Gideon Combats Influence

by John Creasey

  Remembering Kate’s upbraiding the night before, he went to lunch at a nearby pub, and returned to the office at a little after two o’clock. Chief Inspector Bell was now his chief aide, an elderly man by the Department’s standards, in the middle fifties. He was a quiet, good-humoured old trooper who knew almost as much about each job as Gideon, but who always lacked Gideon’s subconscious aggressiveness and sense of purpose. He looked sticky and warm as he sat at a small desk opposite

  Gideon’s, the sun striking a corner of the window, and rippling on the river which was only a stone’s throw from the room.

  “Hallo, Joe,” Gideon said.

  “Had a nice nap, George?”

  “Don’t you start,” said Gideon, and took off his coat, hooked it on to the back of his chair, loosened his collar, and picked up a thick file of reports “Was that furrier raided?”

  “No. Looks as if the Carters were planning that job.”

  “I’ve asked Christy to dig; he’ll find out. Anything fresh in about Rachel Gully?”

  “She’ll have a week on the sick fist.”

  “Staying home?”

  “No—staying with some friends. Friends of a copper named Moss, if you ask me.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. Any news from Australia?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Bound to be, soon,” Gideon said.

  “Unless Borgman had the nurse bumped off,” Bell said, and grinned.

  “You’re worse than Plumley.”

  “I had a word with Ellis, and he says Plumley got back to the office profaning the sacred name of Gideon.”

  “I can believe it. How’d that case go in Horsham?”

  “The old man was committed for trial.”

  “How can seventy play around with seven?” Gideon asked himself, and was sorting through the reports in front of him, marking with a pencil those he would want to return to. “Fred Lee in?”

  “Yes. Know what I’d do, if I were you?”

  “What?”

  “Give Fred a couple of months’ sick leave.”

  “Not on your fife. He’d apply for his pension before it was over,” Gideon said. “Know what I’m going to do?”

  “I’ve got a nasty idea. You’re going to put Fred Lee on to the Borgman job, because this will bring him up against Richmond again.”

  “That’s right.”

  The Chief Inspector said: “George, I know what’s on your mind: you think if Fred can be on the winning side against Richmond, it will put him right on top of himself again. Don’t forget the other possibility, will you? It might finish him off.”

  Gideon said, very slowly: “He’s finishing himself off as he’s going now, and if he went quickly after another shouting match with Richmond, it would be kinder.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Bell said. Then he gave his friendly and rather tired smile, and eased his damp, crumpled collar. “You usually are, I suppose. Tell you what came in just now—I haven’t put it on paper yet: that Robson woman’s husband turned up.”

  “Okay?”

  “Under two feet of garden soil.”

  Gideon jerked up his head. “That a fact?”

  “Would I pull your leg? In the garden of an empty house round the corner from his home. I’ve been talking to Ragg at HI. He says there’s been talk that Mrs Robson has a boy friend, and that’s why she didn’t trouble to report her missing hubby. If his employers hadn’t forced the issue we probably wouldn’t have known about it. Ragg’s digging.”

  “What kind of hole?”

  “When I said two feet, I meant it.”

  “Remember what the soil’s like out at HI?” asked Gideon.

  “Heavy clay, according to the report.”

  “Good thick clay, I know that spot,” said Gideon. “And the description of Mrs Robson is that she’s about five feet three, and small.”

  “All right, all right,” said Bell. “She probably didn’t dig her husband’s grave. George, did I ever tell you that I marvel at you?”

  “Forget it,” said Gideon, and marked another report, then glanced down at the one beneath it. He was aware that Joe Bell was behaving as if nursing some secret he found difficult to keep to himself; now he glanced up and saw the other man grinning. He looked down at the report again. It was in Bell’s writing, and there was no doubt that it had been slipped into the middle of the pile so as to make sure that he did not see it at once. Bell had been able to savour the waiting period, getting a silent laugh every time he, Gideon, had turned over a report. To rob the other of his triumph, Gideon kept an absolutely straight face, but his heart was racing.

  This was a report from the Information Room about a request from Borgman Enterprises Limited to investigate irregularities in a cashier’s accounts: an invitation from John Borgman to make free in one part of his businesses.

  Gideon looked up, and gave an expansive grin. Bell started to chuckle.

  “A little bit of what you fancy does you good,” he said. “I told Appleby to go over and stall a bit, just to size up the situation, and he’s probably there still. It looks as if an old chap has been diddling them for years. Don’t know very much about it yet, but it means we’re right inside the sanctum sanctorum, so to speak, on Borgman’s invitation. If he knew what you’ve been cooking up he’d have a shock.”

  “I’m wondering whether I ought to have the shock,” said Gideon. His thoughts had flown to the absent nurse. If Borgman had any reason to fear the police, would he invoke the Yard on a comparatively small matter?

  “Now what?” Bell asked.

  “Would he send for us if—” Gideon began, and then shrugged his shoulders.

  “His first wife died nearly five years ago, and he’s probably almost forgotten her already,” Bell said. “If you’re right about Borgman, he doesn’t look backwards.”

  Gideon spread his hands.

  “It’ll give Appleby a chance to size him up, and soon I’ll send Fred over. Between them, they’re not likely to be far wrong in their judgment. If I’m not here when Appleby comes, send round for me—I won’t be out of the building.”

  “Can’t wait for it, eh, George?”

  “That’s right,” said Gideon.

  “I suppose you’re right about Fred?”

  “I’ve been waiting the chance to try him out for a long time,” Gideon said, “and this is just his kind of job. If anything is going to get him back on form, it’s his memory for details, and he was in the early inquiries into Mrs Borgman’s death. I know he doesn’t trust his memory so much since Richmond proved that he’d slipped up once, but I trust it.”

  “O.K., George,” Bell said.

  They did not have to wait long for news about Borgman. After Gideon had seen three of the officers in charge of current investigations and had talked to HI about the murder of the man Robson, there was a perfunctory tap, and the door was thrust open. It was Appleby. Appleby, when tired and jaded, looked an old man, every day of his sixty-four. Appleby when something had gone right was a sprightly fifty, and now he was at his brightest. There was a glow at his cheeks, and he raised his hand to Gideon in a mock salute.

  “George,” he announced, “I think you’re right.”

  “Quick change, Jim.” Gideon hid his fresh misgivings.

  “First time I’ve ever been face to face with Borgman and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I would Red Carter. That man goes deep and nasty.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know so. I’ve only met two or three of them in my natural, and you can take it from me Borgman won’t let anything get in his way. I don’t say you won’t be a fool to have a shot at him, but having met him—boy, oh boy, would I like to see him in dock.”

  “I know what you mean,” Gideon remarked dryly.

&n
bsp; “There’s the poor devil of a cashier,” went on Appleby, and in brisk sentences explained what had happened. “I don’t know the background, and fraud’s fraud, but the old man looked as if he could die on the spot. Borgman talked to him as if he were a louse. He talked to me,” added Appleby cautiously, “as if I were a dog. I’ve met that ash-blonde secretary—she has the longest, shapeliest legs you ever saw, too. I think I would start checking on her, and the situation between Borgman and his present wife.”

  “You ought to know Gee-Gee by now,” said Bell. “Always something up his sleeve.”

  “What have you done so far, Jim?” asked Gideon.

  “Taken the details—looks as if the fraud goes back about thirteen years—and told Borgman that we would be in touch with him. He seemed to think that I ought to clap the darbies on old Samuel right away, and when he found I wasn’t going to, he sent the old man packing without even a chance to take his personal belongings from his desk. There isn’t much doubt about the fraud—Samuel admitted it, anyhow—but Borgman doesn’t seem to think we need to check anything. He barks ‘Arrest that man!’ so we ought to jump to it. He’s the original pocket dictator, George, but—”

  “Don’t spoil it,” urged Bell.

  “I would like to take him on myself,” said Appleby reflectively. “He’s as crafty and clever as he’s deep. Don’t know when it was I was last impressed so much by a man’s potential.” Appleby rubbed his hands together, and then finished: “I’d like to see you come head on with him though, Gee-Gee! What happened at the conference today?”

  “If there’s a lot of morphine at the autopsy, we go right ahead.”

  “Last night I hoped you wouldn’t find boracic powder,” Appleby said, “but today—you heard me first time. Mind if I stick my big nose in?”

  “Not in your present mood.”

  “Well, this is the kind of job Fred Lee would be good at,” said Appleby, almost diffidently. “You know how it is with Fred. He’s happier with columns of figures and pounds shillings and pence than I am with my fork and spade, and that’s saying something. When he’s studied accounts he remembers all the details, too. You could send him over to the Borgman empire and let him take root for a few days. Fred would be just the man to keep thinking up awkward little queries, and telling Borgy that as he’s called us in, we have to make a job of it. And the longer Fred was there the more he’d find out about Borgman and the blonde. Also,” Appleby went on, rather doggedly, because he had won no response, “if we got Borgman, and Fred had a finger in the pie, it might pull him round.” He stopped, scowled, and demanded gruffly: “What’s the matter now? Since when has Fred Lee’s name been poison?”

  “It’s just that we’re bored,” Bell said. “George decided to send Fred there five minutes after he heard about this. Now you know why you were never a commander.”

  “Good old Gee-Gee,” Appleby brayed.

  Gideon was shifting his chair back.

  “We’ll see about that later. About this old man, Samuel, Jim. Did you say he looked all in?”

  “One foot in the grave already.”

  “And sent packing?”

  “Minute’s notice.”

  “Got his address?”

  “Yes, and you’re not the only one who can see further than his nose. I sent a chap after him, too. Don’t want him to throw himself under a bus before we can get to work on his boss, do we?” Appleby was looking very self-satisfied. “I’ve asked the Division to check on Samuel and his family, and asked for a report before you go home tonight; we should be able to get a good picture of the situation. I know one thing: Samuel’s down as far as a chap can go, and Borgman enjoyed kicking him.”

  Gideon didn’t speak.

  “You want to know something?” Appleby asked, in a marvelling tone. “It was only this afternoon that I saw anything funny about the name of Borgman’s yacht. Funny peculiar, I mean. You seen it?”

  Bell said: “The Lucretia.”

  “Lucretia Borgia, the famous Italian poisoning family,” Appleby hammered home his point. “You seen that before, George?”

  “Yes,” Gideon said, and remembered how the name had affected him when he had first suspected that Borgman had poisoned his wife, and wondered whether a man with a name like Borgman could be so brazen as to christen a ship like that. But the yacht, nine years old, had been named before Borgman had bought it, and there was a superstition against changing the name of boats. “Tell me more about this blonde, Jim.”

  “Very cool and poised, very efficient, very nice, very bedworthy. If I were you, I’d have Fred find out what the staff at the Borgman Empire think about her.”

  “I’ll lay it on,” Gideon said. “Put all this down on paper, Jim, will you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And ask Fred to come in.”

  “Okay,” Appleby said, and went out, letting the door close itself on his heels.

  Almost immediately afterwards, a messenger brought in a sealed envelope. Gideon opened this at once and had a moment of triumph: this was the exhumation order for Borgman’s first wife. He was about to tell Bell, when a telephone rang on Bell’s desk. As he lifted it, Gideon’s nearest telephone rang, and he picked it up; and, almost at once, an inter-office telephone rang. He said: “Hold on,” into the first mouthpiece, and “Gideon,” into the second. It was Rogerson, who said: “Can you come and see me right away, George?”

  “I’d rather have ten minutes.”

  “Make it as soon as you can.”

  “Right,” Gideon promised, and put one receiver down and picked up the other. “Gideon … What’s that, Hugh? …” He began to smile, and Bell, putting his receiver down, glanced across as if puzzled. “Fine,” he said. “Got ’em just where we want ’em. Wonder how Tiny got hold of it? … Yes, I know we’re going to miss Tiny.” He replaced the receiver and called across to Bell: “There was a plan of the furriers in Red Carter’s wallet; no doubt he was going to lay on that job. You got anything new?”

  “Three cars stolen from Piccadilly this lunch hour.”

  “Bet they weren’t locked,” Gideon said. “What do motorists think keys are for? How many is that from the West End this week?”

  “Twenty-nine in the West End, a hundred and four in our whole area.”

  Gideon pursed his lips. “Looks more than ever as if it’s organised. We’ll have a couple of dummy cars laid on and watched: better check the actual places where most of the thefts are from, first.” He got up and went to a small map of Central London which was hanging on the wall, and Bell came across. “Can you mark ’em?” Bell picked up some red-headed pins and stuck them in. “Makes a pattern,” Gideon mused. “See how near a corner each job has been—all from short streets, all one way streets to make fairly sure the way couldn’t be blocked … lay on a special watch at all corners, will you?”

  “Right.”

  “And we’ll go down and have a look at the big map,” Gideon said. “Might be worth more thought than we’ve given to it. I’ve got—” A telephone rang on his desk, and he gave a lugubrious kind of grin. “Looks as if things are really waking up.” He turned round and picked up the receiver. “Gideon … What? … Oh, God.”

  The tone of his voice was so bleak that Bell stood watching and waiting anxiously. He knew how keenly Gideon felt about so much that happened; how readily he took the responsibility for things which went wrong although other people had caused the trouble. The curious thing about Gideon was a kind of sensitiveness which would have made many people bad policemen, but made him exceptional. “Tell you what,” he said, decisively, “ask Borgman to come here to see me … No, he doesn’t have to, but it would be worth trying.” He held on for a moment, then said: “All right, Jim.” He rang off, looked silently at Bell for some minutes, and then said: “The cashier Samuel killed himself and his invalid wife as
soon as he got home today.”

  Chapter Six

  Killer Car

  For a few moments Gideon sat quite still and silent. He had never seen Samuel and knew little about him, but a weight of gloom lay heavy upon him when Bell asked: “How did he do it?”

  “Cyanide from a weed-killer.”

  “So Jim didn’t watch ’em closely enough,” Bell said.

  “Ought to have brought him here,” Gideon growled. “I was a bit afraid of it. The first few hours are always the most dangerous.” He did not add that he knew that Appleby had not brought Samuel here for questioning because Borgman had expected him to; Appleby’s dislike of Borgman would cut both ways.

  “Think Borgman will come here?” Bell wondered.

  “It’s anyone’s guess,” Gideon said, and was in no mood to tell Bell that he had the exhumation order.

  His telephone bell rang.

  “I’ll answer it,” Bell said, and came across, while Gideon went to the door and waited, looking round; he was never easy in his mind at walking out on a telephone call. He saw Bell’s expression harden, saw the quick glance which seemed to say: ‘Don’t go,’ and went back to the desk. “Hold on,” said Bell, put a hand over the mouthpiece, and said: “Another car theft from the West End. One of our chaps saw it, and blew his whistle. The thief drove on to the pavement to get away, and knocked down a youngster.”

  “Hurt badly?”

  “Dead.”

  “Get our chap’s description of the driver out as fast as you can make it,” Gideon ordered. “I’ll be in the Map Room in half an hour.” He went out, his jaw clamped, angry at this senseless death, angry at the viciousness which could make a car thief take such a wild chance. ‘A youngster’; and behind the youngster, a mother, father, girl friends, brothers, sisters – the aftermath of death, which was often grief, and sometimes despair. The car thefts from the West End had been nagging him for weeks; he should have given them more attention.