A Backwards Jump

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by John Creasey


  Gideon went straight to the waiting-room. It had a window through which he could see inside, although to anyone inside it looked like frosted glass. The woman was sitting leaning back against the wall in an attitude of utter dejection and dismay. Gideon studied her face; she was a stranger.

  She looked possessed by fear.

  Gideon went in.

  She jumped up, a woman of fifty, perhaps a little younger, grey-haired, dressed in a too thick tweed suit made by a good tailor, wearing good quality gloves and shoes, carrying a good quality leather handbag.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. Crow,” Gideon said, and smiled to try to reassure her. “How can I help you?”

  At first, she couldn’t find words; she had waited for over an hour for this moment, and now it had come, was speechless. Gideon did not try to hurry her, but sat on the corner of a square table, quite relaxed, and hoping that his manner would soon soothe her.

  “I—I know I shouldn’t have asked for you, but—but I’ve heard such wonderful things about you, Mr. Gideon, and—and no one seems to be able to help. They mean well, I know they mean well, but no one seems to understand that Sheila’s missing. She’s all I’ve got left, and I’m sure he’s taken her away.” She closed her burning eyes, swayed, but then squared her shoulders and went on doggedly: “I’m sorry if I’m being emotional. I’m talking about my daughter Sheila, of course. She is only six. Her father always swore that he’d take her away from me, although the court gave me custody of her. She went to see him last night, and she hasn’t come back. She—”

  “If she’s with your ex-husband, we’ll soon find out,” Gideon assured her. “You’ve nothing to fear if the court gave you custody. Now, tell me more about it.” He pressed a bell, to bring in a note-taker who would write down everything Mrs. Crow said.

  This was a cause of fear he could really understand.

  It would have been easy to have left her with a Sergeant, when the note-taker arrived. Staying with them cost him fifteen minutes and gained him a closer study of Mrs. Crow. She wasn’t fifty or anywhere near it, he decided; probably in the late thirties. Worry, anxiety, fear, and a night without sleep, had conspired to make her look much older than she was. Ten years ago, she had probably been quite striking; now she was grey, jaded, faded.

  The story of the past few years of her life came out quietly once she realised that Gideon meant to give her a thorough hearing. An unfaithful husband, drink, quarrels: she had “stuck it out” because of Sheila, had believed that Sheila might yet mend the marriage. Then her husband, John Crow, had brought a young girl to the house, as a “maid”; that had been going beyond endurance.

  Divorce, custody of the child, the court’s permission for the father to see the child once a month – always the first Sunday in the month.

  Yesterday.

  The day a shrew of a woman had struck a boy not much older than Sheila, and sent him on, cowed and afraid.

  “And she isn’t back, Mr. Gideon. I waited until midnight, as my ex-husband said that she was on her way, then I went to his flat. It was all in darkness and no one was there. I’m sure he’s taken her away. I’m sure he’s going to try to take her out of the country, too, he always said that he would take her abroad if he had half a chance.”

  She was really in despair.

  She had gone to her local police station and been soothed by a policewoman, then by a Night Superintendent who had promised to look into the matter, and had sent her home; she had dropped into a sleep of exhaustion, not waking until ten o’clock.

  “And the police round the corner still couldn’t tell me anything, so I just felt that I had to come to the fountain head. I had to. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “If I can help I will,” Gideon promised. “I’ll make sure nothing’s been reported about your ex-husband, if you’ll wait for a few minutes.”

  Gratitude momentarily drove out fear.

  “Oh, I’ll wait as long as you like!”

  Gideon went out to the nearest telephone, and called Superintendent Carter, of CD Division, where Mrs. Crow lived. It was one of central London’s most densely populated districts.

  “Have you been out to see that man Crow?” Gideon asked.

  Carter, dry-voiced and laconic, said promptly: “So Mrs. Crow carried out her threat, did she? I hope you played nicely for her, George. Crow’s not home, and I’m waiting for a report from his office now. He hasn’t been there yet. If he’s still not there when we go again—”

  “We’ll be after him,” Gideon said. “Thanks.” He rang off, called Information, and arranged for a teletype message to go to all ports and airports with a description of Crow and his daughter. He didn’t relish the idea of Crow laughing at him from a ship or an aircraft. If the couple were intercepted anywhere, they would be held long enough for the police on the spot to get in touch with the Yard.

  Then he went back to the waiting-room.

  “Mrs. Crow,” he said, “we’ve decided to watch all ports and airfields and make quite sure that your daughter isn’t taken out of the country. Please don’t worry about that. But there is something you can do to help.”

  Her eyes lit up again.

  “Just tell me what it is!”

  “Talk to the newspapers about this, and give them the latest photograph of your daughter. They’ll be glad to print it and to help.”

  “Oh, I will, and I’ve a photograph here—”

  Gideon took her to the “back room” where an Inspector handed out news to the Press. Several Fleet Street men were always inside, or just out on the Embankment, hoping pessimistically for the latest sensation. News, especially in the crime field, was slack; in that way Mrs. Crow was lucky, for she would get plenty of space.

  “All you must say at this stage is that your daughter is missing. Don’t accuse your husband, don’t say anything about him threatening to leave the country,” Gideon said. “Just stick to the known facts.” He winked over Mrs. Crow’s grey head to the Back Room Inspector, shook hands with the woman, and went back to his office.

  The job started him thinking about children, and he could not get the child of Hyde Park out of his mind. Why had that woman struck the boy so savagely?

  Where was he now?

  Was she training him, by fear, to become a thief?

  Somehow, finding where the two of them were, and what they were doing, had become a fixed purpose in Gideon’s mind, part of the major task of learning the truth about the crop of child criminals. Yet no children had been caught or reported since the middle of last week, and most of the cases in the juvenile courts had been dealt with. It was almost as if he was beating the air.

  But he knew better.

  Quick Joe Mann was sixty-two, and had spent twenty-one years in prison. There had been few cleverer pickpockets in his time, but it was six years since he had last come out of jail, and since then he was believed to have run straight.

  He lived with one of his three married daughters, in QR Division, over the river from Scotland Yard, and this married daughter had several young children of her own, each nicely-behaved and brought up to be strictly honest. Quick Joe, his daughter and his grandchildren, had all been considered in Gideon’s search for those who taught the children to steal, but the Divisional reports had given the family a clean bill.

  The reports omitted one fact.

  Quick Joe’s daughter was a seamstress, and took in work from small manufacturers – and from time to time, other women came, to work for her for a day or so or a week or so; all part-timers. Others again came with the dresses and lingerie for finishing, so there was a constant stream of women, mostly in the thirties and forties, and all apparently on their lawful occasions.

  There was no reason why the QR Divisional police should know that each woman had at least one child of an easily teachabl
e age.

  The same women seldom came more than six or seven times, and among those who had ceased coming was a Mrs. Wray, who had one son, Peter; the boy whom Gideon had seen in Hyde Park.

  4

  AT HOME

  The child, Peter Wray, was “at home”.

  Home was a top room in a house near Whitechapel which should have been condemned years ago, and would be, before long. Meanwhile, people lived there. The mass of Londoners moved about the city and the suburbs, in wealthy homes, middle-class homes and poor ones, in tenements and luxury flats, in large hotels and in little hotels, in dingy back streets, but in all of these there was a measure of cleanliness. Home was home. Here and there black spots remained, and Gideon and all the police knew of these and also knew what was bred in them, but could do nothing except to try to help the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children whenever any cases of abuse of children were found. Gideon knew as well as the next man that ill-treatment of children was not confined to the very poor, but experience proved beyond doubt that slums were conducive to neglect.

  It was part of London life.

  Peter Wray, then, was “at home”.

  He was standing in a dark, airless cupboard. He could lean to one side, or forwards and backwards. He was very small, so there was just sufficient room for him even to lie down on the floor. The only light came through the sides of the door, which was locked. Sometimes he could hear movement in the room beyond, and sometimes there was silence, and he did not know which to fear most. Silence meant that his mother was out, and if she was out there was no hope of the door opening and of being released; similarly, there was no fear that the door would open and she would beat him.

  He was hungry.

  He was thirsty.

  His head ached.

  His body ached.

  Suddenly, he heard a sound, and grew tense and began to tremble. The door of the room outside opened, and he heard it close again, quietly. Now he tried to stop trembling, and to listen. It was often possible to tell what his mother would be like before she had said a word. If she walked heavily, and stumbled, that was best, because then she was drunk and when she was drunk she was almost kind. She was only drunk when she was in the money.

  The door closed quietly; that was an ominous sign.

  Peter held his breath.

  Then, he heard her stumble. A chair scraped. He twisted round and looked towards the blackness of the door, not knowing that he was praying that it would open. He could actually hear her heavy breathing. He knew that often she would come in and flop down on her bed or into a chair, and drop off to sleep and not wake up for hours. Of all the things that could happen, that was the worst. He clenched and raised his hands. If he tapped at the door and she heard him, she might let him out; but she might be so furious that she would open the door, beat him savagely, then slam it on him and lock him in again. If she did that, it would be for the whole night through.

  The chair scraped, and there were more footsteps. The boy twisted up his face, gritted his teeth, and rested his clenched hand on the door, but he did not tap, for his mother was coming nearer. She might have remembered he was here, and be coming to open the door. If she thought he was trying to hurry her, she might not come at all.

  She was going to come; he could hear her fumbling! The key turned.

  Now he had a kind of excitement, fed on hope, that she would be in a good mood. That would be freedom from fear for a little while, and might also mean food.

  Light came, making him screw up his eyes against it, and although he could smell his mother’s nearness, even to the gin on her breath, he could not really see. Then his vision cleared, and he saw that she was moving away from the door, which meant that he could step out. He crept forward very slowly, watching her closely, looking for the tell-tale signs on her face. If her lips were tight and thin it was a bad sign. If she was smiling—

  She was smiling!

  “Watcher, me little ole wage-earner,” she greeted. “Learned your lesson this time, ‘ave yer?”

  “Y—y—yes,” he stammered.

  “Well, let’s ‘ave it.”

  “I must not talk to strangers in the street.”

  “You said it. Try again.”

  “I must not talk to strangers in the street.”

  “Now there’s a bright boy,” his mother approved, gustily. “Don’t say your old ma don’t give credit where credit’s doo. Now you go across the landing and pee, and then come and get the bag for some fish an’ chips. I’m in the money, Pete ole boy, we’re going to eat like kings today. Fred’s is open, I just passed it. Didn’t dare go in meself, you know what a robber Fred is, with me in my condition he would have given me short change. Never trust no one, that’s my motter. Now get a move on, or I’ll slap you across the ear-’ole in a way you won’t forget.”

  Peter skipped out.

  He came hurrying back, his eyes bright, his tiredness and aching limbs almost forgotten, eagerness in his manner. They were going to have fish and chips, his mother would be all right tonight.

  He was happy.

  At the Yard, it was a fairly quiet day. The Crow Case was the main one. There was no trace of the father and daughter, and the newspapers were making this bigger news than a smash and grab, the bank robbery, and the hundred and one little crimes which had been committed. Gideon did not nag Hemmingway about Frisky Lee; by Sunday, his report would be in, positive or negative, and Gideon had learned not to allow any case to destroy his detachment; not even the reports on the wave of child crimes for the Home Office. He was not convinced that the wave was subsiding, although undoubtedly there was a lull.

  Of the dozen or more cases where children had been caught, five were identical in one respect: the children had been scared into admitting that they had been taught by their mothers, with the knowledge of their fathers. Of course all the parents denied it, none had a record, and it was worrying to think that each was expert enough to teach specialist crimes like picking pockets and snatching handbags, yet were unknown to the police.

  The obvious explanation was that the mothers were teaching at second hand.

  Gideon made a note to find out if these five mothers had any common association with known criminals, and passed it on to Lemaitre.

  Gideon left his office and reached the courtyard which was dark in the shadows because the evening sunlight struck the tall buildings surrounding it. A car turned in slowly. Seeing Warr at the wheel, Gideon waited. Warr hadn’t telephoned and hadn’t sent for any help, he was one of the self-sufficient ones. He rubbed his pale, plump hands together in a characteristic gesture, and smiled blandly at Gideon.

  “Good evening, George.”

  “How’d it go, Syd?”

  “Do you know, I wouldn’t like to say,” said Warr. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Henderson’s housekeeper, Mrs. Smallwood, and while I doubt whether the woman has the highest moral standards, I’m not at all sure that she strangled the old man. There were three hundred and twenty-seven pounds under his mattress.”

  “Who says so?”

  “She does.”

  “How’d she know?”

  “He trusted her so much that he asked her to count it, only two days before he died.”

  “She tell anyone?”

  Warr gave a little laugh, quite free from pose, and for a moment was almost likeable.

  “You don’t take long, George, do you? That’s the angle I’m after, but I can’t say that I’ve found anything yet.”

  “How about her alibi?”

  “So-so. It could be broken, I think, she wasn’t very far away. She couldn’t have walked to Henderson’s place and back from the friend she was staying with, but she could have cycled and could have taken a taxi or used a car. I’ve got the Division doing that donkey work.”

&n
bsp; Gideon grinned.

  “Go and tell Lemaitre that, it’ll cheer him up.”

  “I’ll tell him if I see him. Are you going home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What it is to be the boss,” sighed Warr. “I’ll be here for three hours yet. Don’t let me keep you.” He went off, padding up the steps, and it was impossible to be sure whether he meant to be sour or not. Gideon put the information into the relevant pigeon-hole in his mind, and promptly forgot it. No one else stopped him. The nightly peak of London’s rush hour was over, but there was still plenty of traffic. Policemen on point-duty saluted as he drove along in his black Humber Hawk with its specially-tuned engine. He wanted to ruminate, and could do that best at home. With luck he would see most of the television programme tonight, and it was surprising how often some elusive factor in a case came to him as he watched. He would just have time to give the grass a run-over, too, while Kate was getting supper.

  Near Hurlingham, in the south-west of London where he had his home, he passed a Detective-Sergeant cycling in the other direction. The man recognised him and raised a hand from the handlebars.

  In a way that salute started a chain of events.

  The cycling Sergeant’s name was Arkwright, from AI Division. He had a kind of roving commission, and had been making inquiries in the tobacconist’s shop that morning when he had seen a spruce-looking young man whom he hadn’t been able to place. It would not be true to say that the identity of the man had teased Arkwright all day, but he had wondered about it several times, and had actually been thinking of him five minutes earlier. Then he had seen a black Humber Hawk coming towards him, and like every one of London’s C.I.D. men, seeing a similar car, had thought: “That might be Gideon.” Gideon was a man one liked to notice, because it was a good thing to be noticed by him.

 

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