Gideon Combats Influence

by John Creasey

  She opened the door.

  Detective Officer Cyril Moss, of the NE Division, was a curious mixture of shyness and boldness, timidity and aggression. His chief quality as a detective had little to do with either fact, but much to do with his exceptional power of observation and his almost photographic mind. He had only to see a thing once to remember it; only to see a face and hear the name of its owner to be able to identify him at any time. He noticed the trivial and the unimportant as well as the vital, and he was beginning to learn how to distinguish between a thing that probably mattered a great deal, and one that hardly mattered at all. He was also learning how to go through everything he had noticed during the day, and place it in the right perspective.

  As far as it was possible to be sure, the attack on Tiny Bray had taken place at six thirty. Moss, who had been a police constable on this beat for three years before his transfer to the Criminal Investigation Department, had immediately asked himself who usually used Walker Cut about that time; and, also, who passed it at either end. The Cut was used mostly in the mornings and at about six o’clock at night; by half past six most of the homecoming people had passed. Along one side of the Cut was the wall of a warehouse, along the other the lower wall of one of the houses in Nixon Street. Facing the end that led into Nixon Street was the wall of a church building, dark and windowless at that point. So only people using the Cut were likely to notice anything that happened in it.

  Tiny Bray had been coming home from his casual job at the docks when he had been attacked.

  With great care Moss went through his mental card index, and recalled those people who often used the Cut about half past six: there were seven, including Rachel Gully. Moss reported this to a detective inspector, who told him to question all the possible witnesses. He had talked to five: only Rachel and an elderly man remained. Moss believed that the man was in hospital, and the station was having that checked. Meanwhile, he went straight to the Gully house.

  The first time he knocked, all he could hear was the booming of the television, but he had noticed that the volume was much louder after his knock than before; pretending not to hear was an old trick. He went away, joined in the general questioning of the people in Nixon Street and then returned to Number 17 after half an hour or so.

  The television was silent.

  He banged on the door, and prepared for a long wait. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that a little man who lived three doors away was peeping at him through a gap in heavily dyed lace curtains; and he was quite sure that the little man was one of Red Carter’s mob, although he doubted whether it could be proved. Everyone in NE Division knew about Red and his gang, but none of them could prove anything worthwhile. Moss simply registered the fact that a man who was attached to the Red Carter mob took special interest in his call at the Gully’s house.

  The door was jerked open at last.

  Ma Gully appeared, a mass of fat held together by a dirty flowered frock, her eyes buried in her flabby moon of a face. Moss knew at the first glance that she had been drinking; gin always went to her head, gave her the colour of beetroot, and made her very excitable.

  “Well, what do you want?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes and thrusting her face forward. “Caw bless me, if it isn’t that walking broomstick Mister Moss. What the flicking ’ell are you trying to break my front door down for, Mister Moss?”

  “Dry up, Ma,” Moss rejoined. “Is your daughter home?”

  “No, she ain’t,” boomed Ma Gully, “and I hope she never will be to the likes of you.” Moss saw that she was napping her left hand behind her back, and was sure that she was waving her daughter away, although he did not actually see the pale little drab who lived here. “Don’t come tormenting the life out of a decent, law-abiding girl like my Rachel. If you’ve got anything against her, say it and get it over with, or else go and leave me in peace.”

  “I want to talk to Rachel, Ma.”

  “Well, you’re wasting your time, she’s gone to the pictures.”

  “Why don’t you save your breath?” demanded Moss. “I saw her when you opened the door. Rachel!”

  Ma Gully drew a deep breath, backed a foot, glared, then belatedly swore at him. Rachel came uncertainly from the inner room. Moss, who had not seen her for nearly a year, was surprised at the change in her appearance. She hadn’t filled out much but she was no longer drab and colourless. In fact she had on a bright red twin-set that suited her. There was some colour in her cheeks, too, and her unexpectedly large, clear eyes were very bright blue. She moistened her lips as she drew level with her mother, who said gustily: “No one’s going to call me a liar.”

  “Hallo, Rachel,” Moss said.

  “Good-evening, Mr Moss.”

  “Don’t you Mister him or—”

  “Did you come home at the usual time tonight?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “Did the shop close at the usual time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come straight home?”

  “It’s an inshult, that’s the only word for it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you got to the Cut about half past six.”

  “I—I suppose so.”

  “Did you see Mr Bray—Tiny Bray?”

  “She said she didn’t, didn’t she?”

  “No—no, I didn’t,” Rachel answered, but her face was very pale, and her lips seemed to quiver. “I didn’t see anybody.”

  Moss felt almost certain that she was lying; even without her mother’s interference, he would have guessed that. But if he forced the issue now, he would have to deal with angry Ma, who was quite liable to become violent if she were crossed, but who would probably fall asleep during the evening. Moss knew practically everything there was to know about the habits of the people on his beat, and especially of the Gullys, because he had always rather liked Rachel. Her father had been a big, kindly oaf of a man, rough and heavy-handed, and Ma had always been too easy on the bottle. Rachel had been fond of her father and frightened of her mother, and it had been truly a tragedy when Gully had fallen down the hold of a ship, and broken his neck.

  His insurance had kept his wife comfortably off, by Nixon Street standards, and since her fifteenth birthday Rachel had been earning money at a florist’s shop and stall near Aldgate Station; for the first time, Moss noticed, she was spending some of the money on herself.

  “Sure you saw no one?” he insisted.

  “You calling my daughter a liar?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t,” lied Rachel.

  “Well, if you come across anyone who happened to see Tiny Bray, let us know at the police station,” Moss requested, as if he had given up hope of learning anything here.

  Ten minutes later, he was reporting to the detective inspector at the station; and soon talking to Superintendent Christy, a big, mellow-voiced handsome man who was a little too flamboyant for Moss’s liking.

  “Feel sure this girl saw something?”

  “Near as I can be, sir,” said Moss. “And Limpy Miles was watching me all the time I was outside the house. He went out two minutes after I left. I can’t be sure, but I think he was going to Red Carter’s place. I asked one of our chaps to try to make sure, but Limpy dodged him.”

  Nine superintendents out of ten would have said: ‘Which one of our chaps?’ Christy simply wrinkled his nose, and said: “Ever heard that Carter goes after furs?”

  “Goes after anything.” Moss answered.

  “Something in that. I suppose you think it would pay off if you called back at the house later this evening, when the old woman’s sleeping off the booze? All right—better put in for a couple of hours’ overtime.” Christy nodded and Moss went off, with a more favourable impression of his chief than before.

  That was the moment when Gideon drew up in his car outside the North
London Hospital; the moment when Tiny Bray took-a long, shuddering breath and died: the moment when Red Carter, a big, raw-boned man in the middle thirties, with his latest doll, a big-hipped, dark-haired girl named Sansetti, was dancing at the White-chapel Palais, and saying:

  “So Limpy thinks the Gully girl saw me. Okay, he’s got to find out. Tell him that—he’s got to find out. Tell him not to waste any time, sweetheart.”

  “He won’t lose any time,” Lucy Sansetti assured him. She acted as a go-between because she enjoyed the thrill of conspiracy, but she had first become a messenger for Red because she knew that Red had an eye for a figure, and was generous with his money when the time of parting came. Red, by her standards, was the perfect gentleman.

  Within half an hour, Limpy had the message; and he knew the quickest way to find out the truth was to get Ma Gully drunk.

  Although she would have resented the suggestion, John Borgman’s wife, Charlotte, was the same physical type of woman as Lucy Sansetti, having the same kind of voluptuous beauty. But there the resemblance ended. She was quiet and unimaginative, she no longer wanted the excitement of a gay life, perhaps because she had everything she could possibly need – including, she believed, the love of her husband.

  She did not dream that he was with another woman that evening.

  Chapter Three

  Pattern

  Borgman said: “My dear, you look ravishing,” and kissed Clare Selby. It was a long, slow, lingering kiss, lips slightly parted, teeth touching, not really painful but giving a hint of the excitement of pain. He let her go. She was that rare thing, a true ash blonde, and quite startlingly attractive; had she not been, Borgman would never have been interested in her. He had seen her in the general office of his printing and publishing business, and had been quick to discover that she was a good shorthand typist. He had arranged for her to be promoted two or three times over a period of twelve months, and no one had been surprised when, his personal secretary having left to get married, Clare had been given the job.

  She had soon been installed on the third floor of the Borgman Building, where Borgman himself had a suite of luxurious offices; the rest of the floor was given over to the accountancy and financial activities of his various enterprises. His offices were magnificently furnished, and the desk at which he worked had been acquired at the sale of the fabulous Alston Estate; so had a Gainsborough and a Constable in that same room.

  Borgman did not think that anyone in the business knew anything about his affaire with Clare. She had a little money of her own, and a small flat in the West End; and nothing could have been more convenient. The affaire was in its early days, and he believed that Clare was dazzled by his money as well as by his looks and his suavity. He did not know how long it would be before she began to ask for more than she was getting now – snatched hours here, an occasional run into the country in his Rolls-Bentley Continental, one weekend in a tiny French village on the coast, another in the Lucretia, his motor yacht.

  She had very light blue eyes and a fair skin without the slightest blemish. She did not make up too heavily, and was young without being silly or kittenish; in fact she was mature. In some ways she was even more mature than Charlotte, and as he stood back and studied Clare, Borgman found himself contrasting the two women, and being amazed at the great differences between them. Clare, tall, slender, gently curved, fair as the wind; Charlotte, getting a little heavy, dark, olive-skinned, eyes the colour of thick honey. Charlotte was better educated than this girl, but had nothing like the common sense and the intelligence; Charlotte was more animal.

  The thought made Borgman smile.

  “If you’re laughing at me, darling, don’t,” Clare said, chiding.

  “That’s the last thing in the world I’d ever do,” Borgman assured her. “Shall we stay in? Or shall we go out?”

  “Can’t we do both?”

  Borgman found himself laughing.

  “We shall do both.”

  “And can you spare five minutes for business?” asked Clare mildly.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I suppose it could but I’m not sure that it should,” said Clare. “It depends on whether you mind being robbed or not.”

  “What?”

  Clare laughed. “Yes, it can wait until—”

  She broke off, not in any way alarmed, but impressed by the change in his expression. She had seen it often before, and had wondered what would happen if she had to clash with him – or whether his business interests or his wife forced a choice upon him. She had no illusions. Borgman the lover and Borgman the business man were two different creatures, and she suspected that Borgman the husband was different again. The change when she had said ‘whether you mind being robbed’ showed mostly in his eyes – for the glow faded – and in the lines of his full mouth and square chin. He was not really handsome, but his face was hard and his expression arrogant when in repose.

  “What do you mean, Glare?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to like it, darling.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He was almost sharp.

  “It’s Old Samuel,” Clare announced.

  “Ben Samuel?” He often echoed a word or so, to give himself time to think.

  “Your favourite cashier and accountant, darling.”

  “Are you serious, Clare?”

  “I suspected Old Samuel soon after I came to work for you,” Clare told him. “He was always a little nervous about certain books and accounts being handled by anyone else, and that’s a bad sign in a cashier, isn’t it? Since I was promoted” – she said that without a smile – “I’ve been able to tell him that you want to see all the books and accounts, and I’ve worked late in the evenings on some of them. He’s robbed you of nearly two thousand pounds in the past two years, and probably a lot more before that.”

  “Are you sure?” Borgman asked harshly.

  “I wouldn’t risk misleading you, darling.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Borgman agreed grimly. “Have you any of the account files here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see them,” Borgman ordered.

  They would not go out this evening, Clare knew; they would almost certainly sit over the table, studying the figures, until Borgman was quite satisfied that some accounts had been falsified and a number of cheques altered, and that there were consistent ‘errors’ in the petty cash. She knew exactly how this had been done to deceive the accountants; she knew that by discovering this she had strengthened her hold on Borgman. He was brisk and incisive as they studied the accounts, and when they had finished he stood up, poured himself a whisky and soda, and sipped it; he seldom drank while he was here.

  “The old devil,” he said.

  “What are you going to do, darling?”

  “I’m going to prosecute, of course. My God! To think that he’s been doing this under my very eyes!”

  “You can’t have eyes all round your head,” said Clare practically. “The other accountants and the sales manager might be blameworthy, but not you. And as I’ve asked for these files in your name, they’ll think you have the all-seeing eye.”

  That startled Borgman into a laugh.

  “Samuel will find out about that,” he said.

  “How will you deal with him, darling?”

  “I shall face him with this in the morning, and send for the police at once.”

  “He is nearly seventy, and he has been working with the firm for forty years.”

  “And for all we know he’s been swindling the firm for forty years,” Borgman said harshly. “Don’t start getting sentimental; there’s no room for sentiment in business, I thought you knew that.” He finished his drink. “Do you really want to go out?”

  She was smiling at him …

  At the moment whe
n Borgman and his mistress went into the bedroom, an elderly man was standing at the open front door of his small house near Croydon, ten miles away. When he had bought this house, thirty-five years ago, it had been new and beautifully kept, standing almost alone in a country lane, surrounded by nearly a quarter of an acre of garden. Now it looked old-fashioned and ill-cared for. The once trim lawns were over-long, daisies, dandelions and plantains spoiled the grass with their thick leaves, the gravel paths were overgrown. The privet hedge, which he had planted with his own hands, had just been cut; it was the only really tidy part of the front garden.

  It was nearly dark.

  A girl in her early teens came cycling past, and waved and called:

  “Good-evening, Mr Samuel.”

  “Good-evening, Bella,” Ben Samuel called, but he did not seem to know what he was saying, and he did not look after the girl.

  He looked ill, his eyes were glassy, and his upper lip would not keep steady. He was thinking of the fact that Borgman had sent for the accounts which he had falsified, and trying to accept the fact that there could only be one reason: Borgman suspected the truth. Even if he did not, a man with his sharp intelligence would probably discover what had been happening, and Samuel knew that he could expect no mercy.

  “And why should he be merciful?” he asked himself. “How can he know—”

  Samuel broke off, went inside, and closed the door. A fight was on in the living-room, at the end of a flight of narrow stairs. He walked in slowly. His wife lay on a sofa by the window, her eyes closed, her face the face almost of a skeleton, the bones painted with skin. She had been ill, like this, for nearly fifteen years. It was all very well to say that the State paid for sickness; that was only part of the problem. The State did not pay for the house-keeping help necessary to bring up three ailing children, two of whom had died, and one of whom was in a clinic in the South of England. The State had not paid for the expensive treatment he had tried so often for his wife.