by John Creasey
At last the Chairman Bishop said, “Mr. Lemaitre, we have two decisions to make, and in one of them we shall be guided by your advice.” He paused, to cough. “Simply this: there is a certain amount of evidence to suggest that the emergency is over, and that the police have made so many arrests that there is little more to fear. It has been suggested that we should not continue with our precautions; at the same time, we do not want to take any grave risk. What is your opinion?”
“Shouldn’t think there’s any risk for the smaller places,” Lemaitre answered promptly. “Wouldn’t like to say the same about the cathedrals and the Abbey while this chap Marriott is about. He’s liable to try anything.”
“But you think we can safely relax the vigilance at the smaller churches? It will be a great relief to many people who are freely giving time they can ill afford to spare.”
“Relax it slowly,” advised Lemaitre. “You can’t be absolutely sure Marriott hasn’t got a special hate. He was a member of the C. of E. once.” He sat back, satisfied and pleased with himself, now quite at home. “What’s the other problem?”
“That is one of a rather more delicate nature,” the Bishop said. “We are, all of us, concerned for the men who have been arrested. We know they have committed grievous offences, against the law and against the churches we represent, but nevertheless they are human beings. There are rumours of very undue pressure being brought to bear on them, so as to make them talk. . .”
Lemaitre slapped his hand on the table, loudly enough to betray his anger.
“I soon told them where to get off,” he reported to Hobbs, an hour later. “Undue pressure, with Gideon in control! I let ‘em have it, I can tell you.”
“They don’t know Gideon as well as you do,” Hobbs said dryly. “How about the cathedrals and the Abbey? Have you doubled our patrols on them?”
“Yep! Every place of vantage is covered, there’s no need to worry about that.”
“Good,” said Hobbs, trying to force enthusiasm into his voice. “Now, why don’t you go and get some sleep? You’ve been at it night and day too long.”
“Like an echo of Gee-Gee, you are,” remonstrated Lemaitre. “If it’s okay by you, that’s what I’ll do.”
He went off a few minutes later, and as soon as he had gone Hobbs pulled the telephone toward him and told the operator, “I will be out for the rest of the day. Don’t try to find me. I’ll call in from time to time.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“I’m in a hurry,” Hobbs said irritably.
“There’s a call from Paris coming through for you now, sir. From Mr. Gideon. Will you take it?”
Hobbs sat down heavily. “Yes. Put him through.” Almost immediately there came a voice speaking in almost incomprehensible French, followed by Gideon, saying, “Are you there, Scotland Yard? Are you—”
“No one’s blown us up yet,” Hobbs said mildly.
“Who - oh, Alec. Alec,” repeated Gideon, “I’ve been looking through one of the catalogues put out by Marriott’s pyrotechnics firm. They make warning lights, miniature Very lights as well as fireworks, and some of them are very small. They’ve two or three varieties which expel a pellet which only catches fire on contact. That’s the kind of thing Marriott might use if he can’t get close enough to the place he wants to damage. So all points of vantage from galleries at any height want close watching.”
“I’m going to have them checked personally,” Hobbs said.
In a few minutes, he was on his way.
He went first to Westminster Abbey, up into all the galleries, where plain-clothes men as well as churchmen were on duty twenty-four hours a day. He was accompanied by the Dean himself, for once unmoved by the transcending beauty of the church as he pointed out every likely place from which great damage could be done. It seemed to Hobbs that the greatest harm would be caused from the Muniment Room, from which the High Altar and the Sanctuary could be seen, and he stationed two more men there. He went to the Roman Catholic Cathedral, doubled the police guard at the gallery entrances, and was assured by the head sacristan that every possible precaution was being taken. Satisfied, Hobbs drove to St. Paul’s.
It was crowded with tourists.
He went first to the higher galleries and then to the Whispering Gallery, the most obvious place from which to attack the High Altar at a distance. The whole length seemed to be alive with murmurings as of the waves of the sea. Hundreds of people were there, young and old, English and European, American and Asian, most of them apparently intent on the wonder of the great dome and intrigued by the way in which every sound reverberated. There was a German party at the main entrance.
Hobbs went to the outdoor gallery where men stood on duty, making sure no one could climb the columns supporting the dome or approach from the roof of the nave. It was a pleasant day. No one seemed to notice the plain-clothes men. He went back into the gallery and walked about it, peering through the intricate wrought-iron work, deciding that the view immediately opposite the High Altar was likely to be the danger spot. From here, so much of the Cathedral was vulnerable.
Then he saw a weakness in their defence.
The plain-clothes men were always on the move, mixing with tourists while paying particular attention to any man on his own. Yet it would take Marriott only a second to point an ejector such as Gideon had mentioned and aim from the gallery opposite the altar. If a man were so to aim he would undoubtedly want to be as central as he could, to make sure he caused the greatest possible damage. Hobbs checked this position, doubled back, and went up to the Chief Inspector in charge of the police on duty.
He said in an aloof way, “Why aren’t you carrying out Mr. Lemaitre’s instructions accurately?”
The man was Detective Inspector Goodways of the City Police, under the Yard’s authority for this particular task. He was big, middle-aged, experienced, and well trained, and he replied at once, “I thought we were, sir.”
“Two men ought to be over there,” Hobbs pointed to the central vantage point. “Didn’t Mr. Lemaitre give those precise instructions? I’m sure he did.”
“Er—”
“All right, if you forgot you forgot,” Hobbs said. “Make sure the men are there from now on. And watch out for any man who appears to be taking a photograph through the railings, or for anyone who puts his hands to his pocket - or inside his jacket - where he might keep something to throw.”
“Very good, sir.” Goodways showed no sign of his resentment
Hobbs went off, knowing he had left the man fuming inwardly, but considering it worthwhile. It might be hard on this man, but it would do him no harm; whereas if anything were to go wrong because of a glaring oversight by Lemaitre, it would have grave repercussions on Gideon’s chief assistant and Lemaitre would never forgive himself. Hobbs already glimpsed something of the way Gideon got the best out of his men, and he had a feeling that Gideon would approve of what he had done today.
Hobbs left the Cathedral, still worried, but unable to see anything more he could do.
As he went down the steps opposite the Great West Door, a touring party of Germans or Austrians came up. One of them moved from one side to join the main group, but Hobbs saw nothing strange in that and flagged down a taxi.
Hector Marriott went in with the crowd of tourists.
Marriott waited until the group was dispersing after being shown the American Roll of Honour and the Tijou Sanctuary Screens, then made his way toward the entrance to the winding staircase leading to the Whispering Gallery. He looked about him all the time, knowing that many of the people nearby were police and cathedral guards, fully aware that he would have only a second or two in which to carry out his mission. He did not hurry even when he reached the gallery but went round to the section above the choir, bent down to look through the railings, pointed his camera, and pretended to take pictures. Then he strolled round toward the spot where Hobbs had stationed the two men. Nearby was Detective Inspector Goodways, still smarting, still not su
re whether he had indeed misunderstood Lemaitre - or whether Lemaitre had forgotten to tell him.
He watched the solitary tourist who had both hands on the camera with the very long lens attachments. He noticed, with his extra sensitiveness acquired in the past fifteen minutes, that this man seemed to be particularly intent. It was unusual for a German or an Austrian to break away from a group. Alerted, Goodways stepped forward as the man reached a spot exactly opposite the High Altar. The two detectives stationed at the rail moved forward too. None of them really suspected this man; they were simply taking precautions.
He bent down.
“Excuse me, sir,” Detective Inspector Goodways said.
As he spoke, he saw the other’s body tense, saw that instead of straightening up, as would normally have been the case, he bent lower, thrusting the lens with determined calculation through the wrought iron. On that instant Goodways realized the awful truth. He let out a great bellow and leapt forward. At the same moment an eerie booming filled the gallery and the great dome, echoing and echoing to the clamour of the oncoming police. Goodways grabbed the strap of the “camera”, jolting the man backward, saw the lens pointing to the roof, and waited breathlessly for the roar he feared would come.
The “camera” dropped from Marriott’s hands. He twisted round, glaring at his assailant. Goodways pulled again at the strap but Marriott suddenly ducked, put his head through the loop, and raced for the exit. He thrust one policeman aside, dodging and turning from others blocking his path. People were shouting, children screaming, there was pandemonium in the gallery and down in the great nave.
Marriott saw one chance: the outer gallery. He ran toward it with police pounding after him. He got through. Beyond was the mighty panorama of London, the shimmering Thames, the great new buildings, the countless spires; in the distance, far beyond the great bridges of Blackfriars, Waterloo and Hungerford, were the outlines of Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and the Abbey.
Footsteps thudded behind him.
Without a moment’s hesitation he climbed onto the stone balustrade, poised, and dived downward.
25: GIDEON’S HOPE
Gideon stepped off the plane at London Airport on Wednesday evening, was given all assistance in a perfunctory passage through Customs, and saw Lemaitre among the crowd at the rail beyond the Customs bay. Lemaitre, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, pumped Gideon’s arm and led him away.
“How are the ladies of Paris these days? . . . Okay, don’t tell me, don’t tell me . . . Had a good trip? . . . Things have gone just right here, George. Had a bit of trouble with the hashish, Golightly’s onto something there . . . Found where those girls go to, too . . . Yes, fact. They get drugs in tobacco from a little spot in the Middle East, can’t say where in public or it would start a war . . . Excuse me, madam ... In return, our white-slave hero, Bottelli, shipped girls over for the enjoyment and edification of European gentlemen who can’t get all they want in Europe . . . Fact, George. They sign an agreement and go over as chorus girls. Yes, we’ve talked to some of them . . . First of all Bottelli made a selection, then after doping the kids he took his pictures, after which he did his deal with them . . . Eh?”
They were getting into his car. Gideon said, “What about the Dalby girl?”
“She’s okay now. Needs time to recover but the medicos say she won’t remember much.”
“The three dead girls?”
“They threatened to talk, so he gave ‘em an overdose of Veronal - young Rhodes got the drug for him.”
“Does Bottelli admit that?”
“Yes. Rollo worked a miracle on him.”
Gideon grunted as he sat back in the car. “Anything else?”
“Entwhistle was committed for trial this morning, at the Old Bailey. He did it all right”
“Looks like it,” Gideon said slowly, conscious of a stirring within him, faint but persistent.
“The hashish and the tobacco have been coming in by air, so I’ve just been talking to the Airport Police and Customs . . . No problem. The church trouble’s a thing of the past,” Lemaitre rattled on airily. “And we’re the white-haired boys of the ecclesiastical pundits. Makes a nice change!”
Gideon said, “Did Marriott say anything?”
“Didn’t have time. He broke his neck.”
Gideon said gravely, “You did a very neat job, Lem.”
“Not so bad, was I?” said Lemaitre, not attempting to assume humility. “I’ll tell you one thing, George.”
“What?”
“Alec Hobbs isn’t such a bad old basket.”
Gideon glanced round quickly. “Getting on all right?”
“Better than I expected. Everyone seems to like him after all. Doesn’t throw his weight about as much as we expected he would, and he’s on the ball, believe me, he’s on the ball. Know what I think, George?”
“Go on.”
“In a funny way, his wife’s death helped. Everyone felt sorry about it and if you ask me, it’s made him a bit more human.”
“I dare say you’re right,” said Gideon slowly. “Anything new come along?”
“Nothing to worry about,” said Lemaitre. “The Old Man wants to see you at ten o’clock in the morning, I can tell you that.”
Sir Reginald Scott-Marie was at his desk when Gideon went to the office next morning. He stood up at once to shake hands, then motioned to a chair.
“How did the gold affair go, George?”
“As far as I can judge it’s a storm in a teacup,” Gideon reported. “Nothing that each country can’t handle for itself with a bit of help from Interpol. Most of the others seemed to agree by the time the conference was over.”
“Oh,” said Scott-Marie. “Pity you went, then.”
“Not a bit,” said Gideon. “It cleared the air - and it enabled Hobbs and Lemaitre to get to know each other better.”
“That’s most encouraging,” said Scott-Marie. “I’m very glad.”
Gideon went down to his own office and found the usual pile of reports on his desk, including a request for him to telephone his opposite number in the City of London Police. He put a call in at once.
“Hallo, George,” the other man said. “Bring any Paris lovelies back with you? . . . Sly old devil . . . I wanted a word about one of our chaps, Detective Inspector Goodways, the man who stopped Marriott shooting in St. Paul’s.”
“What about him?” asked Gideon.
“I’d like to recommend him for the George Medal, he took a hell of a risk. But he seems to think you chaps at the Yard have a down on him . . . Eh? . . . Well, apparently Hobbs tore a strip off him because he’d forgotten something Lemaitre didn’t tell him to do . . . Yes, I said didn’t . . .”
The City man explained in some detail, and in the course of the recital the obvious truth dawned on Gideon: that Hobbs had chosen this way to cover up the one essential thing which Lemaitre had overlooked. He was smiling broadly by the time the City man had finished.
Then: “Put through the commendation. We’ll gladly support it.”
“Splendid!” the City man enthused. “I didn’t think you would disappoint our Dean.”
Gideon said, puzzled: “Dean? What Dean?”
“Howcroft,” said the other. “He seems to have formed a high opinion of you; and he’s very pro-Goodways. By the way, he’s coming to see you this afternoon.”
“Goodways?”
“No. Dean Howcroft.”
“Oh,” said Gideon.
Howcroft arrived, by appointment, in the middle of the afternoon. His white hair was silkier and more pure-looking than ever, and his face had acquired, or resumed, a kind of gentleness, as of peace after storm. He sat down opposite Gideon, studied him closely, and then said, “Commander, the Council of Advisers would be most grateful for more advice from you.”
“Anything I can do,” said Gideon, warily.
“We are quite sure of that,” said Howcroft. “We have all the warmest appreciation of your attitude and
your good counsel. It is simply this. Since Marriott died as he did - I cannot help feeling that it was a merciful deliverance, for his trial would have been a most distressing cause celebre - the members of his sect are, for the most part, without funds. We have discovered that most of them served God in their own way, however dreadfully mistaken that way was, and lived on a very modest stipend - paid by Marriott.”
Gideon said, “I gathered he was rich.”
“He was indeed. However, he left nothing to them in a will, having died intestate. At a very lengthy session this morning, all members of the Council of Advisers felt that we should contribute toward the cost of their defence. They were shamefully misguided, but—” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “Do you have any opinion about this proposal?”
Gideon sat back in his chair, contemplating the old man intently before he said, “Yes, Dean Howcroft, I have. I think it’s very warming indeed. I only hope the day will come when all people of all religions will feel the way you and the Council do now. Then the world will really be a place to live in.”
The old man’s smile was both gentle and serene. “And you would be out of a job! But I felt sure you would feel like that,” the Dean went on. “What a remarkably understanding man you are.”
Gideon shuffled uncomfortably, as he was apt to do in the high moments of his life.
Late that evening he tried to find the words to tell Kate what Howcroft had said; she was the only person in the world whom he could possibly tell. The words wouldn’t come - but Penelope did, bright-eyed and excited. There was to be a special mid-term examination for the near-misses, and she was to sit for it. She was sure she would pass this time.
Soon, Gideon’s home resounded to the joyousness of her playing.
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