin-in-the-Fields - all of these have suffered. So have many parish churches, both Church of England and, I believe, those of
the Roman Catholic faith. Those of us who have to minister to the material needs of the Church are increasingly disturbed by these acts. No single case is sufficient to justify calling you in, but the sum total of damage and loss is becoming quite considerable. We have tried and failed to discover the culprits. We know we must now consult the Yard. I have been tempted to do so several times. Last night’s sacrilege made it possible for me to see you, officially. I have talked with my very good friends the Deans of the Abbey and of St. Paul’s. They agree that it would be wise to be wholly frank with you. Do you think you can help us to find out who is doing this - in fact to find out whether it is organized or whether all the incidents are unconnected - and at the same time help us to avoid notoriety and disfavour with our - ah - nominal supporters?”
4: RIGHT MAN?
Gideon studied the alert, eager face, sensing the depth of the Dean’s feeling, his anxiety to solve the problem and yet by so doing to cause no adverse criticism; to do good, without any risk of harm. That phrase entered Gideon’s mind, and it seemed to him that it epitomized the attitude and the thinking of this rather prolix man. As he sat, considering, Howcroft could not keep quiet.
“I have made myself clear, haven’t I? You do understand, don’t you?”
“You’ve made yourself very clear, and I think I know exactly what you want,” Gideon said. Suddenly he smiled broadly, appreciating the other’s acumen. “And you’ve timed it perfectly! We can now take a closer interest in St. Ludd’s and the other big churches, without arousing anyone’s suspicions.”
“Precisely! And will you?”
“Suits us best, too,” Gideon pointed out. “We also have to worry about our image, and if we get the reputation of spending too much time going after sneak thieves in the churches instead of concentrating on the big criminals in business and society—”
He broke off, for the Dean was chuckling.
“Sir Reginald was right indeed,” he said. “I’m most grateful. It goes without saying that I will do everything I can to help, and I can promise you the same from my ecclesiastic colleagues and friends. In our rather fumbling and amateur way we have already attempted—”
Gideon, an eye on the clock, interrupted. “First things first, sir. We need the right man to look after this, someone with sufficient general knowledge of church background, regalia and customs—” He was thinking aloud and at the same time considering senior officers who might be familiar with the set-up and have the right temperament for dealing with churchmen. “Give me a little while to think about it. We want someone who is sympathetic but whose emotions won’t run away with him.”
“Another nominal Christian, to be sure,” the Dean said, his eyes twinkling.
Gideon chuckled, and had a rare feeling: that here was a man whom he could grow to like very much, one who had both humour and humility.
“Up to you to convert him from nominal to practicing,” he said, and stood up. “If you’ll let me have your telephone number and an address where I can always get you, I’ll be in touch very soon.”
The Very Reverend Dean of St. Ludd’s took a fat envelope from a mysteriously hidden pocket and handed it across the desk.
“You will find everything you need in there, Commander, including the results of our own tentative investigations - futile, I assure you, hence our belated realization that professional help was needed.” His handshake was firm, the twinkle remained. “I will find my own way out—”
“Mr. Lemaitre will show you the way,” Gideon said, and opened Lemaitre’s door. “Superintendent, you’ve met Dean Howcroft, haven’t you?”
Lemaitre’s big hand shot out, engulfing the Dean’s. “Very glad to know you, sir. Not often an ex-choir boy has the chance to shake hands with the Dean. It was Dean Ruston in my day, sir. Lived to be about a hundred!”
“He did indeed,” said Howcroft, marvelling. “And you are an old choir boy at St. Ludd’s? How very unexpected. You must come along and hear the choir again one day, we have two very beautiful voices - very beautiful indeed.”
He went out with Lemaitre. Gideon stared at the closing passage door, remembering. Lemaitre had often mentioned the days when he had been a choir boy. Such a childhood experience lay in many a tough man’s recollection, covered by cynical comment or crude joke. Lemaitre, ex-St. Ludd’s, was certainly no more than a nominal Christian, but his wife - his second wife - was a regular churchgoer. Well, well.
Gideon laughed suddenly: he was thinking in much the same way as the Dean talked.
It was five to eleven - time he went along to see Scott-Marie.
At five to eleven Eric Greenwood stood up from his desk in a tiny office which overlooked the Thames and a corner of Billingsgate Market, and stepped into the even smaller office where his secretary sat at a typewriter which never seemed silent. Stubby fingers poised over the keys, she looked up. She was fifty-three, plump, coarse-skinned, grey-haired - and quite incredibly efficient. She had been secretary to the previous manager of this department, and by now was considered to be part of the furniture of Cox and Shielding, Importers and Exporters from the Orient. Behind her broad, innocently shining forehead there was more knowledge of out-of-the-way suppliers of exotic commodities than in any other brain in London.
“Yes, Mr. Greenwood?”
“I’m going across to see Shalimar’s. Hold any calls, Bessie.”
“Yes, Mr. Greenwood.”
Before the flimsy door closed she was hammering away at the typewriter again, yet when her letters were finished they would be type-perfect. Greenwood stepped into a very narrow passage, with doors at regular intervals, each marked with the name of the department. There were Spices, Carpets, Woollens, Metalwork, Jewellery, Carvings, and several others. In a small way, Cox and Shielding’s did a remarkable diversity of business. Greenwood was the general buyer for the whole business and, with Bessie Smith, was almost indispensable. He pushed open a door at the far end of the passage. This led to the landing of the four-storey building, with its floor and steps of stone; there was no lift, and his heels rang out sharply. He stepped into a narrow lane, still cobbled, still with its iron hitching posts, and walked briskly between tall, ugly office buildings to Upper Thames Street, then along another lane to the Monument, where a few tourists stood looking up at the ancient watch tower built to ensure that London would not burn again. Here cars and vans were parked. An acquaintance from a shipping company nodded but did not stop. Greenwood, walking with long strides through the crush of traffic, the lumbering buses, the mass of pedestrians, reached the approach to London Bridge.
Shalimar’s, an Oriental carpet and curio importing firm, lay on the other side.
The sun shone warmly, the river surface shimmered, the dozen ships in the pool of London were all being worked, booms and cranes and derricks clanged, some holds were being emptied, some being filled. In the distance, against the clear blue sky, Tower Bridge looked like an illustration out of a history book.
Greenwood stood in the middle of London Bridge, staring down. Ships and buildings and the bridge itself were reflected in the water, but all he could see was Margaret’s face, all he could hear was Margaret’s voice screaming “Eric!” His hands were tightly clenched, his lips set and thin, his eyes screwed up. Everywhere he could see and hear her, a never-fading reminder of the fact that she was dead.
They had met here, on this bridge, feeding gulls.
He could remember that meeting, over two years ago.
She had been alone on a warm summer’s day, lovely, sweet, and desirable. He would never understand what had happened to him; how utterly he had surrendered to her attractiveness. Nor would he understand the absolute nature of her surrender to him. It was almost as if on the instant of meeting they had known that their stars had ordained their union.
Her husband had been away in the tropics, on a three-year contract with an engineering firm, wives not being allowed on the project. Their three children had a young woman to take care of them by day, so th
at she herself could work.
“I love coming to the City.”
“I do, too.”
“I always feed the gulls here, winter and summer.”
His hand had closed over hers. “I wonder if—”
“Yes?”
“You’re free for lunch.”
“Oh, how lovely.”
Lovely, lovely, lovely. Free for lunch, free for dinner, free for cinema, theatre, supper, free for bed and free for laughter; free and yet no threat to freedom. They had made a world of their own, using his bachelor flat in Camberwell, free from observation, prying eyes, and her husband; always free. Until Geoffrey Entwhistle had come home.
Greenwood felt drawn toward the river’s siren call, as if he could hear it whispering, “You have only to come to me, and I will give you rest.”
He started, becoming aware of the fact that he had lost count of time. A pleasant-faced young woman was staring at him with some concern. He walked on hurriedly, knowing that she was watching him, well aware of his attractiveness to women. There had been a time when this had been both a satisfaction and an anxiety to him; he had always been afraid of the obligation of love and marriage. With Margaret, he had felt he had everything; then suddenly it had been snatched away from him. He had realized the danger the moment her husband had returned.
At the end of the bridge Greenwood bought an Evening News and stood staring down at a photograph of Margaret - lovely Margaret. God! There was a copy of this very photograph at his flat, standing on the radio. Had anyone else seen it? He had no daily help, but - panic rose in him again, driving away the remorse and the grief. He read: