Gideon Combats Influence

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  Gideon Combats Influence

  First published in 1960

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1960-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755126386 9780755126385 Print

  0755133838 9780755133833 Kindle

  0755134230 9780755134236 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  Need for Decision

  “He did it all right,” Appleby said. “The question is, can we make it stick?”

  Gideon did not answer. He sat, massive and pugnacious-looking, with the bright light from the window which overlooked the Thames shining on his thick grey hair, which was combed straight back from his forehead, and on his strong, rather rugged face. The light made his eyes glint, and put one side of his face into shadow.

  Appleby, an older, thinner man, white-haired and balding, had just looked in on his way home. It was after six o’clock, and Appleby, near retirement, seldom stayed late these days; the work of Scotland Yard had worn him thin and anxious. He stood with his back to the window, one hand stretched out rather like an orator impatient to make his point.

  “If you ask me, it would be a mistake to prosecute, George. You can’t afford to risk a not-guilty verdict. We had those two last year, and we haven’t stopped being laughed at since. And Borgman’s too big. He’s got too many influential friends and far too much money. Damn it, he owns a newspaper, a book publishing business, he’s in newsprint, magazines, commercial T.V., films—he’s the cat’s whiskers, and don’t you forget it. It’s no use telling me that the law for the rich and the poor is the same, either.”

  In his deep voice, but mildly, Gideon said: “I didn’t know I was telling you anything.”

  “What I say is, it’s better to let him go and watch him. If he ever tries again, we’ll get him then, even if I’m not here to see it, but the fact that we’re watching him will clip his wings.”

  “Will it?”

  “You know it will, George. Here’s a chap with everything to lose by crossing swords with us, and nothing to win. What he wants is a fright: scare the wits out of him, and he’ll behave himself. Would you like to spend the best part of your life in quod knowing that if you were outside you could spend money like water?”

  “I see what you mean,” Gideon conceded.

  “What you mean is, you don’t agree with me,” said Appleby disgustedly. “It isn’t often I disagree with you, either, but you can chalk this up as one of the occasions. At the most you ought to keep digging and see if you can turn up anything more to make the case stronger; it’ll be asking for trouble to go on what you’ve got now. There’s one good thing,” Appleby added, almost smugly. “The P.P.’s office will stop you, even if you can persuade the Old Man that you ought to put Borgman in dock. I’ve spent most of the afternoon going over the evidence, and we simply haven’t got enough on him; there are far too many ways he can dodge. And he’d have the best counsel in the country—Percy Richmond, for a fortune. Remember the last time Percy got his teeth into one of our chaps at the Old Bailey—poor old Fred Lee? Fred’s never really recovered from it, he’s nothing like the man he was—always jittery in case he does the wrong thing, or forgets something. You’d probably have to go in the box yourself on this case, remember.”

  “Wouldn’t want anyone else to,” Gideon declared.

  “Be a fool if you didn’t try to get a stooge,” said Appleby. He moved back to the window and leaned against it, his face shadowed against the light, but his eyes very bright; he spoke with unusual vehemence, for obviously this meant a great deal to him. “George, I’ve been in this dump for forty years. I’ve seen every kind of mistake made a hundred times. I’ve felt like hell about some, and laughed up my sleeve at others, but I don’t want to see you make a bloody fool of yourself. Bigger the man, harder the fall. It’s not only a personal matter, either. If I were to get slapped down, or held up to ridicule by Percy Richmond, or if one of the other superintendents copped it, we would get over it. But you’re the great infallible of the Yard—”

  “Dry up, Jim.”

  “Well, that’s what the public have come to think, and you know as well as I do that the Yard lives by its reputation. More people associate you with the Department than they do anyone else, and you mustn’t take a risk of being smacked down by a smooth-voiced Q.C.”

  Gideon moved back in his chair.

  “Not even if it means letting a murderer get away with it?”

  “I could name a dozen killers who’ve never been tried. What’s new?”

  “Nothing’s new,” Gideon agreed, “but I don’t want Borgman to go free because he’s rich and influential. If he was a poor man, wouldn’t you advise me to have a go at him?”

  “He wouldn’t have a genius to get him off, then,” Appleby declared.

  “Perhaps not,” conceded Gideon, placing his large hands on the desk in front of him, and pressing them down lightly; the fingers were broad and the tips rather blunt, but the nails were well-shaped and well-kept, and the matt of dark hairs on the back of the fingers added to the impression of strength. “I don’t know what I’m going to recommend yet, Jim—I’ve got until tomorrow morning to decide. If I could have a free night for a change, I might be abl
e to decide the right way.” He gave his rather slow grin, bur there was no smile in his eyes. “You’ve known the truth for as long as I have, and now there’s hope of establishing it. Borgman killed his wife, inherited her money, and married another wealthy woman inside a year. Really want to let him get away with it in case we get a slap in the face?”

  “George, if I thought there was a fifty-fifty chance of fixing the devil, I’d give half my pension for it, but the first wife died over four years ago. There’s been no real evidence until this last month or so. Now we know for certain that the nurse who attended the first Mrs B. had been Borgman’s mistress for a year or more, and continued to be for six months. Then he married the present Mrs B. and there’s evidence—of another nurse who made a statement on her death-bed—that just before Borgman’s second marriage his mistress was paid off with a thousand quid, and she hated his guts. She told this other nurse, an old friend of hers, that Borgman had given his first wife an overdose of morphia.”

  “Trying to argue that it doesn’t sound feasible?” demanded Gideon.

  “Of course it’s feasible, and of course it happened, but all you’ve got is a statement by an old woman who died just after making it. It isn’t even hearsay evidence.”

  “It’s enough to make me want to talk to that nurse who was Borgman’s mistress, and could have helped him to murder his wife because she had hopes of becoming the future Mrs B.,” said Gideon.

  “Nothing to stop you trying,” conceded Appleby, “but the nurse emigrated and got married; we don’t know her married name—she might be dead for all we know. And even if we found her, we couldn’t fix extradition on the strength of what we’ve got. You’re doing what you’re always telling us poor mugs not to do—just guessing,” Appleby jeered.

  Now Gideon grinned.

  “Call it a hunch,” he conceded. “Jim, you’re probably right, and the Public Prosecutor’s Office won’t go ahead with it even if I could carry the Old Man and our legal department along with me. They’ll all agree with you—the new facts don’t really strengthen the case. They wouldn’t prosecute before and they won’t now. But I thought they should have prosecuted even then.” He stood up with a single movement, unexpectedly brisk, and looked huge behind the desk, his six feet carrying his great breadth of shoulder well. “That telephone hasn’t rung for a quarter of an hour—must be a record. Let me get out of here before it starts. I promised Kate I’d try to go with her to a film tonight.” He stretched out for his hat, which was on a stand at one side of the desk, while Appleby stayed by the window, as if he wanted to go on protesting. “Come on, Jim. Let me drive you home, and you can get the rest off your chest on the way.”

  “It’ll just be a waste of time,” Appleby grumbled, but he moved to the door, picking up a bowler hat as he went. In the empty passage, his stride was as long as Gideon’s, although he looked only half as broad. “You haven’t another reliable witness and you’ve got to face that, George. The doctor gave a certificate—the woman was likely to die anyhow—and once a doctor’s signed his name he won’t retract. In any case, you’d be asking him to remember details of something that happened some years ago, and old Percy would make hay of him, too.”

  They were swinging along the passage, Gideon planting his feet down with a thump and leaning forward slightly; Appleby inclined to walk on his heels. A door at the end of the passage opened and a small man hurried out, and stood aside at sight of Gideon.

  “Good-evening, sir.”

  “Evening. Everything all right?” Gideon asked.

  From inside the room, a man called: “That you, Gee-Gee?”

  “No,” Gideon retorted.

  “Half a mo’,” the caller boomed, and a moment later he appeared at the open door, a middle-aged man with reddish hair and the look of an Irishman, although there was not a trace of brogue in his voice. “Everything’s clear in your notes except the bit about Tiny Bray.”

  “Ever known anything about Tiny to be clear?” asked Gideon.

  “Did he say that we could expect that furriers job to be pulled at Leventhal’s or not?”

  “He said it might. I didn’t want the Division warned because we’ve had false alarms before, and old Hoppy’s a bit sore at the moment,” Gideon explained. “I shouldn’t talk to the Division unless Tiny rings up again, if I were you. Just have a couple of our chaps near Leventhal’s.”

  “Accidental like,” the red-haired man said dryly.

  “They could have been round to see that Robson woman about her missing husband,” Gideon suggested.

  “We know that if those furs aren’t raided by midnight they won’t be tonight—you can work it without upsetting Hoppy.”

  “About time he was put out to grass,” remarked the Irish-looking man, Superintendent O’Leary, and then realised how near Appleby was, and gave an infectious grin. “No offence meant—we could use you for another ten years!”

  “Wis there iver sech a man wid his blarney?” riposted Appleby. “Come on, George, or you’ll be doing his work for him all night, as usual.”

  He went on. Gideon and O’Leary nodded, with complete understanding, and Gideon followed Appleby, who had nothing to say when they reached the lift. It was empty, at their floor. Appleby opened it, stepped inside, and then let go a broadside: “If you exhume Borgman’s first wife, you’ll be starting a load of trouble for yourself, and the rest of us. Why don’t you wake up to it? I tell you I’ve checked everything. You’ve had three of our chaps and the Division working on this for three weeks, ever since the old nurse made her dying statement, and they haven’t been able to dig up anything except the fact that the nurse was Borgman’s mistress.”

  “Keep trying,” Gideon urged. “Find out where she went and who she married and where she is now.”

  “George, what have you got on Borgman? What makes you think you could make a case stick?”

  The lift stopped.

  “He did it,” Gideon said simply.

  He dropped Appleby near Chelsea Town Hall, and then headed through the thin evening traffic towards Fulham and his home at Hurlingham. He drove, as always, with extreme care because he was so preoccupied. He was a deliberate man by nature, and the range and intricacy of his work as Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard made him think not twice but thrice about every decision he made. His ability to think quickly without becoming careless made him outstanding, although he was the last man to believe that he was exceptional or infallible.

  But he knew that he was good at his job.

  It was late September. He had been back a week from two weeks’ holiday on the Continent, and his face still had some Swiss mountain tan. The holiday had done him a lot of good, slackening a year’s build-up of tension. He could have done with twice as long, but it had been the first real break for years. September had been a quiet month at the Yard; for some inexplicable reason it often was; rather as if the men on the other side of the battle Gideon was always fighting also needed a holiday.

  Of the inquiries into big cases which had started before he had left England, only one had remained ‘five’ when he returned: the Borgman case. He had been uneasy about it from the beginning. The old nurse might possibly have spoken without being certain, but death-bed statements were usually reliable, even though they weren’t evidence. There was no personal motive for her making such a statement to implicate Borgman and his mistress, a woman now in her thirties, whose name had been Kennett – Jane Kennett. The fact that she had emigrated had been significant; she had apparently tried to get lost.

  There was the hazy possibility that she was dead, and if she was, Gideon wanted to know how she had died. Long before the dying statement, the police had been suspicious about the death of Borgman’s first wife, without having a hope of making a case. That had rankled in Gideon. No one had given morphine poisoning a thought, though
; Borgman’s wife had been involved in a serious motor accident, and there had been some reason to suspect that the brakes on her car had been tampered with, and a certain amount of circumstantial evidence that Borgman himself had tampered with them. In those days he had had a chauffeur-gardener, but driven his and his wife’s car himself a great deal; and he was a good mechanic. The new information about a morphine overdose had come out of the blue, and was an indictment of the officers who had investigated. Someone had slipped up badly; the relationship between Borgman and Nurse Kennett should have been discovered years ago.

  To get confirmation of morphine poisoning, there must be an exhumation; but because Borgman’s wife had been in great pain, two doctors had given her morphine at different times. Each would testify to that; so to give the case a strong foundation an exceptional quantity of the drug would have to be found; even if it were, a good defence could put sufficient doubt into the minds of the jury to nullify its importance – unless Nurse Kennett could be found and would testify. Appleby couldn’t be more right, but that didn’t alter Gideon’s opinion about John Borgman, once a poor man but very wealthy since inheriting his first wife’s money. He owned race-horses and an oceangoing yacht, was the friend of many people in high places, as well-known as any film star and in some ways better liked. And he was getting away with murder …

  “… if I’m right,” Gideon admitted to himself, and turned into the street where he had lived for nearly thirty years, since the day when he had brought Kate here, as a young bride. He drew up outside the house, got out, and looked at the woodwork; it could do with repainting; the outside hadn’t been done for two years, and, smoke-free zone or not, paint soon became black in London. He was very proud of the house, and liked to keep it spick and span. It was one of a terrace, and the white paint showed up the dull red brick. He pushed open the iron gate, detected a slight squeak, told himself that if he didn’t get busy with the oil-can it would become really noisy; then the door opened and Kate appeared. Gideon saw her face light up at sight of him, and that did him good; he wasn’t surprised when she said: “Hallo, dear. The Yard’s on the telephone for you.”