by John Creasey
Red mouthed the single word: “Hurry”, and the gun was covering Reggie’s chest, while the thudding at the main door was heavier, and soon it would crash in.
“Hurry!” Red mouthed again, and the third bolt came back; there was only the bar to lift. Reggie put his hands beneath it. It was very heavy, and not easy to shift. Reggie saw the two men standing on either side, and thought again of what would happen if the police streamed in. There were only a few minutes, perhaps only seconds, to spare.
He raised the bar.
He was sweating as if he were already roasting. He had seen what happened when flame guns were used, in pictures of army manoeuvres. He got the bar free from its slots, and held it higher, almost shoulder high.
Then the door was pushed against Reggie. There was a thud, as if the men outside had been waiting for this signal. He was pushed forward by the force of the movement, with the steel bar still in his hands. He saw each of the Carters ready to use their guns – and then something cracked inside him, and he knew that he could not allow this thing to happen. He hurled the bar towards Syd. Syd saw it coming and raised the flame gun towards him – and then the door crashed in.
As it swung back, the big door at the other side of the shop gave way.
Gideon saw everything that happened.
There was a gap between the double doors they had been trying to force. He saw the white-faced youth with the bar, Red and Syd with their guns, the girl by Red’s side. One glimpse of the flame gun told him what they were planning, but the door behind the youth was already opening wider, and the police there would run right into that awful flame.
Then the youth flung the bar.
Syd Carter swung the gun towards him, there was a hiss of sound and a wicked tongue of flame, but the bar caught Syd across the shoulder, and he staggered and nearly lost control. Gideon, first to get into the shop, hurled himself across. Syd Carter still held the flame gun, and was trying to regain his balance. The flame had died down but was still hissing, and any man who got in the path of a single flare would have little chance of life.
Gideon saw Syd trying to swing it towards him; saw Red raising the automatic; saw Lucy suddenly strike at Red so that he lost his balance; and his own great hand struck Syd across the head, sending him flying and the gun clattering. Flame spat towards the floor, then snaked along the concrete a foot from Gideon, a yard from the boy.
Reggie Cole was sobbing. “I couldn’t let them do it. I can’t help it if I was ratting on them, I couldn’t let them do it.”
“You did yourself a lot of good, son,” Gideon said soothingly. “Just take it easy.” He watched as Syd and Red, handcuffed to a powerful man, were being led out. Lucy was not handcuffed, but there was a man on either side of her. In the street there was the bustle of excitement, the inevitable sensation as the police closed in. It had not taken long, but he did not want to live through a minute like that again.
“You’ll have to come along with us,” Gideon said to the youth, “but you can have someone to see you at the Yard, if you like.”
There were tears in Reggie Cole’s eyes as he said hoarsely: “Could I—could I see my mother, please?”
“No, I won’t be home until very late—you go to bed,” Gideon said to Kate. There was excitement in his voice, and she knew that everything had gone well. “We got them cold; all right, but there are a lot of things that ought to be done right away. ’Night, dear.”
He was in his own office. The door was propped open, and there was a continual parade of men in and out. Records found at Mortimer’s Garage led straight to most people in the Carter mob; thirty in all in the East End, another fifteen at garages which were all controlled by Mortimer’s, one of which was owned by the Carters.
Except for the anxiety about Wills, Gideon would have felt on top of the world. Wills was in the operating theatre at Fulham Hospital, and word might come through at any minute.
When Gideon left for home just after one o’clock, word about Wills had not come through.
When he woke at a quarter to seven next morning, there was still no news, and the fact hung over him like a pall, although he kept trying to convince himself that no news was good news. It was going to be a hell of a day. The second hearing of the charge against Borgman was enough in itself, and that could go on for anxious days, perhaps a week or more. Cuthbertson would leave nothing at all to chance, and Richmond would be ready to take advantage of the slightest weakness in the police case. Those prints might be the answer, but he didn’t yet know.
Gideon left home at half past eight, waving to Kate who stood in the doorway, her smile hiding her anxiety. The real cause of anxiety was that he could not concentrate enough on the Borgman case; this day of all days he wanted his mind clear, but there was now this nagging anxiety for Wills, the disclosures about the car thefts and the Carter brothers buzzing in his mind. This was a day when he would leave the routine to Bell, although he would be at the office first, and he ought at least to look through the general reports. He saw the half dozen or so cars parked near the steps – there was always plenty of parking room at this hour of the morning – nodded to the men on duty in the main hall, and sensed that the news about Wills’ injury had reached them: it was always possible to tell when there was anxiety at the Yard.
He pushed open his office door, and there was Joe Bell, sitting at his desk, coat off, collar and de undone.
“’Morning, George.”
“Hallo, Joe. You’re good and early.”
“Knew you’d have enough on your plate,” said Bell glumly. “Negative cable in from Sydney, Australia. Delaney asked them to try Mrs Hoorn, but she just says she hasn’t seen Borgman for years and doesn’t want to. We’ve had it with her.”
Gideon grunted: “Anything else?”
“Our famous racing tipster is on top of his form,” Bell went on. “Hamm’s sent in his report on the dot for once.”
“He would choose this morning. Let me see.” Gideon slipped off his coat as he went to Bell’s desk and read over his shoulder. “‘Seventeen outsiders have come up in the past three weeks, as compared with an average of three a week over the whole country’—not bad, Joe, he’s done quite a job. ‘Normal proportion outside the Home counties’—hallo, what’s this? ‘Over the past three years, there have been periodic periods,’” – he grinned – “‘when similar phenomena have appeared.’ Hamm never could write a report. ‘These occur at intervals of six to seven weeks and usually last for three to four weeks. There appears to be reason to believe that …’ What he means is, it looks as if someone is pepping up outsiders, fixing a short period for it, and then dropping it so that it isn’t too obvious. Okay, tell him to keep at it. They were too late with the last one, so the next outsider to win ought to have a blood and saliva test, and it had better be kept up until we have all the evidence we need. I’ll talk to the Jockey Club.” He hesitated. “No, we’d better have the Old Man do that; I’ll ask him to fix it.” He made a note to tell Rogerson that he would like to make this recommendation to Scott-Marie. “What else is there?” He hoped desperately to have news that Borgman’s prints had been found inside a compartment in the late Lord Alston’s desk.
“Hoppy’s been on the buzzer,” Bell answered. “He says he thinks that Mrs Robson knew all about Carslake killing and burying her husband, and he’d like to pull her in.”
“He made a report?”
“No. He says he’s afraid she might duck, and we don’t want to give the Press another excuse for saying we’re asleep.”
“All right, if he’s satisfied that we can make it stick, let him charge her.” Gideon was studying the documents ready for the Borgman case, and then saw the report on the fingerprints inside the secret compartment.
‘Still unidentified’, it said; so they hadn’t yet got the evidence they needed. Gloomily he read on. It was already nine o’clo
ck, and the hearing would be on by ten thirty; he wanted to have a full hour briefing himself. “Anything else?”
“Got a nasty job out at Chiswick; looks as if a sixty-year old couple were killed by their only son; but it can keep,” Bell answered. “Why don’t you go into Rogerson’s room? He won’t be in this morning.”
“Good idea.” Gideon gathered up his papers, and asked almost casually: “Nothing in about Wills, I suppose.”
Bell dropped his hands to his desk.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“No,” said Gideon, and felt his jaw going tense, fearing what Bell was going to say, and hating it.
“Thought Mike O’Leary called you,” Bell said. “Wills died at half past five. That means the rope for the Carters.”
Gideon gave one of his long pauses, and then said heavily: “Yes. Yes, it’ll hang them all right.” He knew that he had gone pale, and there was heaviness in his step as he went to the door. Wills had been really promising; one of the best of the younger men. In fifteen years’ time he would have been a superintendent, or very near it. Last night he had been eager and on top of the world, aware that he had seized his main chance with both hands. One shot – and he was dead. He had a wife. He had two children, each under school age.
Gideon stood by the door, and asked: “Who’s seen his wife?”
“Hoppy.”
“Hmm. All right, Joe.”
He went into the Assistant Commissioner’s room, put a note on the secretary’s desk in an ante-room, asking not to be disturbed, and spread out the document in the Borgman case. It was at once simple and involved, and he examined every weakness he could see. At half past nine Fred Lee came in, and was obviously edgy, while both of them seemed to be brushed by the shadow of Wills’ death.
There was young Moss, who had done much the same kind of job as Wills. Funny how it worked out. If the Carters had really wanted to kill for vengeance’ sake, it would have been Moss. As it was, Moss and the Gully girl would probably make a match of it, and Moss would get to the top – or nearly to the top. He hadn’t the weight needed for this job, but Wills had had plenty; Wills was going to be hard to replace.
At ten o’clock he said: “Okay, Fred, let’s go.”
As they drove along Regent Street towards Great Marlborough Street and the police court, they passed a tall, good-looking man wearing an overcheck jacket and grey flannels: the outdoor type to perfection. He was going into a jeweller’s. In his pocket was a small capsule of cortisone solution, similar to that used at Haydock Park only yesterday. He bought a tie pin that had caught his fancy, and left when Gideon and Lee had parked round the corner and entered the court room. He went to his flat, and had been in for hardly five minutes before the telephone bell rang.
“Kingsley speaking,” he answered.
“How did it go yesterday?” Soames asked, without mentioning his name.
“Easy as ever,” Kingsley said confidently.
“Good. We’re going to lay off for a few weeks, but it won’t make any difference to your salary … No, nothing’s wrong, we’re just being careful. Come to the club in the usual way, and make sure you show yourself in the stables; it will be a good thing if you’re around when nothing unusual does happen. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Kingsley said. “Thanks, old chap.”
When he rang off, he lit a cigarette, picked up a copy of the Racing Calendar, and sat in an easy chair with his feet up. He felt that he was made for life.
Chapter Sixteen
Second Hearing
Gideon’s presence in the court for a second time obviously caused a stir. The Fleet Street men present knew that it meant that he was committing himself, and although he might not give evidence, his name would be headlined more than Lee’s, or any of the officers involved. Every seat was occupied, every square foot of space was used. Gideon looked round, sensing the excitement and noting that by far the coolest person here was Glare Selby. Borgman’s mistress sat next to Borgman’s wife,who looked a little thinner and rather pale – as if she had deliberately not put on rouge and used very little lipstick that morning.
The magistrate had dealt with two vagrancy cases, and conferred with the clerk in his usual rather ostentatious way. Gideon had an uneasy feeling that, without knowing it, Calahan might be biassed in Borgman’s favour. There was the anticipated throng of solicitors and barristers, a sight seen only occasionally at a police court, all conferring, all giving the impression that they were absolutely sure of themselves. Plumley was there, looking rather anxious, with other solicitors from the Public Prosecutor’s office; Gideon had advised playing the prosecution on a soft pedal, and trying to get the defence to put on the pressure.
Lee was staring at a short, stocky man with a ruddy face, a man who looked as if he spent half his time out of doors, and who had very clear, pale blue eyes. This man glanced up suddenly, and caught Lee’s eyes. That was undoubtedly deliberate; and that was the kind of tactic that Percy Richmond would always employ. Richmond glanced next at Gideon, who stared at him blank-faced, and then turned for a word with Cuthbertson. Gideon looked at Lee.
“The devil’s gunning for me all right,”
“Know what I think?”
“Tell me.”
“They’re going all out for the kill today. They don’t want this to drag on; the longer it drags on the more we can say and do. They’ll try to get the case dismissed today, if they’ve a ghost of a chance.”
“Have a job,” Gideon said.
“Wouldn’t like to say,” said Lee. “I think they’ve got something up their sleeve, too. They wouldn’t be so cocky if they hadn’t. I’m as worried as hell, George, and yet—”
“Forget the worry,” Gideon urged, but the words seemed empty, even to him. “And yet what?”
“There’s still something about the morphine bottles,” Lee said. “They’re Zentens, I’ve checked that, and yet—it’s like something on the tip of my tongue. I hope to God I can get it off when Richmond’s tearing my guts out.”
Gideon thought: ‘I hope I did the right thing by giving him this job.’ He made himself study the magistrate’s sharp features, and then waited for the door from the cells to open; Borgman was a few minutes later than expected, and there was a hush of expectancy; this pause had probably been laid on for effect. Cuthbertson was regally confident, and Richmond looked as if he were in a mood to brush aside all opposition.
“All this nonsense,” he seemed to be saying. “We’ll soon settle it.”
Then the door to the jailer’s office and the cells opened, and a large, elderly police-sergeant came in, with Borgman; and two men followed.
“Number one remand, sir, John Borgman,” the sergeant said.
“Very well,” Calahan said, and nodded. “Is there any change of plea?”
Richmond stood up, smiling, robust, and put his hands to the lapels of his coat.
“I appear for Mr Borgman, Your Honour, and the plea of Not Guilty remains.”
The rustle of interest could not be checked, and Gideon found himself watching Borgman’s studied movements, almost admiring his immaculateness and his bearing. Borgman stood in the dock with all the confidence in the world. He glanced immediately at his wife, gave her a smile that was positively radiant, paused, glanced and nodded to his secretary, and then placed his hands on the rails of the dock.
The performance had begun.
When Lee was in the box giving formal evidence of the arrest, Richmond was fidgeting as if he could not wait to get at the witness. So this was to be a real offensive – the usual tactics for the defence and an indication of absolute confidence. No wonder Lee was already on edge. Lee looked more round-shouldered than usual, and unsure of himself, and Gideon felt his own doubts rising fast. He should have been in that box. He should have been ready to give Richmond just a
s good as he got. As commander, he couldn’t be there, but it needed a man with more weight and confidence than Lee.
“… may it please Your Honour, I would like to ask the witness some questions—vital questions to the accused, who is, of course, completely innocent of these—” Richmond paused, as if he were meaning to say ‘ridiculous charges’, but stopped in time and just said ‘charges’.
“Proceed,” Calahan said.
“Thank you, sir. Now—” Richmond glared at Lee, and waited until the slight buzz of excitement had died down, and then lowered his voice so that it had a growling note: histrionics usually reserved for the jury, Gideon knew, but effective here because in a way he had already managed to suggest that it was Lee, not Borgman, on trial; that was the secret of the man’s mastery. “You are a chief superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, and you have often made arrests of this nature before. Is that so?”
“I have often made arrests,” Lee said, calmly enough.
“Please listen to my questions. I said: ‘Of this nature’.”
“I heard you.”
“Have you ever made arrests of this nature before?”
Calahan said: “It would perhaps clarify the question if you were to elaborate what you mean by ‘this nature’, Mr Richmond.”
“I think the witness is fully aware of my meaning, Your Honour, but I shall be happy to explain to the court,” said Richmond. “This was a somewhat unusual arrest. It was an arrest which followed a remarkable and a grossly improper action by the police—by this witness. It was done in such a way that I imagine that it must have been without the approval or the knowledge of the Assistant Commissioner for Crime.”
Calahan said: “Mr Richmond, you will please elicit your facts by questions.”
“Fool,” muttered Appleby, who was next to Gideon. “He shouldn’t have given Richmond even half a chance.”