by John Creasey
“Won’t help you,” Delaney interrupted promptly. “Her late husband struck it rich in gold, George; left her nearly a hundred thousand pounds.”
Gideon said: “Oh,” in a voice which sounded shocked.
“But I’ll talk to her; I know what you’re after,” Delaney said. “Shall I ask her if she saw Borgman this trip?”
“Yes, do that,” said Gideon.
At the time when the two policemen were talking over eleven thousand miles, Jane Hoorn – nee Kennett – was standing near the stern of the great ship, watching the white wake, and the strange channel of smooth water in the middle of heavy seas. It never failed to fascinate her. She was alone, as she often was these days. Borgman was not even in her mind.
Gideon put down the receiver slowly, and sat back with his hands spread on the desk in front of him. Bell had been sitting with his ear fast to the extension, and knew everything that had been said. It was nearly nine o’clock, and Gideon had been in for half an hour. “Pity she’s in the money legally,” Gideon said. “It cuts out any likelihood that she’s been getting money from Borgman.” He was silent for a minute, then went on: “Did we get the official Fingerprints report on that stuff we found in Borgman’s desk?”
“Absolutely clean of prints, Sammy said.”
“Hmm. Oh, well. Let’s look on the bright side,” Gideon made himself say. “The Carters come up this morning. Nothing could go wrong there, could it?”
“Not a chance,” said Bell heartily. “And there was a message from Hoppy just before you came in. They’ve found the swine who did in those girls. Uncle of one of them, who’s been acting as sitter-in for a lot of children lately. No doubt about it this time—the night men at the lab checked everything. So that one’s in the bag. Going over to the East End court yourself?”
“I’ll leave it to Hugh,” Gideon said.
The removal of the two Carters from Brixton Jail to the East End police court went off without any hint of trouble. The brothers looked depressed and miserable. There was no one outside to watch them. The police on duty at all approaches to the prison were tensed up for two minutes, but that was all. Two police cars followed the Black Maria, and the approach to the East End court was guarded just as well as the prison gates themselves.
The Division presented the evidence – that Red had been seen attacking Tiny Bray, that Syd had been stopped in the act of throwing Rachel Gully into Duck’s Pool. Rachel gave her evidence in a subdued voice, and was obviously very nervous. Detective Officer Moss was in court, and took much more notice of Rachel than of the magistrate. The two men were committed for trial at the next sessions, after a dull hearing. Everyone had been keyed up until that moment; now there was a general air of relaxation, for the doors of the Black Maria opened, and the Carters, each handcuffed to a plainclothes man, stepped inside obediently. The doors were closed and locked behind them, and as the big black van started off, the two police cars which were on escort duty followed. The van turned a corner into the Whitechapel Road, and the first car followed. Until that moment, there was no hint of trouble, but suddenly there came a new, harsh note. A car started up, its engine roaring. As suddenly, two motor-cycles roared on the other side of the road, then swung across the stream of traffic.
The noisy car raced towards the first escort car, as if it were going to ram it. The police driver swung his wheel desperately, and mounted the pavement; and the second police car turned out to avoid it – and found the one with the roaring engine blocking the road. A dozen police were in sight, all behind the police cars; and they came running, two men blowing whistles furiously. Passers-by stopped to gape. The two motor-cyclists drew alongside the Black Maria, one on each side of the driving cabin, and clung on to the doors. One of them flung the contents of a bottle into the faces of the driver and his companion, and there was a stench of ammonia, while the two men snatched at their eyes. One of the motor-cyclists grabbed the wheel of the Black Maria and held it steady until his companion could climb in. The motor-cycles themselves had gone spinning and staggering on to the crowded pavement, where people were screaming with fear. Smoke bombs burst among the crowd, and in the road, and for a moment the Black Maria was cut off from view.
When it appeared again, a man was seen falling from it; and as he hit the ground another was pushed out of the driving cabin. The door slammed. Two men lay in crumpled heaps in the middle of the road, and the Black Maria screeched on.
Inside the van, the Carter brothers had slumped down on their seats, without dragging at their handcuffs and the men to whom they were secured, while the third guard sat at the back of the van, all thought of danger past. Then a shrill whistle sounded, giving a hint of alarm, and as it came, Syd smashed his clenched left fist into the face of the man to whom he was fastened, and Red butted his captor viciously in the nose. As the third man jumped up, Red kicked out and cracked him on the knee.
“Hold his neck,” Syd said urgently, and Red thrust his free arm round the man handcuffed to his brother, forcing the bicep against the man’s neck, and nearly choking him. Syd thrust his free hand into the detective’s pocket and found the keys. Red let his victim go, and the man slumped down, half-conscious. There was a sharp click as the key turned, and Syd exclaimed triumphantly: “Got it. Okay!” He pushed past his brother and went for the third guard.
“And it got clear away,” Bell growled. He was much more affected by this news than he had been by the message from Australia. “It makes me sick.”
“They can’t take a Black Maria far,” Rogerson reasoned, as if he found it hard to believe that a Black Maria had actually been stolen.
“How badly was the driver and his escort hurt?” asked Gideon. He had just come in from the Map Room, where he had been studying the car-theft figures, noting the places where the one-man one-boy garages were sited.
“Driver’s got concussion and a broken arm, the other chap a fractured skull and bruises—both hurt as they hit the ground while the van was moving.”
“What’ve you done?” Gideon demanded.
“The general call was out within minutes,” Bell said, and Rogerson repeated: “They can’t take it far.”
“Got to admire their nerve,” Gideon made himself say, but there was only bleakness in his expression and in his heart. “And we’ve got to face the fact that the Carters were much better organised than we realised. They must have had a dozen men involved in this, if not twice as many. Who’s making a report?”
“Christy,” Bell answered.
“Was that young chap Moss there?”
“Yes.”
“He might have noticed something everyone else missed,” Gideon said. “I’m going over there right away. Telephone Christy, ask him to have a sketch of the scene of the hold-up, and to try to get every point of distraction marked—where the smoke bombs fell, where they were thrown from, where the motor-cycles came from, all the usual stuff. I’ll be there within half an hour.”
“Sorry, George,” Rogerson said. “The Old Man wants you to go along and see him.”
Gideon said: “All right. I’ll be there within an hour, then.” He nodded and went out, and the two men left in his office, who knew him well, had never seen Gideon looking so bleak and so nearly vicious.
Gideon went striding along the corridor towards the first flight of stairs, and strode up them to the Commissioner’s room. Colonel Scott-Marie, the ‘Old Man’ at the Yard, seldom sent for him unless it was a matter of exceptional importance, and then usually liked to have the Assistant Commissioner for Crime with him. But Gideon hardly gave a thought to the reason for this summons.
If the Carters got free it would give not only their gang but every professional crook in London a tremendous lift.
Gideon reached the outer office, Marie’s secretary, a prim middle politely:
“Good-morning, Mr Gideon, would like you to go straight in.”
As he tapped on the plain oak door which led to the Commissioner’s office, Gideon paused for the first time to wonder what lay behind this summons. He did not know Scott-Marie well, and only once had he really been in close contact with him over a Yard problem; then it had been an administrative one. He heard a quiet “Come in,” and went through. Scott-Marie was tall, very lean, rather aloof-looking, but that no longer put Gideon off; he knew that this man genuinely had the interests of the Yard and the work of the C.I.D. at heart. Scott-Marie gave a rather thin-lipped smile and, unexpectedly, shook hands.
“Sit down, Gideon. Cigarette?”
“Still don’t use them, sir.”
“Of course not.” Scott-Marie did not sit down, and so put Gideon at a slight disadvantage. His hair was grey, crinkly, and cut close to the side of his head, and he had a very clearly marked parting. “I wanted an informal word with you about the Borgman case,” he went on, “although after the Carter incident you probably aren’t giving Borgman much thought. Is there any news of those two escapees?”
“No, sir.”
“It would help a lot if we could catch them quickly, but that won’t be easy.” Scott-Marie’s expression suggested that this was just the luck of the game. “How confident are you about Borgman now?”
Gideon said: “I think there would be greater risk if we withdrew the charge than if we go ahead with it.”
“What really persuaded you to fight for it?” Scott-Marie demanded.
Gideon said very quietly: “The deciding factor was Borgman’s relationship with his second wife and his present mistress. I’ve studied the personality of this man for a long time, Commissioner. He is going to great lengths to avoid an open scandal, and I don’t think he would do that to consider his wife’s feelings. I believe that he got away with one wife-murder, and a second was on the cards. If it had been known that he was estranged or on bad terms with his wife, anything which happened to her would immediately arouse suspicion. As things were before the arrest, an accident to her or death cleverly camouflaged as natural causes would have aroused sympathy and not much else.”
Scott-Marie nodded, and was silent for a long time. Was that order coming? It would be a bitter failure, but perhaps less harmful than if evidence was offered, and Percy Richmond tore it to pieces.
“George,” said Scott-Marie, unexpectedly, “I can see the quandary and sympathise with it, but it’s no use blinking at facts. You pushed this charge through, even at the length of ignoring a Home Office instruction. If it goes wrong, they’ll be after your blood. A year ago you ran into trouble with the Home Office over the economy drive they wanted you to make. This is your second clash with officials who could influence your future. If you win, there’ll be nothing to worry about, but if the Borgman case is dismissed, you’ll be the scapegoat.”
There was a long pause before Gideon said, quietly: “I feel just as I did last year, sir. I believe we ought to go ahead, and my personal position shouldn’t interfere with that. If we don’t get Borgman now, we never will.”
Chapter Thirteen
Risk
Gideon put his hand to his pocket and took out the big pipe, and smoothed it in his hands. Scott-Marie was standing by the window, looking at him, putting him at a disadvantage in exactly the same way that Gideon had Borgman, only two days ago. Scott-Marie was giving him plenty of time to think. Scott-Marie, he reminded himself, was completely loyal to his staff, and reliable: this was no kind of ultimatum from him. He was simply assessing a situation as he saw it. And it was seeping very deeply into Gideon’s mind. It was not good to be forced to realise that what he did over one case could affect his whole future. He had earned that future, and was almost sure of what it should be.
“You do see the full implications, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered briskly. “If I ever go higher it would be to take over the Assistant Commissioner’s job, when Mr Rogerson retires.”
“In three or four years at most, remember.”
“That would need the seal of the Minister’s approval,” said Gideon, “and whoever is minister isn’t likely to sign and seal it unless the permanent officials make the recommendation.”
“That’s right,” Scott-Marie agreed.
“Has anyone put this into so many words, sir?” Gideon was beginning to boil.
“No, but many hints have been dropped,” answered Scott-Marie. “I put it bluntly to the Permanent Secretary that Borgman’s position and influence might be a contributory cause of the reluctance to go ahead. The answer was as blunt: if a prosecution against a man in Borgman’s position fails the repercussions will be far-reaching. They won’t do the Yard any good at all. He’s right, of course. And he’s afraid—like Plumley—that there will be a very big effort to get the case dismissed at the second hearing. If it is, there will be a lot of ridicule, a lot of talk about wasting public money. In other words, the Home Office wanted a certainty before we acted against Borgman, and they know we haven’t got it. Well! You once told me that you couldn’t make up your mind whether you wanted to become an A.C.—-when you were locum it tied you to the desk too much. How do you feel now?”
Unexpectedly, Gideon found that he could smile.
“In the last five minutes I’ve decided that I want to become the A.G. very badly indeed,” he said, and went on, his smile broadening: “Had a talk with my wife about it only a few weeks ago—you remember Kate?”
Scott-Marie said: “Of course.”
“We decided that we would like the job,” went on Gideon, and added rather ruefully: “I suppose the truth is that I’d taken it for granted that it would be available for me once Rogerson retired, and—but that’s by the way, sir. I’m sorry I can’t tell the Home Office people what I think about the suggestion that we should back down on Borgman, but if it’s all right with you, I would like to be the chief police witness at the second hearing. There’s all the old stuff about the accident and the brakes which had been tampered with; we’re not entirely dependent on the killing by poison.”
Scott-Marie began to smile quite freely. He moved away from the window, went to a cupboard in a corner, opened it and took out whisky, a syphon and two glasses.
“Let’s drink to his committal for trial,” he said.
Gideon said: “I’d much rather shake hands on it, sir. I’ve got to go over and talk to some of the Divisional chaps at NE about the Carter escape, and it wouldn’t be wise to have whisky on my breath at this hour of the morning. They might think I was drinking to try to keep my spirits up!”
“What an awkward man you are for being right,” said Scott-Marie. “Tell you what,” he went on as he shook hands, “the first free Sunday, you and your wife must come and have lunch with us again.”
“We’d like to very much,” Gideon said, and was greatly cheered.
In the East End, there was a crowd of at least five hundred near the spot where the Black Maria had been held up. Traffic had been diverted to another main road, and only a thin trickle went through here, serving the local streets. The two motor-cycles were still on the ground, marked out with chalk; so were the spots where the driver and escort had fallen, and there were a few dark brown marks there; the blood of the man who had been worst injured. Uniformed police by the dozen stood at different points, and Gideon saw that three of them were standing by upturned boxes. Tall, military-looking Hugh Christy came hurrying towards him, and a battery of photographers followed.
“Glad you made it, George.” Christy had the air and bearing of a Guards officer, and the voice of one, too; it was always a little surprising to discover that he was mellow and human. In fact he had never been in the Army, and his voice was acquired, but it had often been said that, because of it, he was the wrong man for this rough East End Division. Yet he thrived on it. “Can’t wave a wand and catch the devils, can you?” he asked.
“Do my best,” said Gideon. “What are the boxes for?”
“Covering places where we found smoke bomb fragments, fire crackers and broken bottles. We’ve got a few footprints, but I don’t think they’ll help. Both motorcycles were stolen earlier this morning from outside a factory in Bethnal Green-—they’ve been identified. The owners were at work all the morning, and had the keys in their pockets. They—you suddenly thought of something, George?”
“Just had a notion,” Gideon explained. “How do these particular motor-cycles start? Key in the ignition, the same as a car, which is unusual.” He was talking almost to himself. “The thieves must have had keys or they couldn’t have risked taking the motor-cycles away—they might have been spotted if they’d fiddled with a piece of wire. There’s a master key for most of these things.”
“All pretty obvious, George,” Christy said.
Gideon grinned. “Yes. Remember that memo asking for details of car thefts? The car thieves always have a master key so that they can start off without taking too many chances. We know the Carters have a lot of hangers-on, and we know the car thieves have a lot of men available, too. This was all laid on so slickly that—”
“You think they might be connected?”
“I just had a wonderful dream that they might be,” said Gideon, almost wistfully. “Forget it.”
“Not on your life!”
“All right,” said Gideon. “Did you get that sketch plan made for me?”
“I put Moss on to it,” answered Christy. “He’s a useful man with a pencil, and deserves a chance. He’s in an empty shop over there, doing it now.”
“Let’s go and see what he’s done,” Gideon said. He had to thrust his way through the crowd which was jostling for a closer sight of him, and Christy followed, looking rather like a sergeant-major. Gideon found himself wondering, as always when he was in the East End, how many of the people here were really well-disposed, and how many sympathised with the Carters. Ten per cent were against the police probably; certainly ten per cent would get a kick out of it if the police were discomfited. There was another fact that mustn’t be lost sight of, either: by the daring of their escape the Carters would become heroes in the eyes of a great number of people whose attitude towards the police was no better than neutral. Many who read of the exploit in the evening newspapers would say off-handedly: “You have to admire their guts.” Unless the Carters were found quickly, there was a good chance that they would win sufficient sympathy to be helped against the police long enough for them to get safely away.