by John Creasey
Lee was called.
“Do I understand that it is your intention only to submit evidence of arrest?” the magistrate asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Please proceed.” The formality was absurd, and yet it bristled with drama, because of the accused man and the way he was looking at his wife. Gideon watched the blonde, and could not say that she took any more notice of Borgman than anyone else did. Her lips were parted a fraction, as if she were touched by the prevailing excitement.
“… and we ask for time in which to prepare the evidence against the accused,” said Lee.
“I understand,” said Calahan.
Was he going to be a prosy fool?
“Is the accused represented?”
“Yes, your worship,” Cuthbertson said, and stood up.
“Thank you. Does the accused wish to say anything?”
“I am not guilty, sir,” Borgman said.
“My client will have a complete answer to the charge laid against him,” said Cuthbertson, “and in view of his great responsibilities in public life, and the fact that the charge refers to a matter nearly five years old, I respectfully submit that bail on any recognisances which you see fit to impose would be far more just than a remand in custody.”
“Hmm-hmm-mm,” said Calahan, and Gideon watched him with increasing tension; was there any possible risk that he would agree? It could happen; Borgman could put up a huge bond.
“Hmm-mmm-mm,” Calahan said again. “In view of the gravity of the charge, I do not think it advisable to order a remand on bail. Eight days in custody—where every facility will be given to the defence, of course, every facility—is that what you require, Superintendent?”
“That will be satisfactory, your Worship.”
“Very well,” said Calahan. “The accused will appear again in this court on Wednesday next.” He paused, Cuthbertson touched Borgman’s arm, Mrs Borgman pushed her way towards the box and no one stopped her from greeting her husband, while Clare Selby looked on as if dispassionately.
Outside, Lee said: “Calahan had me scared for a minute.”
“Now I’m going to scare you,” Gideon said. “You’ve got more work to do in the next week than you’ve ever done in your life. We mustn’t miss a trick, and if we can prove Borgman obtained that morphine himself, or even had the opportunity to, we’ll clinch it even tighter. I’ll spend the afternoon with you on the job. Okay?”
“I won’t miss any tricks,” Lee said fervently, and his mouth was set thinly. “I want to win this case even more than you do, George.”
There were times when it would have been an advantage to be back as a superintendent, Gideon reflected, as he was driven to the Yard by a plainclothes sergeant who thought it was advisable not to talk. He could then tackle one job at a time, as Lee did. The moment he got back he would find a dozen jobs waiting for him, and good though Joe Bell was, there was a limit to how much he could take on himself. He hurried to the office, and found Bell on the telephone. Gideon glanced through the notes on his desk, and one of them read: ‘I’ve told D.I. Wills to be here at twelve—he’s got something on the killer car job.’
It was now half past eleven.
Bell rang off, made a note, and asked: “Everything as you wanted it?” He hardly waited for an answer, but went on: “Nasty job in this morning.”
“What?”
“Six-year-old girl who was missing last night found strangled near the spot where the seven-year-old was three nights ago.”
Gideon said: “But that old man—”
“It wasn’t him, George. Sammy rang down to say those hairs weren’t his, anyhow.”
Gideon said: “Damn,” and lifted the telephone. “Give me the laboratory: I’ll hold on.” He waited for ten seconds, and then said: “Sammy there? … Sammy, the pubic hairs in that seven-year old’s knickers, were they the same as the specimens you had this morning? … Oh. Sure? … Right … Yes, carry on . .. Really?” His tone brightened. “Looks as if we’re really all right there, anyhow.” He rang off. “As it wasn’t the old man they arrested in B.1, we’d better make sure he’s released with full apologies.” He lifted the telephone again. “Get me Mr Summerley of B.1, quick.” He rang off. “But Sammy says that they’ve found strands from that cotton glove in the pocket of the man Larkin; he did that job all right. Did we pick up the manager of that garage where we found the gloves?”
“That’s what Wills wants to see you about.”
“Right.” A telephone bell rang, and Gideon picked it up. “Thanks … that you, Summerley? … That old man for the seven-year-old child job—-oh, you have-good. Hope to God they catch the swine who really did it, soon. Good-bye.”
He picked up a memo with Bell’s initials appended, and read: ‘Mrs Jane Hoorn travelled by P. & O. Line to Bombay, India, on the R.M.S. Himla, March 5th. She had a short sight-seeing trip in Bombay and Southern India. The P. & O. Line is trying to trace her beyond that. I have cabled Bombay Police Department.’
Gideon said very softly: “Nice work, Joe. We’ll get her before long.” Before he could go on, his telephone bell rang again.
“It won’t give me a minute’s peace this morning,” he said irritably, and picked up the receiver, prepared to switch his thoughts right away from Borgman. “Gideon … Who? … Yes, put him through.” He raised a hand to Bell, who immediately picked up an extension of the same telephone, and a pencil. “It’s Limpy Dale,” he called, a hand covering the mouthpiece. “Might be a squeal on the Carters … Hallo, Dale, yes—Gideon speaking. Will you—”
“Mr. Gideon, I’ve only got sec,” a man began, but abruptly his voice broke off, there was a sound which might have been a stifled cry, then silence until the line at the other end went dead, creating an awful stillness.
That was one of the bad moments for Gideon; a moment when the men against whom he was working seemed to stretch out to hit him where he sat.
The Carters were in a prison cell; but someone working for them must have stopped Limpy, and there seemed only one possible explanation of that stifled cry.
Chapter Twelve
Bad Day
“He was going to squeak all right,” Joe Bell said, “and they stopped him, George.” He watched as Gideon rattled the platform of the telephone, and as Gideon said into it: “Get me Mr Christy, in a hurry.” Gideon didn’t replace his receiver, but called to Bell: “Get Information, Joe. We want a general call out for Limpy Dale as fast as we can get it.” Bell snatched up a telephone, and there was a few moments’ delay. During them he felt the same kind of shock as Gideon had, and wished he could take a few minutes off, to absorb the news; but Gideon seemed like perpetual motion when there was any kind of emergency such as this.
“Ask the riverside Divisions to concentrate on this, and have the Thames Division watch the river; there’s a chance that they’ll throw him in,” he said to Bell. “Hallo, Hugh, here’s an emergency. Limpy Dale was going to squeal but I think someone stopped him. We want to pick him up as fast as we can. I’ve a general call out, but will you … Good man.” Christy had told him that he was already ringing for a sergeant to arrange calls at places where Limpy Dale might be found. “Call me in person,” Gideon urged. “No, I don’t know what he was going to squeal about, he didn’t have time to say.”
He rang off, listened to Bell talking to Information, and then looked up as there was a tap at the door. “Come in.” The door opened and Detective-Inspector Wills came in, a youngish man with a lean, powerful figure; Wills was thirty-eight, and would go a long way. “Sit down a minute, Wills,” Gideon said as Bell finished talking. “Joe, there are two things to concentrate on with Limpy Dale. Either he was going to turn Queen’s Evidence, and so try to save his own skin, or he was going to tell us something we don’t know. If it had been Queen’s Evidence he would have written to us, I shoul
d think, or said something to Christy’s boys when he was questioned. So it looks as if there’s something brewing.”
“Can’t think what, as we’ve got both Red and Syd.”
“That’s what worries me,” Gideon said. “There’s one obvious possibility.” He glanced round at Wills, gave a thin-lipped smile, and said: “Care to guess what it is?”
Wills had a deep voice and a friendly smile.
“Couldn’t be a plan to get Red and Syd Carter out of Brixton, could it?”
Gideon smiled broadly. “It’s the kind of thing I think we ought to watch for, anyhow.” It was good to know that Wills was on the ball so quickly, to have confirmation that here was a man with a real future. “Well, what’s worrying you about Bennett, the manager of that garage? Picked him up?”
“No,” answered Wills, and where another man might have seemed diffident, he was confident without being in any way over-bold. “That’s what I wanted a word with you about, sir. The gloves were in his wastepaper basket, and we’ve got grounds for picking him up, but I shouldn’t think he’s a talker. I’d prefer to let him think we accept his explanation that he didn’t know the gloves were there, and hadn’t seen Larkin.”
“What do you know about Larkin?”
“Just been talking to the lab, sir,” Wills replied. “I had seen a report about his murder, of course, and he had a bandaged right hand, so I wondered if there could be a connection.”
“Hm. How would you handle the situation?”
“I’d let Bennett have reason to believe we’re going to ask him about Larkin, so that he can prepare himself against the question,” Wills said, “and I’d let him get away with a denial that he saw Larkin yesterday. That will encourage Bennett to think he’s safe, and he might do something he wouldn’t risk if he was on his guard.”
“Why not come straight out with it, and try to make him break down?”
“As I say, he doesn’t strike me as a man who’ll break easily, sir, and there are no sign of Bennett’s prints at Larkin’s place,” answered Wills. “I’ve discovered something else about Bennett, sir.”
“What?”
“He nearly went broke a year ago, and then got some new capital in his business. Since then he’s been spending pretty freely. I had a look at his takings books, and I shouldn’t think he’s doing much business. I’ve also discovered that several garages which were a bit rocky last year are doing all right now—these little one-man garages, run by the boss and a boy. There are at least five of that kind of garage in the South-West London area, and they’ve all taken on a new lease of life.”
“All right, lay off Bennett for the time being. Anything else?”
“I’d suggest having a man at one of the other garages, possibly one each at a couple of them,” Wills said. “We could get a couple of young-looking chaps with good mechanical knowledge, and they might pick up a lot. I don’t think you’ll get much luck at Bennett’s, but there’s no reason why the others shouldn’t bite.”
“Got the men in mind?”
“There’s a chap named Arthurson in the Mechanics School, sir,” Wills said. “Apart from that I’m pretty blank.”
“I’ll talk to the Mechanics Superintendent, and tell him you’ll be getting in touch,” said Gideon. “Think you can handle this yourself, or would you rather have a superintendent with you?”
Wills just grinned.
Gideon chuckled. “See what you can do.” He nodded dismissal, and when Wills was opening the door, said: “Oh, Wills.”
Wills turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Don’t take chances. These chaps are killers. And don’t make mistakes. If you’re in doubt, come to me or Mr Bell. There’s a lot of things you haven’t had time to learn yet. A bad mistake now could keep you back from promotion for years.”
“I’ll watch my step, sir.”
“Good luck,” said Gideon. He waited until the door had closed, and then grinned across at Bell. “Watch him, Joe. He might want taking down a peg, or two soon; we’ll have to judge the moment right. He may be on to the very thing we’re after, too; if these garages are being financed by the same man it’s as good as a ring.” He paused only for a moment before changing the subject briskly: “Have a word with Brixton, will you, and talk to NE. There’s just a chance that pals of the Carters are going to stage a rescue attempt—it’s the kind of thing Red would probably revel in, being the flamboyant type. Friday morning’s the most likely time, when they’re being brought up for the second hearing. Tell you what,” Gideon added, “we’ll warn the court to expect them late, twelve o’clock, say, and then get them out early. That way we should fool anyone who’s got a rescue in mind.”
“They wouldn’t have the nerve,” Bell said.
“You might be right,” Gideon conceded, and caught himself out in a yawn. “What’s the matter with me?”
“You’ve been working like an express train ever since you left the court,” Bell said.
Gideon looked surprised.
It was the middle of the afternoon when a police launch of the Thames Division, dawdling along near the Pool of London, pulled near a little backwater, and the man on look-out called: “Easy now, there’s something over there. Looks like an old coat, but it might have something in it.” The launch swung slowly towards the backwater, little more than a big pool, the surface covered with green scum, orange peel, pieces of wood and old cartons floating near it, and the look-out man picked up his boat hook, leaned forward and prodded. “There’s something in it all right,” he said, and another man joined him and together they hooked the ‘thing’ and drew it towards the side of the launch.
Expertly, they hoisted the body aboard, and turned it over.
“That’s Limpy Dale,” said the look-out man. “Flash the Yard, Bill.”
“So they killed him,” Bell said heavily. “And I think I’m with you now, George. They wouldn’t have killed him because he was going to turn Queen’s Evidence; they know we’ve got enough to put them down for ten years at least. There’s something in the wind, and an escape from Brixton is more likely than anything.”
“Briefed everyone?”
“Yes. You laid it on with the court?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered. “But I think we ought to send someone over to Brixton to have a look round. If Brixton thinks we’re really serious, they’ll be careful. Jim got much on?”
“No.”
“Send him, then.”
Just before Gideon left the office, at half past six that evening, Appleby rang up to say that if any attempt were made to release the Carter brothers next morning, there wasn’t a ghost of a chance of its succeeding.
“Better not be,” said Gideon dryly. He left the office, walked down to his car, sat in it for a moment or two reviewing the day again, and felt more satisfied than he had been for some time. The fact that Borgman was in Brixton and they were getting nearer to the nurse was easing his fears that the case would go sour.
Gideon had three late evening newspapers under his arm, and each front page screamed news of the arrest; there were photographs of Borgman’s wife, his £40,000 home with its swimming pool and its private cinema, his yacht, even a picture of him getting out of his Rolls Bentley Continental. So far, no one had made any comment, but two newspapers put a lot of emphasis on the good works which Borgman did; his gifts to charity, his generosity to employees. These were the first whispers in a campaign to whitewash him, and no matter what any psychologist said, it was the kind of thing which could seep into the mind of a jury.
“But we’re all right even if we don’t find the nurse,” Gideon told Kate, when they were in the back garden, trimming the privet hedge while she trimmed the lawn. “She’s flashing her money about, and might have been blackmailing him, though. Or he might have bribed her to get out of England quick.”
He went on clipping, and drawing at his empty pipe, until it was nearly dark, and was actually putting on his coat when he heard the telephone bell inside the house. Kate was already indoors. He went slowly and deliberately, as always, with the scent of new-mown grass pleasant on the air, and the perfume of night-scented stock wafted to him.
“It’s O’Leary,” Kate said.
“Thanks, dear … Hallo, Mike, can’t you sleep?”
“George, a cable’s just come in from Perth.”
“Well?”
“The Colombo’s due in tomorrow, at Fremantle,” O’Leary said, “and a woman named Jane Hoorn is on board. She joined the ship at Colombo just over a week ago.”
“Well, well,” said Gideon. “So we’ll soon be able to talk to her.” As if speaking to himself, he went on: “I’ll telephone Delaney at Perth in the morning.”
Twelve thousand miles from London, walking over the springy buffalo grass which was thicker than usual after the spring rains, Superintendent Delaney of the Perth Criminal Investigation Bureau approached .his small yacht on the Swan River and was about to step into it when a car drew up and a tall man came hurrying.
“Tell them no, I’m out sailing,” Delaney called.
“It’s a call coming from Gideon of the Yard,” the man called back. “It’s due in half an hour’s time; you’re just in time to make it.”
“Dunno that I want to,” Delaney grumbled, but he turned away from the little boat with its furled white sail, looked wistfully at other small craft already moving swiftly before the wind, then went to the car. Five years ago, he had visited London and talked to Gideon, gone to his home, and been shown some of the sights by him. In half an hour exactly, he heard Gideon’s voice.
“How are you, Eric?” Gideon sounded as clear as if he were only a few miles away. “Is the Colombo in yet?”
“Due this afternoon,” Delaney answered.
“Will you go and see this Nurse Kennett—now Mrs Hoorn?” Gideon asked. “Ask her where she’s got her money from, who—”