Gideon Combats Influence

by John Creasey

  His name was Larkin.

  There was a cut on his forehead, covered with a patch, and another cut on the back of his right hand, although this was not so deep or sharp, because he had been wearing cotton gloves. These gloves, blood-stained, were screwed up in a ball in the wastepaper basket in the little glass-partitioned office of the garage.

  Another man, very short and very broad, was sitting behind a littered desk. Two ash-trays and the lid of a paint tin were filled with ash and cigarette ends, which were sometimes emptied into the wastepaper basket, and sometimes left until they were full to over-flowing. The office was not only dusty but dirty, and even the old-fashioned typewriter was thick with dust, except on the keys and the roller.

  “You can talk till you’re blue in the face,” Larkin was saying, “I’m not going to do another job until the heat’s off. That cop saw me, don’t you get it? I ought to go away for a couple of weeks, and if anyone’s earned a holiday, I have.”

  “Not with pay, Larky,” retorted the broad-shouldered man. “You only get paid if you work. I’ve fixed the alibi for this afternoon’s job, so you can forget it. When you’ve got your nerve back, come and see me.”

  “Listen, Chas, I’m flat broke! I was relying on the pony for today’s job—”

  “You didn’t do the job, you made a muck of it,” said the broad-shouldered man. He took out a battered wallet, counted out ten one-pound notes, and pushed them across the desk. “You can think yourself lucky to have ten. Every time you bring a car in you can count on fifty. So long.” He pushed his chair back and picked up a telephone, which was grey with dust except where he handled it. He dialled a number with great deliberation while Larkin watched; and after listening for a moment, he said into the mouthpiece: “Benjie? … I’ve got a vacancy for a driver, got anyone lined up yet? … How old? Sure, I’ll give him a trial, try anything once. You know me.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette. “What’s his name? Reggie Cole, okay. He know the drill? … Sure, I’ll leave it to you.”

  The broad-shouldered man rang off, and Larkin went slowly out of the office, nursing his injured hand, forgetting the blood-stained gloves in the wastepaper basket.

  Chapter Eight

  Birth of Two Criminals

  “Reggie,” Mrs Cole said.

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Where are you going tonight?”

  “Pictures, I suppose.”

  “You’re always going to the pictures; anyone would think your own home wasn’t good enough for you. Why don’t you stay in and look at the television tonight for a change?”

  “It’s not the same,” Reggie Cole said smoothly. “Won’t be late, Mum. Good-night.”

  He went out of the four-roomed flat in a big, brown block on a new estate in Chelsea, whistling under his breath and feeling the relief that always came when he was away from his home. It was a good enough home in many ways, but these days he simply did not like it. The truth was that his mother and father and his two younger sisters treated him as if he were still a boy, whereas he was eighteen, he had his driving licence, and actually drove a van for his living. His life had changed completely from the moment he had obtained that job; at the wheel of the van or a car, he felt as if he were on top of the world.

  And there was Ethel.

  Whenever he thought of Ethel, his heart began to beat faster, and he had a choky feeling. He had felt like that almost from the first moment he had seen her, a month ago, when he had called at a garage in Chiswick for some petrol. She had been standing near the garage watching him, a girl who was probably five or six years older than he – that was why he was astonished that she still took such an interest in him – and really something. He often pictured her on that warm day, wearing a sleeveless flowered dress cut low at the front, and with the kind of figure that made his mother shake her head and purse her lips, and at which his father glanced quickly and furtively. Ethel had – well, everything. The way her waist curved in and out was out of this world, and her ankles and legs – phew!

  As he had stared at her, unable to make himself look away, she had sauntered over. She had a swaying walk, and he found himself wondering what she would be like from behind. He could recall the vivid red of her lips and the clear skin and beautiful blue eyes, and could almost hear her voice as she had said: “Going up the West End, by any chance?”

  “Why, I—yes, I am. Can I—can I give you a lift?”

  “That’s exactly what I was hoping,” Ethel had said, and when she was sitting next to him, her leg pressing against his, she had told him that she was broke, absolutely flat broke, but she did not like getting lifts from ordinary men: he looked so honest.

  Ethel …

  She had seemed so embarrassed when he had offered to lend her a pound or two, but had accepted, and insisted that they should meet the next evening, when she would be able to pay him back. They had met, she had paid him back, they had gone to the Hammersmith Palais, and Reggie had hardly thought it possible that anyone could dance so perfectly, so excitingly; it was as if she loved the pressure of his body against her.

  That had been six weeks ago.

  He knew everything about Ethel now. That she was an actress, waiting for her big chance – but how difficult it was to get work without paying for it in a way no decent girl would consider! She had an invalid mother to look after. She hated accepting money from him, but as soon as she got the big chance she would pay it back ten-fold. When that day came they would not have to drive round in a van, but would have a car of their own – their own – and who could tell, it might even be a Jaguar!

  Reggie did not recall exactly how much money Ethel had “borrowed” from him, but he did know that he was now heavily in debt; he himself had borrowed from everyone he could tap, and had even tried to borrow from home, although there was never any spare money there. His father was a ten-pounds-a-week house decorator, and that was hardly enough to feed and clothe everybody. So far, Reggie had managed to pay his mother the two pounds a week they had agreed out of his six pounds salary, but he wouldn’t be able to pay her this week.

  He had just enough silver to buy two coffees and a sandwich as well as pay for the tickets to the Palais. That was all Ethel really wanted, and if he couldn’t do that for her, what would she think of him?

  She was usually at the Tropic Bar waiting for him, and his heart was pounding when he got off the bus near it. Already a stream of youths was going into the dance hall, and outside a loudspeaker was playing the latest dance hit, while huge, lurid-looking posters were splashed about the drab, grey brick of the hall.

  There she was!

  He waved to her through the window, and she waved back but did not smile. That puzzled and perturbed him. Had he done anything wrong last night? He gulped as he went into the hot, steamy coffee bar. The seat next to Ethel was empty, and he slid on to it and pressed her hand.

  “Hallo, Ethel.”

  “Hallo, Reg.”

  “Eth, what’s the matter?”

  “I—I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  “Nothing I’ve done, is it?”

  “Of course it isn’t.” She leaned against him, and the scent of her perfume seemed heady, while the yielding touch of her breast sent fire through him. Her hair brushed his cheek for a moment, and he had an idea that she did not want to look at him. “I’m in an awful jam, Reg.”

  “You mean—money?” He had hardly had time to feel relieved before this new worry was presented.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “How—how much, Ethel?” He was acutely conscious of his empty pockets, and there was a kind of despair in him, that he might have to tell her that there was nothing that he could do to help. It might be as much as ten pounds. He found himself wondering desperately how he could lay his hands on that amount, when Ethel blurted out: “Twenty-five quid.”
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  “What?”

  “I know, it’s awful,” Ethel said, and her hands met his and held them tightly. “It’s mounted up over the weeks, that’s the trouble; I’ve just had to borrow for my mother’s sake, and I went to a moneylender. He lent me fifteen pounds and it’s grown to twenty-five before I could look round. If I don’t pay up tomorrow, he’ll come to the flat. I don’t know what would happen if he did; my mother simply couldn’t stand the shock.”

  Reggie muttered: “It’s a hell of a lot of money; I just don’t see how I can lay my hands on it. I’d give anything in the world if I could—I’d do anything.”

  Ethel looked at him with her brilliant eyes, her red lips parted a little, as if breathlessly, and the white of her teeth just showing; she was truly a beauty in a buxom way, and tonight she wore a dress which was high at the neck, but had no sleeves; she had beautifully rounded white arms.

  “Would you, Reggie?”

  “You know I would.”

  She moistened her lips. “I—I asked a friend of mine if he would help, and he said he knew a way of getting his hands on fifty if I could drive a car. But I can’t drive.”

  Reggie’s eyes lit up. “Well, that’s easy, then! I can drive a car; it’s simple. There isn’t a car in the world I can’t drive,” Reggie boasted, and in that moment he believed it. “Just show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Why don’t you keep your voice down?’’ a man asked from just behind him. Reggie swung round on his stool, and saw a little dark-haired, sallow man with a turnip-shaped forehead, standing close by. “Take it easy, now; I’m Ethel’s pal, and I can make easy money for you, if you’ll do what I tell you,” this sallow intruder said. “There’s no risk in it, not really; you just have to be able to drive and keep your wits about you. How about it?”

  Reggie asked: “What—what is this job?”

  The man had very small pupils which looked almost black, and the whites of his eyes were huge and yellowish. He gave a little sneering smile, but didn’t speak. There was no need to speak, really. No one paid fifty pounds for a ‘job’ unless it was risky, and that meant breaking the law. But there was Ethel, sitting so helpless and hopeless, her hand on his; and she was leaning against him.

  There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Ethel.

  “You just get into a car and drive it to a certain place, where it will be taken over,” the little man said. “I know the car, and I know where it is. When you’ve delivered it, there’ll be fifty quid on the nail. Cash. How about it?”

  Ethel pressed harder against Reggie’s shoulder. His mouth was very dry, and his heart was beating fast again, while his lips were sticky. For the first time he had a feeling that Ethel had been egging him on to this, and that once he was in, it wouldn’t be easy to get out. This was a moment of decision, and he could go whichever way he chose.

  He moistened his lips.

  “Show me the car, and I’ll drive it,” he said.

  Half an hour later, he walked towards an Austin A70 which was parked near the corner of a street in Chelsea. There were dozens of cars near by, for this was quite near two cinemas and a theatre. He had two ignition keys in his pocket, and was assured that one or the other would switch on the engine, and that he would find that the door was open. As he walked towards the car, he felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were turned towards him. A man and a woman came walking along slowly, arm in arm, and he thought that they were staring at him. Two men came, briskly. There was a public-house on a corner opposite, and a man and woman came hurrying out of that towards the cars; towards this car? He was beetroot red when he walked past it. The couple got into a car some distance along, and Reggie turned back.

  No one was in sight now.

  He was acutely aware of the windows of the houses on either side of the street, and of the possibility that a door would open and someone would come to the car. But now was the time. When he strode to the car he was shivering and yet his head felt hot. He depressed the handle and pulled, and the door opened. He darted a glance up and down, and then slid into the seat and slammed the door. For a moment he was trembling so much that he did not think he would be able to keep the keys steady, but he made himself. The metal of the key scratched on the ignition, and it seemed an age until he had pushed it in. A girl hurried past, swinging a tennis racket. He pushed the key right in and turned, but it did not work. He began to mutter to himself and was clenching his teeth so hard that his jaws ached. He tried the second key – and it turned and the ignition glowed.

  Now, his heart began to pound.

  He pressed the self-starter, and it worked at once. He glanced into the driving mirror, knowing there was good room to manoeuvre. Quite suddenly, he felt cool, aware of no panic and no trembling. The wheel of a car had always affected him like that. He put the gear into reverse as if he had been driving this particular car for weeks, went back a little, and got out of the parking position at the first turn. As he began to press the accelerator and gain speed, he felt a surge of excitement. At twenty miles an hour, he swung into the road; nothing was coming in either direction. He drove a little faster, and then turned towards Sloane Square and the street where he had been told to leave the car, with the ignition key in it.

  “Why, it was easy,” he told himself chokily. “It was dead easy? If that’s worth fifty quid—”

  He didn’t finish.

  When he reached the appointed place, he got out of the car and walked towards the furthest corner, as he had been told. A little man in a raincoat, the man who had been at the coffee bar, was leaning against the wall. Reggie knew exactly what to do, and did it: he walked straight past, taking a small bundle from the other’s hands as he did so. It was not until he was in a shop doorway in King’s Road that he opened the envelope and looked inside.

  There was the money; fifty soiled one-pound notes – about fifty, anyhow.

  He could not get to Ethel quickly enough. He had got her out of trouble, and there was no telling how she would say thanks. He was a man, wasn’t he? He was eighteen. Fellows actually got married at eighteen.

  Nearer the heart of London, in Victoria, a young man of twenty-three was standing at the bar of a small, select club, with a glass in front of him, and a blonde by his side. His name was Arthur Kingsley, and he had never heard of Reggie Cole, who was from a different world. Kingsley had been to one of the lesser known public schools. He knew that his parents had sacrificed much to pay the fees, and it had never occurred to him that he was ungrateful. They lived in the country, in a little cottage, and he was on a newspaper as a sporting correspondent at a fantastically low salary – less than fifteen pounds a week. There was the rent of his flat to pay, five pounds a week, and the odds and ends that had to be met, and by the time he had finished the normal weekly payments on his television, a daily help, his food and laundry, he had only two or three pounds left. He didn’t drink much at home because he couldn’t afford it, but he had to spend more freely at the club. Either he had to mix with his own set, or else cut loose; and he could not bring himself to do that.

  It was not because of any particular girl; girls were two-a-penny, in bed or out. It was the métier: this kind of club, with its fat entrance fee and its high prices, mixing with men who were really well off, who talked in thousands when he thought in tens; meeting the kind of people he had known for years. This was his world, and he belonged here; yet he was practically broke. He had borrowed on his insurance, borrowed from the few friends who had money, sold a typewriter and a watch – and now he was really up against it. He could not even stand a round of drinks cheerfully, because a big round would tip him further into the red, and he had chalked up to his limit.

  If he didn’t stand his round, on the other hand, he would be a laughing stock. He had seen it happen to others who had tried to make the grade but could not. The best thing was to find some excuse for leaving ea
rly.

  He was trying to make up his mind to go when Soames came out of the office. The manager was a tall, lean man, fair-haired, with a fresh look about him, more the outdoor than the indoor type; he had a good reputation as a tennis player and was known to be a gambler, mostly on horses. He treated everyone exactly alike: millionaire and Arthur Kingsley, duke and chorus girl. Kingsley thought uneasily that Soames was probably coming this way, and might even be coming to speak to him. Surely he wasn’t going to mention that bill? Usually anyone with too much on the slate was called to the office, and he hadn’t been called. It was all done so smoothly and pleasantly, but it was a fact that very few members who went to the office showed up next day.

  Soames came straight to Kingsley, who was the more heavily-built man, a rugged type to look at. He had played for the public schools at both Rugby and cricket. Now Kingsley felt as if the room were stiflingly hot, and he could not think clearly. He probably owed nearer fifty than forty pounds, but it couldn’t be seriously more than fifty. A girl with brassy-coloured hair, who bulged in a strapless cocktail dress, caught Soames’ arm and cooed: “Peter, darling, it’s so long since I’ve seen you.” Soames talked to her for a few minutes, small talk which meant nothing, while she pouted up at him. Then he disengaged himself courteously, and came up to Kingsley.

  “Hallo, Mr Kingsley,” he greeted, and his even smile was friendly enough. “Are you likely to be going to Epsom tomorrow?”

  Kingsley was so astounded that he almost shouted: “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am.”

  “I wonder if you’ll carry out a little commission for me,” Soames said. “I want to back Black Eye at starting price if it’s better than tens, and I think it will be. I can’t get away to handle it myself.”

  Kingsley was still on the verge of shouting.