A Backwards Jump

by John Creasey

  Ada Lee’s mother opened the door.

  If she made-up less, she would be really attractive; it was easy to see from where her daughter had inherited her beauty, and her shining eyes were quite remarkable.

  “If I was Gabby Lyon, the only place I’d talk to you would be in court,” she said waspishly.

  “Mother, please don’t make a fuss.” Ada Lee was just behind her, protesting, but without vigour. Gideon ignored her mother and studied the young widow. He wished he could spot the real truth about her lack of vitality, her dullness. Was it grief? Or was it fear?

  Her mother had ten times the vitality.

  Gideon went to the middle room, which Lee had used as a study.

  Gabriel Lyon was sitting in a high-backed chair at Lee’s desk, and at sight of Gideon, he stood up slowly, rounded the desk, and held out his hand. “The man in possession,” thought Gideon, and reminded himself that Lyon was Mrs. Lee’s legal adviser, and that the estate was valued at some two hundred thousand pounds. So far, the police could not touch it; so far, Frisky Lee was still, in law, an honest man.

  “It’s very good of you to come, Commander, won’t you sit down?”

  “Thanks. Can’t imagine you asking me for the sake of gossip,” said Gideon, and shook his head when cigarettes were proffered. “No, thanks.” The case was a gold one; Lyon’s finger-nails were painted with natural colour varnish; and his tailor must be one of the best in London.

  “As a matter of fact, Commander, there are two things I want to talk to you about,” said Lyon, “and I felt it would be wise if we had a little quiet talk, quite unofficial. In this part of the world, and having the clients I do, it would be unfortunate if anyone suspected that I was leaning too heavily on your side, wouldn’t it?”

  Crafty?

  “I see what you mean.”

  “We understand each other,” murmured Lyon. “The first thing is about Mrs. Lee. You will recall that I scoffed at the possibility that she was frightened, or that the child was in any danger. In fact I was annoyed because I thought that you were being unnecessarily thorough.”

  “Have to be thorough,” said Gideon flatly.

  “Commander,” said Lyon, glancing at the closed door and lowering his voice, as if to make sure that he wasn’t overheard, “the simple truth is that although Mrs. Lee says that she has nothing to fear, she shows an abnormal anxiety for the baby. I am fully aware that it might be a consequence of shock and loss – any woman who has lost a devoted husband would quite naturally be very possessive indeed. But I’m not satisfied that’s the only cause. I asked Mrs. Lee’s mother if she had noticed it, and she had. Mrs. Lee will not allow the child out of her sight, and even refuses to take it out for a walk, saying that it might catch cold. She also hesitates to leave the child alone with its grandmother, who naturally feels that this is ridiculous. They have been very sharp with each other about it.” Lyon looked steadily into Gideon’s eyes, and went on more slowly: “Had you any reason for suggesting that she might be under some threat?”

  Gideon thought: “Is he honest?”

  Perhaps Lyon really wanted to know, so as to warn anyone who might be concerned; there was no way of telling. Taken at his face value, he was co-operating perfectly; had this been a man in a different part of London and with a different list of clients, Gideon would have taken him at his face value more readily.

  “I wasn’t satisfied that Roden would kill without being pushed into it,” Gideon said, “that’s all.”

  “I see. Well, it is a fact that Mrs. Lee is extremely possessive and apparently frightened for the child. I’ve discussed it with her doctor.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He suggests a complete rest,” Lyon said. “Somewhere at the seaside or in the country, where she can relax.”

  “It’s the kind of thing that’s been suggested before,” Gideon said dryly, “and she can afford it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lyon, and drew back a little, as if he knew that he couldn’t draw Gideon out any further. “But I doubt if she’ll go. Well, that is the main thing I wanted to say. I’m sorry you haven’t more specific reasons for suspicion, because I want to make quite sure that Mrs. Lee is given every opportunity to recover. The other matter is very different, however. Commander, I will tell you what very few people know: I lost my only son, at the age of six.”

  Gideon didn’t speak, but remembered the son he and Kate had lost.

  “I find it an obligation to defend many people who have committed serious crimes, and when I weigh up all the circumstances, of their environment and their inherited weaknesses, I don’t find that difficult,” Lyon went on. “You won’t want platitudes, but you would be astonished if you knew how often I say to myself: ‘there but for the grace of God go I’. But I cannot and I will not tolerate the abuse of children if I can prevent it. There is a limit to what one man can do, of course, a limit even to the things I hear. But I have known for some time that there are more child pickpockets and shoplifters in London today than there have been for many years, and you raised this matter the other day.”

  “Yes?” Gideon tried to hide his quickening interest.

  “Were you aware that there is a kind of central organisation – the children taught mostly by women, often their mothers – who in turn attend a kind of training college, and pass on what they learn to the children?”

  Lyon’s narrowing eyes seemed to reflect the light so that he looked challenging and almost angry. He sat quite still, the back of the chair an inch higher than his grey head, and he didn’t look away.

  “We know it exists,” Gideon said, and leaned forward heavily. “We know that the stolen goods are mostly brought to Petticoat Lane, and we also know that a hoard was found in Lee’s house.”

  Lyon seemed to wince.

  “Is that official?”

  “It’s a fact. I’ll tell you some more facts, Mr. Lyon. For a long time thieves of all kinds have been to Petticoat Lane with their stolen goods, and women – probably these perfect mothers – are taking them and paying for them. I believe they were working for Frisky Lee, but I can’t prove it, yet. I can prove that Lee terrorised a lot of thieves, and he was hated by many of them. We don’t yet know which one killed Lee.”

  It was impossible to judge Lyon’s reaction, because he showed no reaction at all, and his eyes were narrowed but unwinking. Whatever side of the fence he was on, this could do no harm and might do a lot of good. If Lyon was honest, this would shake him. If he was working for the other side, it would warn him how close the police were to the truth.

  Lyon raised both hands, in a gesture almost of supplication.

  “Commander, my duty is to the living. I can tell you that Mr. Lee paid out a number of pensions, as he called them, in cash. You can guess whether they were pensions or payments for services rendered. On the list was a certain Quick Joe Mann, at one time the most skilful pickpocket in London.”

  “Quick Joe,” echoed Gideon, and felt a moment of intense elation. “Anyone else?”

  “I think Joe is quite enough,” Lyon said.

  Quick Joe smiled perkily at one of the two women in the back sewing-room at his daughter’s house, and asked her to walk towards him, holding her handbag over her arm. She left her sewing-machine, and obeyed. She was handsome and brassy-haired, with a fine figure, and obviously she was enjoying herself. As she passed him, Joe hardly seemed to move; there was no sound. But when she glanced down she saw her handbag gaping open, and her purse in Quick Joe’s hand.

  “It’s a question of the quickness of the hand deceiving the eye,” explained Joe. “I began this trick at the age of five, and by the time I was seven no one in London could touch me at it. Remember that selection of the victim is of first importance, and in the early days a pupil must be told who to approach. You should simply indicate the victim, and leave the r
est to the child. The first essential in the child is absolute obedience, of course, the strictest discipline must be imposed.” Joe beamed. “No use sparing the rod, is there? Now supposing you see if you can do this on Clara’s handbag?”

  The other woman stepped forward but before she acted, Joe’s daughter called up from the narrow hall: “Joe, look out of the window.”

  Something in her tone made Quick Joe step to the window. He saw two plainclothes men climbing the wall to the tiny back garden, and others moving in from adjoining gardens. He turned in dismay, suddenly very pale.

  “Start working on those hems,” he ordered, “never mind if you make a mess of them, get the sewing-machines going. If the police ask questions, don’t say a word except that you’re working for Liz. Get it? That’s all you’ve got to say.” He stepped swiftly to the door, opened it, and saw tall, lean Woodrow, of QR Division, at the head of the stairs; shock upon shock. He tried to smile. “Why, Mr. Woodrow, surely you know you’ve no right to force your way into a house like this?”

  “Like to see my search warrant?” Woodrow waved a slip of paper in front of Quick Joe’s face. “We’re on to you, Joe, you might as well talk and make it easy for yourself.”

  “My dear Mr. Woodrow!” Joe sounded plaintively outraged. “I am a guest in my own daughter’s house, and—”

  “Joe, we’ve been watching you,” Woodrow said, “and we’ve discovered that five of the women who’ve worked for your daughter have children who’ve been picked up for bag-snatching or dipping. Let’s have the names and addresses of the rest of them, and let’s know who buys the stuff from you.”

  “You’re talking out of the back of your neck,” Joe asserted, but he was too nervous to be impressive.

  Five minutes later, the police found the contents of a dozen handbags, some purses and several wallets, all emptied, on top of a cupboard.

  “All right, all right, I can see it’s no use arguing,” Joe submitted uneasily, “but don’t blame me, Woodrow, it was Frisky Lee who made me do it. I’d been on the level for a coupla years, I had, then he put on the pressure about an old job I’d done years ago. Said he’d squeal if I didn’t oblige him. So I had to teach these women, didn’t I? But”—he sounded shrill—”how did I know they were going to tell their children what to do? If I’d dreamed they were going to corrupt the minds of innocent young children, I wouldn’t have raised a hand to help them, Frisky or no Frisky.”

  False virtue shone in the cunning old face.

  “Joe,” said Woodrow, “we’re going to pick up all of these women, and they’ll tell us the truth. And the only thing that might help you is the truth, too. How did you get the stuff to Frisky?”

  “I never touched any stuff while he was alive, it was only after he died I helped the women, just to oblige,” Quick Joe declared. “If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have been copped; if I knew who killed Lee I’d tell you like a shot.”

  “Who killed him, Joe?”

  “I tell you I dunno? If I did I’d tell you.” Joe’s voice was almost a squeak.

  “How did the women get their stuff to Lee?”

  “They took it to the Lane, he had several women working for him there. Used one stall one week-end, another the next, and the stall-holders were too scared not to allow it. These women took the stuff and flogged it, that’s all I know.”

  “The stall-holders had a cut for their trouble, the woman go-between had a cut, and the rest went to Lee. Is that it?” Woodrow asked.

  “Lee always got sixty per cent, never less. Tight-fisted old swine, that’s what Lee was.”

  “Who was his share paid to, Joe?”

  “How do I know,” shrieked Old Joe. “How do I know?”

  “Joe,” said Woodrow softly, “Lee had an agent in the Lane. This agent collected Lee’s share of the cash. Who was the agent?”

  “It was Ratsy Roden,” Old Joe gasped, and the sweat was heavy on his forehead and his upper lip. “As I stand here, it was Ratsy. He was a runner for Lee, that’s what he was. We all knew it was Lee who took the rake-off, but we couldn’t prove it, could we?”

  Gideon listened . . .

  “The truth is, we still can’t hang anything on to Lee, even now he’s dead,” he said at last. “We haven’t finished the job yet by a long way. Got a list of these mothers?”

  “Eleven in all, so far,” Lemaitre answered. “He says he doesn’t know where the others live.”

  “Let’s have the list, and I’ll see they’re all called on,” Gideon promised. “Anyone named Wray among them?”

  “What name was that?”

  “Wray, with a W.”

  “No,” answered Woodrow, “the only W on the list is a White. Anything special about a woman called Wray?”

  “Could be,” said Gideon.

  He instructed all the men who questioned the women to ask about a Mrs. Wray. None brought him news. All the women had young children, each had stolen goods on the premises, each blamed the children, claiming huskily or stridently that they were out of control. But Quick Joe and his daughter were damning witnesses, now.

  “We’ll put every one of these women on a charge,” Gideon said to Lemaitre, “but we’d better check with the Public Prosecutor’s office to find out how we can hurt ‘em most. If we can prise ‘em loose from their kids, it’ll be the main thing.”

  “Yup,” said Lemaitre, and went on: “Think Ratsy did collect the money and take it to Lee?”

  “He could have,” Gideon conceded, “but if Ratsy took it straight to Lee, I’ll eat my hat. Lee wouldn’t take the risk. Ratsy may have been the collector, but he’d take it to a third party. If we keep digging, we’ll find out who.

  I’m going over to see Hemmingway again,” he declared; “before this is over he’ll hate the sight of me.”

  “Trouble with you is you’re never satisfied,” Lemaitre remarked, but he spoke to a closed door.

  Gideon sat in his car outside the Yard for a few minutes, thinking of Lemaitre’s words. “Never satisfied.” What was there to be satisfied about? The child, Wray, was still missing. Little Sheila Crow, murdered, and they’d taken two weeks to find out. Anguish for a mother. A girl probably pushed off a window-sill to her death, and all the police could do was shake their heads and be sorry that they couldn’t tackle the killer. Dennis had killed his wife all right. A mild, little helpless-seeming creature like Martha Smallwood could go to church and vanish. Ratsy could die and be blamed for murder he almost certainly hadn’t committed

  All this burned through his mind as he sat there; and it was a long time before he felt calmer. Then he started the engine and moved off to see Hemmingway, going past Medd Alley.

  He glanced along it from a corner.

  Frisky Lee’s widow was watching him from a first-floor window.

  A frightened Ada Lee?

  He’d thought so. Lyon couldn’t have made it plainer that he thought so, too, but Hemmingway, the coroner, everyone at the Yard and the Division and in the newspaper world believed that Ratsy Roden had killed Lee. He, Gideon, didn’t. And now there was evidence, so insidiously offered by Lyon, that behind his veneer of good behaviour, Lee had been subsidising a training school for child thieves.

  He flicked on the radio.

  “Tell Chief Inspector Lemaitre that I’m going to see Mr. Hemmingway, and then I’m going over to Mr. Woodrow at QR. Check if I’m wanted for anything, will you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Gideon.”

  He waited. He wasn’t wanted. He drove off, and a policeman nearby saw the speed with which he started, and said: “Something’s got into Gee-Gee today, that’s a sure thing.”

  14

  PATIENCE

  The difficulty was to be patient. Perhaps Hemmingway was the wrong man to see in his present mood, although it was essential to talk to him. Hemming
way was like a dog with two tails. He had never had such a good press, never made such a clean sweep, and seemed to think the millennium had come. He had only a couple of months of service left, Gideon reminded himself, and police officers didn’t come any better.

  “Damn’ remarkable thing happened when I got back here after the Big Court, George,” Hemmingway announced. “You’d never guess.”

  “What?”

  “People outside raised a cheer. How about that?”

  “Good work,” Gideon said, and tried to look as if he thought it wonderful, while wondering how he could persuade Hemmingway to do what he wanted. “You’ve got how long left in the Force, Hemmy?”

  “Seven weeks and four days.”

  In spite of himself, Gideon chuckled.

  “Then the happy land of deckchairs and gardens,” he said. “I wish everyone had the same chance of going out in a blaze of glory as you have.”

  “I’ve got enough, thanks!”

  “There’s a bit left,” Gideon said.

  “Well, leave it to the new chap. Any idea who’s coming here?”

  “No,” said Gideon. In fact he had a shrewd idea, but there were some things which had to be left to the Old Man and the secretary; everyone had some preserves it was dangerous to poach on. “You know what a stubborn ass I can be.”

  “Hallo, hallo, hallo!” exclaimed Hemmingway, “I thought you’d got something on your mind. What is it?”

  “I want to know who put Ratsy up to killing Lee,” Gideon said.

  “Oh, dammit, George—”

  “Have a go,” urged Gideon, “and let me tell you why. Mrs. Lee’s so frightened that she jumps at the sight of her own shadow, she won’t allow the baby out for a walk, she’s even quarrelling with her own mother about it. That could add up to mental illness, or it could add up to the fact that she’s been threatened. I want to know.”