From Murder To A Cathedral

by John Creasey

“Thrown a cordon round the place.”

  “Not too close, I hope.”

  “Complete coverage, but it can’t arouse suspicions,” Rollo assured him. “Look.” He picked up a sectional map of North London, drawn on a much larger scale than the one Lemaitre had taken to Scott-Marie, and pointed. “There’s the shop - in the High Street. It’s halfway along the block. There’s a service road behind it, there.” The service road was marked clearly. “There’s the back of the shop and the living quarters above. Follow?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve men in parked cars in the High Street, and they took up their posts one at a time. We’ve men in the side streets whom Bottelli can’t see.” He paused. “We’ve four men in the service road, covered by garages and outhouses so that they can’t be seen either. At a signal they can all converge on the back yard. The service alley can then be sealed off.”

  “Roof?” Gideon asked.

  “There’s a roof light. We’ve also planted a man on the roof at the end buildings of the block.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “A straight move in from the front,” said Rollo. “Provided Bottelli isn’t given any warning, I don’t see that he can do much. Golightly’s over there, in charge. He agrees with me.”

  Gideon didn’t speak.

  “I can’t see Bottelli putting up much of a fight,” Rollo went on. “It’s one thing to play around with a camera and a lot of girls in the altogether, but when he realizes what he’s up against, he’ll just cave in.”

  “Sure he’s there?” asked Gideon.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure the girl’s there?”

  “A girl’s there all right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Rollo said, with a funny kind of smile, perhaps one of distaste. “There’s a Peeping Tom in a room opposite. A few weeks ago he got an eyeful - he says there’s a room of mirrors over Bottelli’s shop and he thought he was seeing a nude beauty contest, but he wasn’t. There was a man, too, and our Peeping Tom tumbled to the fact that he was seeing what’s what. Ever since then, he’s watched hopefully. The curtains are usually drawn by day and by night, but they’re open occasionally and he’s seen a girl in bed in the mirror room today.”

  Gideon said slowly, “It looks good enough.” He paused, but Rollo didn’t interrupt. “Better do as you say,” he agreed at last, “but take a couple of women officers along, have a doctor handy, and don’t take any chances.”

  “I tell you the swab will give in the moment he realizes that he’s up against us,” Rollo said.

  Gideon thought, I hope you’re right. He didn’t say it aloud, because it would serve no purpose; and he was sure Rollo would be as thorough as any man in the Force. He and Golightly between them were almost unbeatable, and to adjure them to be careful or to be thorough would be to treat them like children.

  He was a little uneasy, but not worried - not to say worried.

  Sally was crying.

  They were not deep sobs, yet they were in earnest. She was unhappy and afraid, although she did not know why. The reason was simple: she did not yet know that Toni was drugging her, that she was becoming more and more dependent on the drugs and was happy only when she was under their influence. Now she felt as if she were going to die; she had never known such despair. It was an hour or more since Toni had been with her. In one way she longed to see him again; in another, she shrank from it.

  Sometimes he hurt her so. Sometimes—

  Tears flooded her eyes, stinging them, and her sobbing became louder. She did not hear Toni come in and so did not see his expression, until suddenly he slapped her across the face and rasped, “Be quiet!”

  She gasped and shrank back on the pillows.

  “Get up and get dressed,” he ordered.

  She was trembling with pain and fear, and did not move.

  “Get a move on!” he shouted at her, and slapped her again. “Get your clothes on, we’re going away.”

  “But - But - But, Toni—”

  He snatched the bedclothes off her, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her out of bed, naked but for a bed jacket which barely reached her waist.

  “Get dressed!” he roared. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll leave you dead.”

  As he spoke, he drew an automatic pistol from his pocket.

  22: THE PISTOL

  Sally Dalby saw the gun, squat and ugly in Toni’s hand, and she screamed. For a moment she thought he was going to shoot her, then she was afraid that he would strike her with the weapon. She staggered toward a cupboard, pulled open the door, and dragged out her clothes. As she did so there was the sharp ring of a bell.

  She gasped, “What’s that?”

  “Shut up!” Toni kept the gun in his right hand, and motioned to her with his left. “Put the light out.”

  “What—”

  “Put it out!”

  She scurried across the room to the door and pushed the switch up as he reached the window. The sudden darkness frightened her still more. Her breathing was laboured, and so was his. She heard a rustle of sound, and faint light came into the room; he had pulled the curtains back and was looking out. She could see the outline of his head and shoulders as he pressed close to the window. Suddenly there was another ring, and Sally jumped wildly.

  Toni muttered something, but her teeth were chattering and she did not hear him. The curtains were drawn again, and he called, “Put the light on.”

  Light? What light? What—

  “Put the light on!” he screeched at her. She remembered where she was standing and touched the switch. The light, dazzling, showed him nearly halfway across the room, his gun still in his hand. “Get your clothes on!” he yelled. “The cops are here.”

  Cops?

  As his face twisted in rage and alarm, she had never been more afraid of him. Suddenly she began to scramble into her clothes, hardly knowing what she was doing. Bra, panties, slacks, sweater—

  “Get a move on!” He flung a pair of moccasins at her and she thrust her feet into them.

  “What - what do the police want?”

  “You, you silly bitch!”

  “I - I don’t know anything, I can’t help the police.”

  “Can’t you?” he said, sneeringly; and then, his voice suddenly sharpening, “Well, you can help me.”

  “Toni, how?”

  “You’re going to find out. Come on.”

  He pulled open the door, and as he did so sounds travelled freely up from the passage alongside the side entrance. Banging, hammering, and voices in a demanding medley. Once, a sentence sounded clearly: “Open in the name of the law.”

  “. . . fools,” Toni muttered.

  Still holding her, he reached a spot on the landing beneath a hatch, and she saw a ladder against the wall. He drew this forward, and thrust her toward it.

  “Go up, quickly.”

  “No! I can’t stand heights, I—”

  “Go up!” He gripped her roughly and she began to climb, holding desperately to the side of the ladder. He followed, half lifting, half shoving her whenever she flagged. As her head touched the hatch, he pushed her furiously upward. “Lever that hatch up.”

  Terrified to defy him, terrified to let go even with one hand, and trembling violently, Sally eased the hatch open. There were thudding noises and heavy blows downstairs. Toni stretched past her, pressing hard as he flung the hatch back. Cold air swirled round them, snatching at Sally’s hair.

  “Climb out,” Toni ordered. She obeyed blindly, scrambling onto a flat section of the roof, then onto a slanting section. Twice she slipped; each time he stopped her from falling back.

  Along the side of the roof, overlooking the street, was a narrow ledge. One slip from it would send them crashing to the ground a hundred feet below. Almost paralyzed with terror, teeth chattering, body quivering, Sally edged along it, crouching, hand touching the slates on one side, Toni, behind her, holding her other hand. Through her terror she tri
ed to speak.

  “What are you doing this for? What—”

  “Shut up and keep going.” After a moment, Toni went on. “I’ve got another shop along here, we—”

  As he spoke, a beam of light shot out from a roof on the other side of the street, shining steadily on him and the girl.

  Down on the pavement, opposite the tobacconist’s shop, a sergeant was talking to Rollo. Above, lights were flashing; inside, Golightly was leading the raid. Rollo, the younger and more powerful man, was out here to cover any escape. He heard a man call out with strident urgency, glanced up, and saw what looked like a moving ball of light, waving about. Then he realized that it was a beam of light shining on a girl’s head. Once he knew that, he could see that she was crouching low and that there was the dark figure of a man behind her. Along the street a policeman called, “Look!”

  “See that?” shouted another.

  “There’s a girl!”

  “See that man?”

  Rollo thought: now we could be in for trouble. Aloud, he said to the sergeant, “We need a fire escape and a catching net - fix it, quick.” He stepped farther into the road, put his hands to his mouth to make a megaphone and bellowed, “Don’t go any farther! Give yourself up!”

  The girl’s hair was swept back in the fierce wind; from the ground she looked quite beautiful.

  “You haven’t a chance!” Rollo bellowed. “Give yourself up.”

  He saw a movement without realizing its significance. He heard a screeching sound which might be coming from the girl - the next moment he saw a flash and almost simultaneously heard a bullet crack against the window behind him. The plate glass broke with a roar like an explosion. Apples and oranges and other fruit rolled about his feet, shifted by the falling glass. At the same time detectives appeared on the ledge some distance from the couple. The man with the girl must have seen them at the same time, for in the high voice of desperation he cried: “Don’t come any nearer, or I’ll push her off!”

  Sally was crouching with her mouth open, trying to utter screams which would not come. This was a nightmare; she was helpless in a nightmare - and yet she knew it was real, knew that Toni meant what he said. If the men came any nearer he would push her off. And if she fell, she would die.

  Rollo thought: he means it.

  There was that sixth sense, or presentiment, an instantaneous recognition of a situation which made the difference between being a good policeman and a brilliant one, being a good officer or a born leader. This man would push the girl off if he thought he was about to be attacked. There would be no reasoning with him. He had acted on impulse, driven by fear, and he would again. Almost without thinking Rollo weighed up the situation, knowing that the only hope lay in speed. He moved a pace, squashing fruit beneath his feet, realizing that the entire pavement and curb were covered with fruit of all kinds.

  The girl’s only hope lay in the speed with which the police could act.

  He stared up, able to pick out the man and the girl clearly. Two or three of the Divisional men came hurrying, and on the instant Rollo thought: it might work. The couple was within easy aiming distance.

  “Listen,” he said in a whisper. “Get more men, have everyone pick up apples and oranges, anything heavy enough to throw, and let him have it. Hurry!” Aloud, he bellowed: “You up there!”

  “Don’t come any nearer or I’ll push her over!” Bottelli screamed.

  “Let her go, and we’ll let you go!”

  “You can’t fool me. Call your men off! Call ‘em off the roof!”

  “I tell you we’ll let you go if you let her go!” Rollo shouted. He had half a dozen apples in his pockets and more cradled in one arm, and other men were also armed with fruit. In a whisper, he ordered, “Throw now.” On the “now” a hail of hard and soft fruit hurtled upward, smashing and spattering on the roof, on Sally, on Bottelli. The policemen below grabbed and hurled, grabbed and hurled, in a furious fusillade.

  Up on the ledge, Bottelli suddenly felt something soft splash against his cheeks, then something hard strike him on the chin; next a lucky shot struck the hand holding the gun. He snatched his free hand away from Sally to protect his face. The fruit struck her, terrifyingly, and crouching against the attack she sprawled, spread-eagled, against the slipping tiles. Golightly and two others who had climbed onto the roof, realizing their chance, scrambled forward. Held fast in the beams of torches from the opposite houses, Toni Bottelli fired two shots wildly into the street, then watched helplessly as the gun was struck from his hand.

  A detective-officer grabbed him.

  Ten minutes later Bottelli was being taken off in a Black Maria to the Divisional Station, and the girl, in sobbing hysteria, was being put into an ambulance for the nearest hospital. The policemen, newspapermen, firemen, and the people from the houses nearby heard the tires crunching over the rolling bananas and apples. Rollo, reaction setting in, began to laugh; once he had started, he couldn’t stop.

  Gideon heard the news at seven-thirty, when he was called by a detective sergeant, on instructions, from the dormitory bed he had slept on since five-thirty. While he showered he listened to a running commentary from the sergeant on what had happened during the night, then shaved with an electric razor - a method he disliked - and drank very hot tea. The funny side of the fusillade of fruit did not occur to him until later, but in a written report from Golightly there was a generous tribute: “But for Rollo’s spontaneous action I doubt if we would have saved the girl’s life.” Gideon went down to his office and put in a call to the Division, to inquire about the girl.

  “She’s under sedation at the hospital,” he was told.

  “The prisoner?”

  “He’ll be charged today, sir. Mr. Rollo said he would report to you by nine o’clock.”

  “All right,” said Gideon.

  No reports had come in yet from the night’s crimes. There would be the usual crop and he would have to get through them as best he could. The only case he really worried about was the campaign against the churches. It had become an obsession. Subconsciously, he knew, he was fighting against the Paris mission, but he doubted whether he could persuade Scott-Marie to send anyone else in his place - unless he would agree to send Hobbs, which might be a good thing for the new Deputy Commander. Gideon’s heart quite leapt at the thought. He was still deliberating whether to ask Scott-Marie when there was a tap at his door and Hobbs came in. Gideon had no time to hide his surprise.

  Hobbs smiled faintly. “I’m not a ghost, George.”

  “Er - no. Sorry. I didn’t think. Well anyway, I’m glad to see you.”

  “So I imagine. It’s been a rough night.”

  Gideon said gently, “Alec, you know how desperately sorry I am about Helen. If there’s a thing I can do, it’s as good as done. If you need to be busy for a few days with formalities and family affairs, forget the Yard.”

  Hobbs’s smile deepened. There was a quiet humour in it, a touch of irony, perhaps, in the twist of his lips.

  “Helen’s brother is looking after the formalities, such as they are.” He paused. “There is something you can do for me.” He stopped.

  Gideon looked at him steadily, but Hobbs did not go on. Gideon rounded his desk and said quietly, “Did Scott-Marie tell you I have to go to Paris on Sunday night?”

  Hobbs looked surprised. “No.”

  “Well, I have. A hush-hush conference. Would you like to go?”

  Hobbs said flatly, “No. But you’re on the right track.”

  “You must keep busy - yes.” Gideon brooded. “I think the next two or three days are going to be as busy and as harassing as I’ve ever known. But I won’t be here.”

  Hobbs didn’t speak.

  “Alec,” Gideon said, “if you’re under such severe emotional strain, can you stand the added burden of this as well?”

  Hobbs answered quickly, “Yes, I think so. What you can do for me, George, is to let me sit in on all this morning’s briefings, so that I can get a
n indication of all that’s going through. Then let me know your ideas about the cases. After that I’d like to plunge in deep.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Gideon said, “Right. Let’s get started.” He shifted his chair to one side, Hobbs pulled up another, and Gideon drew the reports to him and began to go through them, one by one. By the time they had finished it was nearly nine o’clock. Hobbs asked few questions and made few notes, but Gideon had no doubt that he had absorbed almost all there was to know about the cases. The arrest of Geoffrey Entwhistle was touched on but not discussed. The quality of Hobbs the detective was not in doubt, and Hobbs the executive officer was as established; but Hobbs the humanitarian - that was still a big question.

  He said, “We’ve only the one great anxiety then: the church crimes.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gideon.

  “I’d like to interrogate the two prisoners.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “And if they won’t say anything to me, I think they should be questioned by different officers, each officer with a different personality and approach. Lemaitre after me, perhaps, then Golightly, then Rollo. They shouldn’t be allowed to rest or to take it easy.”

  Gideon frowned. “No,” he said dubiously. “There’s no need to have them in court today. Of course, we can keep at them, but they must have a chance to send for a lawyer. We certainly can’t overdo the pressure. You know that as well as I do.”

  “They won’t send for a lawyer, for fear it would help us to identify them,” Hobbs reasoned. “And you’re too sentimental, George. They’ve got to be made to talk, and we have to bend every rule in the book to make them. Bend,” repeated Hobbs, looking very steadily at Gideon. “Not break.”

  Gideon returned the challenging gaze levelly.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get results by subjecting these two men to any particular kind of pressure. I think we’ve got to increase the effort in other ways.” He paused for a long moment and added: “Talk to Lem about it, will you? I think we should concentrate a lot more on out-of-the-way and little-known sects - what might be called the religious lunatic fringe.”