Gideon Combats Influence

by John Creasey

“I’d like a word with him some time—when’s he going to be in?” Gideon asked, knowing that Colby hadn’t called up about this.

  “All afternoon,” said Colby. “Come and have a cuppa.” Then he added in the same breath: “I hear you’re picking up Borgman at last.”

  “We’ve got him, Ken.”

  “Hope so,” said Colby. “I—oh, hell, the blasted telephone never keeps quiet. See you.” He rang off, and Gideon found himself momentarily on the edge of doubt again. He made a note to be at Colby’s headquarters just after four o’clock, then telephoned the Guildford police, where the sergeant who had caught Garslake was stationed. He had to keep busy. A word with the man’s C.O. might do a lot of good, a pat on the back for the sergeant even more.

  “Gideon here,” he said. “How’s that chap Miles, who got Carslake? Didn’t he hurt his hand?”

  “Only a scratch,” said the Guildford man. “Nice of you to ring, Mr Gideon.”

  “Damned plucky job, from all accounts, and we wanted Carslake badly. Ask Miles to look in here any time he’s in town, I’d like to go over one or two things in his report.”

  “Be sure I will.”

  “Good,” said Gideon, and then saw the door open and half expected Borgman; but instead it was Appleby. Of course he would be warned in good time; no one would bring Borgman here unannounced; the whole case was putting him off balance.

  Appleby looked on top of the world, bright, eager, like an excited turkey.

  “Ready for him, George? He’s downstairs.”

  “Bring him up,” said Gideon.

  Chapter Eleven

  First Hearing

  Gideon had a telephone at his ear, but no one at the end of it, when the door opened and Borgman stepped in. Gideon glanced up at him, and his first impression was disappointing; whatever Borgman had felt like at the moment of the charge, he was composed now; except that he was tight-lipped, he looked the same as at his last visit. Gideon kept him there while first Appleby and then Lee and Bell came in, Lee carrying a small case. In that case would be the morphine and the hypodermic needles found in the desk.

  “All right, call me as soon as you’ve got the date for the trial,” Gideon said, then put down the receiver and looked up. He made no attempt to stand, stared for what must have seemed a long time to Borgman, and then said: “Well, Mr Borgman?”

  Borgman said, without heat or emotion: “I have already told your men that this charge is ludicrous. I have nothing more to say until I have been able to consult my lawyers.”

  “You’re at liberty to consult them whenever you like,” Gideon said. “But we don’t waste our time, Mr Borgman, and we don’t make serious charges unless we can support them.”

  “There are not the slightest grounds for this charge,” Borgman insisted. His voice was still flat, but the anger was in his eyes. It was obvious that he had got himself under a strict control; that he was making sure that he did not say a word that might increase his danger.

  “I see,” said Gideon. “What did you find in Mr Borgman’s office, Superintendent?”

  Lee was already opening his case, and without a word he took out two hypodermic syringes and a small bottle of morphine solution – or what looked like morphine and was marked morphine; but there was always the outside possibility that it was a harmless liquid. Lee had tasted it, but could he be really positive?

  “I have never seen those things before,” Borgman said, gratingly now.

  Gideon raised his eyebrows.

  “Really, Mr Borgman?”

  “I’ve told you—” Borgman stopped, moistened his lips, and then said: “I have nothing more to say.”

  “Very well, Mr Borgman. You will be lodged in a cell at Cannon Row police station, close by here, for the night, and the formal first hearing will be heard in the morning. If there is anything you want we will provide it, within reason. You may have special food brought in if you wish it, although no alcohol. You may have cigarettes.” Gideon glanced at Appleby. “Will you take him away, Mr Appleby, please?”

  Borgman burst out: “You must be mad.”

  “I don’t feel particularly abnormal,” Gideon retorted mildly, and Appleby took Borgman’s arm and led him to the door. They went out. As the door closed, Bell was smiling, and Lee grinning.

  “Fred, take this stuff up to Sammy,” Gideon said urgently. “Stand over him while he analyses it; we want to be a hundred per cent certain that it’s what we think it is. Any prints on it?”

  “Haven’t checked yet,” Lee said. “They might have been wiped off, anyhow; it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s the trouble, the vision of getting Borgman is making us careless,” Gideon said. “It’s almost as if the case has got a blight. No, I’m only joking, Fred. You remembered what was puzzling you about the bottles?”

  “No.” Lee was already putting the tiny bottles and the hypodermic needles back in his case, and the startled look was still in his eyes. “But I will.” He went out, and Gideon said: “Any news of that nurse?”

  “She arrived on January 12th after a couple of stopovers, then went on a European coach tour organised by Thomas Cook’s,” Bell said. “I’ve just had word. But that’s as far as we go. She ended the tour in Paris, six weeks ago. I’m checking all airlines and all shipping lines to try to find out if she left the country, and I’ve sent a call out to all British police forces, asking them to check hotels.”

  “Fine,” said Gideon.

  “I want him just as badly as you do,” Bell said. “I’m beginning—”

  He broke off as one of Gideon’s telephones rang. It might be from any one of a thousand people and about any one of a thousand cases, but Gideon did not think it was, and he was almost relieved when he heard Rogerson’s voice. Rogerson was quite back to normal, and in his way seemed as excited as anyone.

  “George, I’m told he’s here.”

  “I’ve sent him across the road.”

  “Be careful with him,” Rogerson urged. “If we even gave him an accidental shove, it would be built up by his counsel into criminal assault. Cuthbertson had been on to me already, and he’ll be here in twenty minutes. I think you’d better handle him; don’t leave it to one of the others.”

  “I’ll handle him,” Gideon promised. “We’ve got a line on that nurse,” he added. He was grinning.

  “George,” said Rogerson, “I take back all I said.”

  But it was not a thing to grin about; it would be tough. Cuthbertson, of Cuthbertson, Foyle and Cuthbertson, was one of the most astute lawyers in London, and he had prepared a dozen cases for Percy Richmond. The shape of things to come was already clear, and it was developing rapidly. There had been little time, but someone was already working hard for Borgman, knowing who to send for, and what to do. It wasn’t likely to be his wife, for it was doubtful whether she had heard of the arrest yet. When she did, it would be a bad shock, but – he could forget Borgman’s present wife; he had to remember only that he had started the chain of events, and had to see it through to the end.

  What the hell was it that Lee couldn’t remember? When would that woman be traced?

  Cuthbertson was a man of medium height, silvery-haired, gentle-voiced. He was not yet sixty, although his strangely pink and white skin and his gentleness sometimes suggested that he was a much older man. He knew Gideon well. He had briefed Percy Richmond when the Yard had lost that first big case. He knew exactly what kind of struggle lay ahead, yet was as pleasant and charming as if he had come in to pass the time of day.

  “I know you will give Mr Borgman all the customary facilities,” he said, “and I know you’ll be the first to apologise when you realise what a grotesque mistake has been made.” He smiled. “I would like to see Mr Borgman alone as soon as possible, of course.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Gideon said, and th
en asked as if gruffly: “Did his secretary send for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “From London, or from Paris?”

  “I don’t quite understand you,” Cuthbertson said, quite amiably. “She telephoned me from the London office, of course—very properly, too. Clare Selby is a most efficient young woman.”

  “Take Mr Cuthbertson across to the prisoner,” Gideon said stonily.

  When he was alone in the office, he got up and stood by the window, looking on to the sunlit Thames, seeing the fast-moving traffic, seeing the slender dignity of the tower of Big Ben. He would be uneasy until the verdict had been given, and that was a long way ahead. Why didn’t Lee come back with the analyst’s report? Surely Sammy could make a rough test to make sure –

  A telephone bell rang.

  “Gideon.”

  “You’re safe so far, George,” said Sammy. “This stuff is morphine all right, and there’s powdered morphia in the little box, too. Anyone with access to that stuff could have killed a whole family. But there’s one thing you’d prefer to have different.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not a fingerprint of any kind on needle, syringe, bottle or box,” Sammy said. “Lee’s gone down to Fingerprints to check, but you can take it from me that you won’t be able to prove that Borgman handled that bottle. You’ll have to rely on circumstantial evidence for that.”

  Gideon grunted. “Hm.” He was thinking, and Sammy was thinking, that Richmond would almost certainly deny that Borgman had put the poisons and the instruments in that desk. But that shouldn’t be hard to establish, and in any case the amount of the poison in the remains of the body should clinch the issue. He said: “Thanks, Sam,” and rang off. Two calls came in about new jobs, just reported; a factory robbery of expensive machine tools, and the theft of a truck load of cigarettes. That was going to hit the headlines. He wrenched his mind off Borgman, telephoned Records, and was answered by a man with a perky voice.

  “Smith here.”

  “Smithy, haven’t we sent you down more inquiries about factory jobs than usual?”

  “Could be,” said Chief Inspector Smith.

  “Check, will you?” asked Gideon. “There’s another small tools job out on the Great West Road, not big, but enough to worry about if it’s being organised.”

  “Can’t find a market for small tools like you can for furs or jewels,” Smith argued.

  “So far as we know,” Gideon said, and rang off, thinking about how often men said the obvious, and wondering how often he did. He made notes about several factory thefts which had been reported lately; then Bell came in.

  “Greeted each other like long-lost brothers,” he said, and he sounded a little uneasy. “I never liked the smooth type, and Cuthbertson’s smoother than most.” He went to his chair. “Anything new in?”

  “No. Take all the calls for the next hour, will you? I want another go at these car thefts, and I want to check the build-up against the Carters.”

  “You’ve got them as tight as a glove,” said Bell, and gave Gideon the impression that he had been going to add: ‘Wish you had Borgman as tight.’ Gideon pushed the thought aside, but it kept coming back. He wished he knew what was going on between the man and his solicitor, and it was not even a consolation to know that the case against Red and Syd Garter was fool-proof. He rang Plumley, who said brightly: “Nice job you’ve done about the Carters, George. Wish all cases were as easy as that.”

  “You call it easy?” Gideon said gruffly. “About tomorrow morning—I’ve got Lee to give evidence of arrest, and Carmichael and Appleby to support. Do you want to give any other evidence?”

  Plumley hesitated.

  “Cuthbertson will probably put up a show of outraged innocence,” Gideon went on, “but I don’t think we ought to show even a glimpse of our cards.”

  “Right, George. We’ll just give formal evidence and let them snarl.”

  “Good,” said Gideon.

  Waiting seldom worried Gideon, for he had learned patience the hard way. Sometimes weeks, often months, occasionally years, passed before he got what evidence he needed, and he had a sense of timelessness most of the time he was at the Yard. He could act as swiftly as any man, but the slow accretion of evidence satisfied him best. At the moment there were a dozen, perhaps twice as many, men out, patiently acquiring evidence: about the car thefts, for instance; about the factory thefts; about the Carters; about the old lecher; about Carslake and Mrs Robson. Remorselessly, cases built up. But waiting that night was more trying than he had known it for a long time. He took the robbery files home, as well as notes about the factory jobs and the file on the man Larkin who had been battered to death in a small room of a house where he had lived with his mother and father. It began to look very much as if Larkin had driven that killer car – and been killed so that he could not talk.

  Usually, the telephone bell would ring two or three times in an evening, especially when O’Leary was on duty. Tonight, it did not ring once. Kate had to go out, sitting in for a neighbour. The television palled. It was useless to tell himself that he was fussing like a hen: this was how he felt.

  At ten o’clock the children began to come in. Malcolm was full of a film he had just seen, Matthew was in a lively mood, Penelope and Priscilla had a fit of the giggles. After ten minutes, Gideon said: “I’m going out for a stroll,” and went off, wishing Kate were with him, wishing that he was more sure of himself, looking up at the stars without thinking about them. He heard footsteps coming round the corner, and recognised Kate’s. There was more spring in his step as he went to meet her. The light of a street lamp fell on her face, and he saw her smile as she recognised him.

  “Hallo, Kate. You’re early.”

  “I wanted to be,” Kate said, as they touched hands. “Is Malcolm home?”

  “They’re all in. It’s a bear garden,” Gideon said. “Care for a stroll?”

  “Love it.”

  “Let’s go to the river,” Gideon suggested. “Bus there and walk back.”

  “That’s a good idea,” agreed Kate.

  She was aware of his mood, of course, even though she did not speak of it, and there was the quietness of true companionship between them as they walked to New King’s Road, caught a bus after only a minute’s wait, went to the Middlesex side of Putney Bridge, and walked briskly over it. The stars were reflected brightly on a surface so calm that there seemed to be hardly any movement. No craft was on it, only a few lights showed near the water, but the lights of the bridge shimmered just inside. A police car swung towards them, travelling very fast. They walked with long, well-matched strides, down to the tow-path, along it for half a mile, and then back, gradually quickening their pace; and when they reached the house again Gideon was feeling practically normal. Malcolm and the girls had gone to bed, Matthew was studying at a corner of the kitchen table, with the radio on. A supper tray with tea and sandwiches was waiting for them, and Kate said: “Going to be long, Matt?”

  “Only half an hour. I can go up to my room, if you like.”

  “You stay here, we’ll go up to our room,” Kate said.

  That was just right, thought Gideon, just what he wanted.

  Next morning, when he kissed her lightly, Kate squeezed his hand and said: “Good luck, dear.”

  Gideon stood in the magistrate’s court at Marlborough Street, the biggest man present. A court that was often almost deserted was bursting at the seams. Newspaper men squeezed together so that three sat where there was comfortable room for one, for they regarded this as the biggest sensation of the year. The morning’s papers had headlined the arrest, even The Times had given it prominence. Lee and Sergeant Carmichael were waiting, Carmichael rather like Cuthbertson to look at, with a distinguished profile and greying hair, Lee impervious to everything but his notes; he was undoubtedly feeling very much on edge
.

  Gideon looked round at the public gallery, and saw Mrs Borgman at the end of one row with Foyle, the junior partner of the solicitors. She was a striking woman, probably in the early forties, and obviously she had been a real beauty, but now she was a little too fat and heavy-breasted. But her complexion was superb, and as she looked about the court he saw that she had the most beautiful dark eyes. At the other end of the same bench was a slim blonde, a real beauty, and there was no reasonable doubt that this was Clare Selby. Gideon wondered whether Borgman’s wife knew that her husband had spent the weekend in Paris with the girl, who could only be in the middle twenties. She had an air of competence and poise, looking more like a model than a secretary.

  The clerk to the court came in, a wisp of a man, grey, dark-clad, harassed-looking, wearing pince-nez; off duty, he was one of the best raconteurs Gideon knew, with a store of court lore that wasn’t bettered in all London. Then a police sergeant banged his gavel, intoned words which were indistinguishable, and everyone stood up; Gideon saw how easily the Selby girl rose, and noticed that Borgman’s wife made quite an effort of it, like many heavy women. She was surprisingly short, when standing, and looked almost dumpy, as many Italian and Jewish women did after the first years of their womanhood.

  The magistrate came in: Calahan, a newly appointed one, with a brisk air and so far as the police were concerned an unknown quantity.

  Then Borgman was called.

  Gideon sensed the tension in the public and the Press gallery, but the rest was so matter-of-fact that it was almost boring. Yet when Borgman came in, immaculate in navy blue, brisk-moving, touched with dignity, Gideon felt that old familiar feeling of edginess. There was no further news of the nurse, and he was keenly disappointed. Then he saw Borgman look across at his wife and smile; the smile softened his expression remarkably, and made an immediate appeal to the people in the court. His wife raised both hands, as if she longed to cross to him and take him in her arms.