Smedd shook his head swiftly, rather like a ventriloquist's puppet.
"Take it from me, the defense is going for insanity," he said. "They'll know better than to try anything else. Thing is, I'd be happier if they weren't going to put the sister up, lays a false trail—you know how it is. I'd like to let her know we know she's lying, before the trial comes up."
"Well, there's plenty of time," Gideon said. "Won't be up until June, end of May at the earliest. You certainly didn't leave much to chance."
"It isn't my habit to leave anything to chance," said Smedd, almost tartly.
Gideon didn't know that at that moment the solicitor who was looking after William Rose's interests was talking to Rose's sister and his mother, in the small suburban house on the outskirts of the H5 Division. The solicitor, an elderly man with a lifetime's experience, a rather tired manner and a shabby gray suit, was sitting in the front room, considering the mother, not Mary Rose. Mrs. Rose, at fifty-nine, looked nearer seventy: old, tired, so very, very sad.
"What Mary must understand," the solicitor said precisely, "is that the police will do everything to discredit her statement that she went with her brother to this picture house on the day and at the time in question. Now we need her as a reliable witness for the defense, we do not want her to be browbeaten by the prosecution and—ah—possibly caught out in a lie."
He shot a quick glance at Mary.
Mary said, in a quiet, stubborn voice, "They can't prove that I lied if I didn't. I met Will in the High Street, and he told me he'd had a quarrel with Winnie and hardly knew what to do with himself, he was so upset. So I treated him to the pictures, because he hadn't any money."
There was a long pause. Then:
"Mary, did you really—" began her mother.
And Gideon didn't know that, just after one o'clock that day, Arthur Small was talking to Ruby Benson in the back of the shop in the Mile End Road. Two other assistants were attending to a customer, the door was closed, and the couple kept their voices very low. They were surrounded by dresses, coats and suits, hanging inside transparent plastic cabinets all around the room. Boxes, flat now, tissue paper and balls of string were on a table in the middle of this room.
"Ruby, try not to worry so much," Small said, pleadingly. "It's making you ill, and what good will that do you or Liz? The police are bound to find young Syd sooner or later, they're bound to."
"If you knew him," Ruby said in a flat voice, "you wouldn't talk like that. He's taken the boy away from me, he's taken my own son."
Small, moving nervously about the little room, picked up a packet of cigarettes, put a cigarette to his lips, but didn't light it. It got very wet almost at once.
"Ruby, you know how I feel about you, don't you? I love you more than I love anything or anybody, but—but it isn't any use pretending about anything, is it? If young Syd can be turned against you as easily as that, then he was never very close to you, was he? He was always closer to his father." When Ruby didn't answer. Small tried to light the cigarette; it wouldn't draw. He dropped it into an ash tray, and went on, unhappily: "Ruby, I didn't mean to be unkind, but I can't bear to see you torture yourself like this. I—I'll make it up to you, you know that. If we can bring young Syd round, that'll be wonderful; but if we can't—well, we've still got Liz, and you and me together."
Ruby just looked at him.
He was older than he seemed at first sight: nearing fifty. He was rather small and white and precise, as reliable and as trustworthy as a man could be. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes were a clear gray, steadfast, pleading. Since she had known him, he had given her not only comfort but contentment.
Now, out of her distress, she said:
"I know. Art, but—but what good am I to you? While he's alive I can't even marry you, it's not fair to you. You ought to go away and . . ."
"Don't talk like that!" Small cried; his voice was louder and sharper, and it made her stop. He took her arms, firmly. "Now listen to me, and stop this nonsense. You're getting hysterical. Supposing we can't get married? We can live together and set up house, can't we, and who's going to care whether we've got the marriage lines or not? We've both got every right to happiness, and there's no reason why we shouldn't take it. He'll be in prison for at least twelve years, after this, and I don't care what anyone says, it would be criminal for you to live on your own all that time. And—I'm—not—going—to—let—you."
His grip on her arms was very tight.
Then, suddenly, they were close to each other; she was clinging to him desperately, and crying.
Ten minutes later, she looked less haggard. Her eyes were still red from crying, but not so drawn and filled with shadows. He looked bright and perky, with a cigarette at his lips, also damp but at least giving off smoke.
"That's settled then," he said briskly; "we start the day that he's caught, and they can call it living in sin if they like. Now I must go along to see Rubenstein; if I can buy those dresses for twenty per cent less than he's asking we should make a very good profit, and that'll swell the commission." He kissed her again, and went out into the shop. The customer had gone, and the young assistants looked at him knowingly. He nodded to them, and went out. Nearby was a uniformed policeman, he was used to that. Nearby, also, was the plain-clothes man from Scotland Yard, Abbott; Small was getting used to him. There were the usual passersby, two or three of them looking at the window of the next-door shop; and on the pavement on the Aldgate side of the shop was the simple child, Simon, badly dressed, mouth gaping, drooling a little.
No one ever took any notice of poor Simon.
"Afternoon, officer," said Arthur Small to Abbott, "no news yet?"
"Afraid there isn't, Mr. Small."
"Between you and me I'll be glad for your sake when it's over," Small said; "you must find it very boring." He had a bright look in his eyes and a perkier manner than ever, and Abbott guessed that he'd come to some kind of an agreement with Ruby Benson.
"I get paid for it," he said dryly.
They were within a few feet of Simon, when the lad took a small milk bottle with a wide mouth from his pocket. There was liquid in it that wasn't milk, but thick and oily-looking. Abbott saw that. He was near enough to strike the bottle aside, but he didn't—because it was poor Simon, and because he did not even dream that Simon might have been put up to do this.
There were some things that Simon could do well. He swung the bottle, ejecting a stream of liquid toward Arthur Small. That was the moment when Abbott realized what was happening. He cried out, and leaped forward. He felt burning spots on the back of his hand as he struck the boy's arm aside. The bottle fell; and as it fell. Small clapped his hands to his face and began to scream.
16. Hospital Case
Gideon first heard the news when he came back from a late lunch in the pub in Cannon Row. He hadn't meant to have a heavy lunch, but Superintendent Wrexall, the senior Superintendent at the Yard, ten years older than Gideon and due to retire at the end of the year, had suggested that they should lunch together; he had a "case" he wanted to talk over. Gideon didn't know anything about this case, but couldn't very well refuse the invitation, and immediately after he had returned from the interview with Mrs. Edmundsun, he went off, leaving a list of Do At Once items on Lemaitre's desk. A sergeant was in charge of the office until he or Lemaitre returned.
Wrexall's "case" wasn't exactly a waste of time.
While some Superintendents at the Yard specialized, like King-Hadden, of Fingerprints, most of them tackled whatever job presented itself. In an odd way, however, certain types of job gravitated, as if of their own volition, toward one man. Wrexall's knowledge of blackmail was the most exhaustive at Scotland Yard. He had that sense of "smell." Now, he had picked out something which might be significant from a series of reports covering several months, from different Divisions. Where another man might have read these reports a hundred times and seen nothing in them, Wrexall had picked out two things:
A re
spected suburban solicitor had committed suicide six months ago, but his affairs were in order; the only surprise was that his estate had been much smaller than expected. Nothing at all was missing from clients' funds. The police investigation, prior to the inquest at which the verdict had been suicide while temporarily insane, showed that he had changed his daily habits a great deal during the past two years, had frequently left his office in charge of a junior partner and, it was believed, had "gone racing"; that was the official explanation of the missing private fortune and the fact that he had left an elderly wife unprovided for.
Two months later, in another London suburb, the manager of a large branch of one of the joint stock banks had been killed in an accident. The police had suspected suicide, but had not been able to establish it, and the verdict had at least been a comfort to his widow and two children. They had little else to comfort them, for a personal estate, known at one time to have been worth nearly thirty thousand pounds, had vanished. There was no certainty about the way in which the loss had been made, but gambling was suspected.
Wrexall, studying these, had seen the similarity of social position, suicide and suspected suicide, and a small fortune lost either unaccountably or in a way which was surprising when one considered the character of the dead man.
"Just made me wonder whether everything was what it looked like, George," Wrexall had said. He had a mane of iron-gray hair and a most impressive manner. "You know what I'm like, nose as long as a snorkel device. So I put young Chambers onto finding out who the solicitor had placed his bets with. Couldn't find anyone, local or in the West End. In fact, I'm pretty sure he didn't have an account with any bookie. Then I checked the racecourses, finding out the days that the chap had taken out big cash sums. Most of them coincided with race days near London, and I tried to find a bookie who'd taken big bets with the solicitor. Couldn't. In fact there weren't any big cash bets on any of those days. Funny, eh?"
Gideon had agreed that it was funny.
"Now if these two chaps were paying out money under pressure and didn't want to show it, they'd fake a reason, wouldn't they?" said Wrexall. "But I don't like to think that anyone's managed to drive chaps like them to suicide, as well as make things tough for their families. So I've been keeping my eyes open, and this morning there's an interesting little report in from Guildford. Outside our ground, I know, but very interesting. Accountant, this time, tried to commit suicide. Inherited twenty-five thousand quid four years ago, lived a normal married life as far as we can see—and he's almost on his beam ends. It's no use me ringing up Guildford or the Surrey boys, but if you'd have a word with the A.C. and persuade him that it might be worth looking at, he could lay it on with the Chief Constable of Surrey, and—"
"You could have a few nice, cozy days in the country," Gideon had grinned. "Okay, Tim, I'll tell him it's too good to miss. That worth the money you'll pay for the lunch?"
"Don't know what I'd do without you," Wrexall had said. "Glad to sit and watch you eat, anyway. I never could tell where you put it all."
They went back to the Yard at a leisurely pace, Gideon still glowing from the smooth morning, and because so much had gone right; his regret about the way the Primrose Girl case was turning was almost forgotten. He was even philosophic about Syd's continued absence; had the boy been killed, they would probably have found the body by now; he'd turn up. He had no suspicion of what kind of news would greet him until he opened the door and Lemaitre burst out:
"George, Benson's got his wife's beau! Vitriol. Horrible job, hospital case. And Abbott caught some, too."
Gideon stood quite still, with the door open. He felt the old, crushing weight coming down on him again, and when he moved it was more slowly than usual. He closed the door, and the lock snapped. He stood with his back to it, massive and, in that mood, almost frightening.
"How bad's Small?"
"Side of his face and one eye," Lemaitre said.
"Abbott?"
"Right hand only, as far as I can gather; he's not a hospital case, anyhow—on his way here now."
"Benson?"
"A kid did the job."
Gideon almost groaned, "Not young Syd."
"Dunno," said Lemaitre.
Wrexall's suspicions, Cummings and his worry, the Rose family, the newspaper reports—all of these things vanished from Gideon's mind. He walked to his desk, and it was as if he were walking through shadows, not through bright shafts of sunlight which struck and brightened the wall behind his desk. He sat down slowly, loosened his collar and tie, and took out his pipe. He began to finger the roughened surface.
Then, he made himself say, "Anything else in?"
"Not much,'' answered Lemaitre. "They caught a shoplifter at Marridge's. He made a dash for it, and caused a bit of panic, then fell down the stairs and broke his leg. Two smash-and-grabs—one in Soho, one near Marble Arch, nothing much gone. Two—"
"Sure Abbott's not badly hurt?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Benson know about this?"
"Bound to. Happened just outside the shop."
Then, two telephones rang at the same moment. Lemaitre snatched his up; Gideon took his more slowly and raised it as slowly to his ear. "Gideon." He heard Lemaitre say something in his laconic way, but wasn't sure what it was. He could see Arthur Small as if he were here in the office: earnest, faithful, well-preserved, well-groomed, with his pale, regular features, his horn-rimmed glasses.
Glasses?
"Detective Officer Abbott is in the building, sir, would you like to see him?"
"Yes. Right away. Send him up."
"Thank you, sir."
Gideon started to fill the bowl of his pipe, and to find that his mind began to thaw out. He was able to remind himself that this might be the most important but it wasn't the only job on his plate, and he must not allow it to obsess him, even for a few minutes. Then, he realized that in fact it had obsessed him. The awful, hideous mask of failure—such failure that it was possible for a man whom they were "protecting" to be disfigured in this way—was one of the most bitter things he had ever had to face. It undid all the good of last night; of this morning. The Press, the Home Office, the Assistant Commissioner, every man and woman at Scotland Yard might make excuses; but he, Gideon, felt just one thing: it should never have happened and it was his fault that it had. He'd met young Abbott in the lift, formed a good opinion of him, and given him a job which should have been handled by a man with much more experience. The whole world would call that nonsense, but he, Gideon, knew the simple truth.
It was a heavy weight, bearing hard upon him.
There was a tap at the door.
"Come in," he called.
Lemaitre was still talking, but was glancing toward the door as it opened, and Abbott came in. He didn't look very good; his face had lost that healthy glow, in spite of the tan, and Gideon knew that he was suffering from shock; he ought to stay away for a day or so. His right hand was bandaged, and there was a patch of sticking plaster on his right cheek, about an inch from his eye. He kept himself erect with an obvious effort.
What the hell was his Christian name?
Ah: Michael.
He looked as if he expected Gideon to breathe fire.
"Hallo, Mike," Gideon said quietly, "come and sit down." He didn't overdo it, but just waved to a chair, and then pushed a pack of cigarettes across the desk. "Glad to see you didn't come out of it too badly."
Abbott just sat there, his shoulders less square, now, the dejection a physical as well as a mental thing. He didn't take a cigarette. He didn't look round. He managed to meet Gideon's gaze, and that was all. Here was a man who could be broken for life; moments like this condemned men, like patient old Jefferson, to a life in which the highest possible ambition was a sergeant's pension.
"What time did it happen?" asked Gideon. If he could once start the man talking . . .
His telephone bell rang.
"Blast the blurry thing," he said, and picked it up more quickl
y than usual. "Matches?" He tossed a big box across the desk, and it slid off. Abbott had to bend down to pick it up and, with the matches in his hand, he seemed to lose some of the tension, and then picked up the cigarettes. "Gideon here," said Gideon; "switch all calls through to Chief Inspector Lemaitre until . . . what?"
He listened so intently that Abbott, the cigarette now between his lips, looked at him almost eagerly. So did Lemaitre who got up and came across.
Then:
"Thank God for that," breathed Gideon. "Eh . . . Yes, he's with me now . . . Not badly hurt, seems to have done a good job . . . Oh, fine. Fine. Thanks, sir."
He rang off and was smiling; not the broad, homely smile which made him so likable and attractive to many people, but a smile which had a kind of glow about it; in a woman, it would have been radiant. It was the last thing that either Lemaitre or Abbott had dreamed of seeing, and it must have done Abbott more good than anything else could have.
"That was the A.C.," he said. "Young Syd's been found. He's not hurt. Been hiding out with Charlie Mulliver, kind of blurry fool thing Charlie would do, harbor him when he knew we were on the lookout for him. Wouldn't I like to put him inside! And Small won't lose the sight of his right eye, after all; he'll have a scar on the side of his face, up round the temple, that's about all. Lem, ring the shop and tell Mrs. Benson, and if she's not in, ring the Division and ask them to tell her—that's if she doesn't know already." Gideon put his pipe to his lips. "Well, things aren't always as black as they seem, Mike," he said to Abbott. "Feel better?"
Abbott gulped; when he spoke his voice was pitched higher than usual.
"Can't alter the fact that I ought to have stopped the Benson kid from getting away, and I ought to have stopped the other kid from throwing that acid, too. Didn't dream of anything coming from him. He's a half-wit near as dammit, I've often seen him hanging about. When I start thinking, I know that Benson must have found a way to get in touch with him, but at the time he was just a kid to be sorry for. You know."
Gideon at work; three complete novels: Gideon's day, Gideon's week, Gideon's night Page 14