by John Creasey
“Where’s Rataudi?” demanded Gideon.
“One floor up, sir,” a policeman said.
“Thanks.” Gideon strode along another passage and then up a narrower flight of stairs, at the top of which stood a solitary policeman. “Which room?” asked Gideon.
The policeman pointed to one of two doors.
“This, sir.”
Gideon nodded, went to the painted door, and rapped on the solid wood. There was no immediate answer. Partly because he was up here, partly because the police and military had taken over, it was very quiet. Honiwell’s voice, on the landing below, was hushed.
Compared with the houses in Long Street, this was a palace. The walls were freshly painted, some fine prints and two maps of West Pakistan were on the walls, the carpet was thick-piled.
Gideon rapped again. “Open,” he called, “in the name of the law.”
It was a long time since Gideon had taken such an active part in any case, and now that the physical exertion was over he felt not only breathless but aware of a kind of novelty, of unfamiliarity. He might almost be a Chief Inspector again or a newly promoted Superintendent.
“Mr. Rataudi,” he called.
The door opened a few inches, on a chain. A man’s face appeared on a level with Gideon’s chin; a dark face, and narrow; the forehead was so high the man looked almost deformed.
“I am a police officer,” Gideon stated firmly. “Let me in, Mr. Rataudi.” He heard a movement behind him, glanced around and saw a policeman in uniform. “Don’t waste time.”
The policeman said: “Mr. Archer’s compliments, sir. Everything’s now under control.”
Gideon nodded; Rataudi unfastened the chain and stood aside.
Gideon was aware of several things at once: that this was the first he had heard from Archer, Saxby’s second in command, and he hadn’t yet seen the man; that this Rataudi looked no more than twenty-six or seven; that the room was draped in brightly coloured cottons; that there were four single beds, each without a pillow but stacked with cushions, and that more cushions were spread about the floor, itself covered with a rich-looking carpet. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, the light coming from a lamp hung from the centre of the ceiling and from lamps at the walls. On a low table stood another lamp, burning and giving off the smoke of a slightly perfumed incense.
The young man was alone in the room.
Gideon said gruffly: “Well, you’re safe for the time being.”
Rataudi inclined his head and clasped long, pale hands together, as if in prayer.
“I am grateful. Very grateful.” His English was good but had a faint lilt, rather like Welsh. “Who are you, please?”
“I am Commander Gideon, of Scotland Yard.”
“Commander Gideon!” The man looked astonished. “I have heard of you; you are very famous. I am doubly grateful.”
“Mr. Rataudi,” Gideon said, “a crowd of people who think you are responsible for the disaster in Long Street this morning wanted to take the law into their own hands. My job is to see that the law is carried out. I shall need to ask you a lot of questions and would like you to come with me to Scotland Yard. You may, of course, have a lawyer present.” He paused, and then added: “I haven’t much time. Will you come with me?”
Rataudi answered: “It will be my willing duty, Mr. Gideon. I have committed no crime, I have nothing to hide. I live here with my family and I make a fair profit. That is all.” After a pause, he added: “Yes, I shall be happy to have my lawyer present, if you please.”
Gideon nodded; and then there came footsteps outside and a tall, big-boned man whom he only vaguely recognised as Chief Inspector Archer came in, with Honiwell. Suddenly something clicked in Gideon’s mind: six or seven years ago this man had been a detective officer who had shown remarkable physical courage in a conflict with a criminal known as Micky the Slob. He had been gravely wounded, recovering after a long time. It was common these days for promotion to come very quickly but Archer’s had come very quickly indeed. He was a tall, rangy man, with clear grey eyes. He had filled out since Gideon had known him.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry I was at the back when you arrived.”
“No harm done,” Gideon said. “Do you know Mr. Rataudi?”
“Yes, sir.” Archer’s face showed no expression.
“He has promised to come to Scotland Yard to answer some questions. Will you see he has safe conduct?”
“I will, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Gideon, turning back to Rataudi.
It was quite impossible to guess what was going on behind the brown eyes, the pupils prominent against the yellowish whites. The lashes were upswept, almost like a woman’s. Rataudi had honey-coloured skin, reminding Gideon of Juanita Conception, whom he had seen last night, at the ball which seemed an age away! The Pakistani’s face was so narrow, his nose and chin so long, it was almost as if in being born his features had been tightly compressed into a mould which had shaped him in this odd way. He had thin lips, too, very feminine in their curves and softness.
“Mr. Archer,” Gideon said, still looking at Rataudi.
“Yes, sir?”
“Is there any report yet on how many died at Long Street?”
“Two bodies have been found so far,” Archer replied. “One a woman’s.”
Tension grew in the room. Rataudi moistened his lips. As if for the first time he seemed to realise the precariousness of his position; or possibly to realise how dreadful were the consequences of his profiteering. But the expression soon faded and he looked quite blank.
Then Archer went on in an icy voice: “It appears that the cellar walls had been weakened by demolition to make room for sleeping bunks, Commander. Once the collapse started there was no support. Every wall had been weakened, and under pressure they just gave way.”
Honiwell put in: “Killing people,” quite laconically.
Rataudi drew a deep breath.
“I wish to make a statement,” he declared. “I wish to state I am only one of three partners in this property development. I am not the one responsible for reconstructions and for expansion. There are the others. Also,” he added with a touch of dignity, “it was not possible to allow these people to stay out in the streets. I am proud to have helped to give so many of them shelter. Please understand. I am proud, not ashamed.”
Gideon stepped into his office at half-past two that afternoon, vividly aware of what had happened. In one way it had been the most concentrated period of action he had known for years; and in another, the period of the most agonising waiting.
There was still no news of Riddell.
He had driven from Lancelot Crescent to Long Street, past batteries of newspapermen and photographers, to find that the shifting of the rubble had been stopped because of damage to a gas main and the threat of fire. Every minute that Riddell or anyone else remained buried reduced the chance of finding them alive. There was still no certain count of the number of people buried, only that one more W.V.S. woman was missing as well as Riddell. All police, firemen, and civil defence workers had been accounted for, but there had been some volunteers as well as newspapermen and photographers, some of whom had been freelance; if anyone on the staff of a newspaper or television service was missing, reports would soon come through. Gideon had not been in touch with Hobbs on the way back to the Yard but there would be word from him soon.
Gideon sat heavily at his desk, feeling nausea and a heavy belt of pressure at the back of his head and over his eyes. He found it hard going to dig into his mind for things which he needed to do, then suddenly thought: Mrs. Riddell! Immediately he put a call in to her home, but the operator said:
“I’ve tried her for Mr. Hobbs, sir, but there’s no reply.”
“Keep trying every half hour,” urged Gideon, and replaced
the receiver. He was surprised that Hobbs hadn’t left a message about Riddell’s wife, but who could be blamed for overlooking anything that day?
He wished he felt better, then suddenly realised that he had only had coffee and a piece of toast for breakfast. He sent for a messenger, and an elderly man appeared; one who seemed to have been at the Yard forever.
“I’ve missed lunch, Joe,” Gideon said.
“That won’t do, sir. I’ll soon get you something.”
“Right away, please,” Gideon urged.
The door closed behind the man’s silvery hair, and Gideon stole a few moments to stand at the window. As always, the Thames and the view calmed him, reminding him that the life of London and the crime of London were still ebbing and flowing, that the small area where death and disaster had struck was an oasis in the vast desert of his Metropolitan area.
“Desert!” he ejaculated. “Now I’m getting fanciful!” He pulled himself up and strode to the desk, made a note that Honiwell was to come at four o’clock, fully briefed over the Entwhistle case, and then pulled the new files toward him. There were three. He knew before he opened one that each was of importance; Hobbs wouldn’t have troubled him with small and routine cases. “What else has been going on?” he asked aloud, making a note to call Scott-Marie as he opened the first folder.
At half-past eleven, while he had been on his way to Long Street, there had been a post office holdup in the city; at least half a million pounds’ worth of paper money and postal orders had been stolen. He felt a flush of relief that this was primarily a job for the City of London Police, but such crimes often overlapped.
He put in a call to the Commissioner of the City Police, and was answered almost at once.
“Thanks for ringing,” the City man said, “but I think we’re all right, George. What we do need is some help from the Thames Division; this loot might have been taken down the river. I’ve been in touch and Thames is sending Patterson over. If you’d give formal authority for us to borrow him—”
“Of course,” said Gideon, making a note.
“Thanks,” said the City man, and could not have made it more clear that he was too preoccupied to talk much. “’Bye. I—oh!” Feeling suddenly rang in his voice. “Quite a picnic you’re having at Notting Hill.”
He rang off without another word.
“Picnic!” breathed Gideon.
He picked up the second file and ran through the contents slowly. It was a request, accompanied by a detailed report, for an investigation into the affairs of a prominent exporting and importing company dealing in watches, clocks, and allied instruments, the board of which had reason to suspect its secretary of fraud within the firm itself, and also of fraud at Customs. If the board’s suspicions were right, these crimes had been going on for several years and the total amount of loss involved was at least a million pounds. The last sentences of the covering letter read:
It is clearly possible that our suspicions are wrong; equally possible that if we allow those members of the staff under suspicion to be aware of our suspicions, attempts will be made to cover up any depreciations, or conceivably to leave the country so as to escape the consequences of any criminal acts. For this reason we ask that the greatest discretion be used in getting in touch with us, and would be grateful if a responsible officer will make an appointment with the undersigned, at the private address given below.
Yours very truly, Cyril Mayhew
Beneath the clear signature the name was typed “Sir Cyril Mayhew,” whose address was 214 Clavering Street, London, W 1. That was just behind Berkeley Square, Gideon knew; a street of gracious Georgian houses built by Nash. He put the report aside and immediately dialled the Commissioner’s office. It was only a few moments before Scott-Marie himself answered. He had an extension enabling either him or his secretary to answer.
“The Commissioner.”
“Gideon, sir.”
“Ah! I’ve been hoping to hear from you. Has Superintendent Riddell been found yet?”
“I’m afraid not,” Gideon answered.
He underwent a strange moment, a kind of metamorphosis; as if he were not himself but was a detached mind, looking at and marvelling at himself. For in those few minutes of studying the letter and report, Riddell had not been in his mind. All his thoughts, all his concentration, had been on the new case. He did not know whether his sudden awareness of this, his sense of shock at his own ability to shut out even tragedy when coping with a new problem, revealed itself to Scott-Marie; he did know that Scott-Marie was waiting for him to continue.
“I will be advised the moment there is any news,” Gideon went on. “Meanwhile, I have Mr. Rataudi the landlord here for questioning.”
“Unhurt?”
“Yes, sir. Possibly frightened, but I’m not sure yet,” Gideon replied. “I’ll go down and see him in half an hour or so. There should be a preliminary report from Saxby and his division by the time I’ve finished with Rataudi.”
After a pause Scott-Marie asked: “I’d like to know what there is to know at five o’clock. I’ve promised a report to the Undersecretary at the Home Office by half-past five.”
“Shall I come and see you?”
“Please. And keep me informed meanwhile.”
“I will, sir,” Gideon promised formally. “Before you go—”
“Yes?”
“There’s another thing,” Gideon went on, and explained briefly about the letter from Sir Cyril Mayhew. There was no need to go into great detail, and when he was sure Scott-Marie had heard enough to grasp the situation, he went on: “It’s a job for the Fraud Squad and also obviously for Customs, and it could become very delicate. Would you like me to handle it from here in the beginning, or work through Customs?”
There was a long pause, and then Scott-Marie replied dryly:
“In this case you must double Commander and Assistant Commissioner, George! I shall leave it entirely to you.”
And he rang off.
Gideon replaced his receiver slowly, smiling faintly yet feeling rueful. If that remark was a true indication, Scott-Marie was going to push very hard on the Assistant Commissionership issue. Was there any special reason for that? He turned the fraud case over in his mind as he opened the last file.
On top, clipped, was a note:
Riddell’s wife doesn’t answer the telephone. I’ve tried regularly. If there’s no reply soon I’ll send a man to see her.
Gideon smiled with satisfaction at Hobbs’s attitude, then settled down to read about the murder during the night of a young woman named Rosamund Lee. Reading the report, a vivid one, about the way the girl had been suffocated, seeing a photograph of her as she lay dead and another, gay and bright-eyed as she had been only a few weeks ago, all thought of Riddell, the Notting Hill disaster, and the fraud problem faded from his mind. He studied this report as if there were nothing else of importance to consider. And one of the things that came to his mind was that in this same part of Ealing, earlier last night, a young constable from Uniform had caught two thieves red-handed, and that this had incidentally betrayed a man who had used an antique and second-hand shop to cover the buying and selling of stolen goods. They were not connected cases, of course; that would be too much of a coincidence. But was it possible that the men investigating the burglary and the stolen goods could have noticed anything which was even remotely related to the murder?
He must check with Division, to make sure.
9
Medley
Police Constable Percival Oswald had slept soundly that morning but on the first moment of waking he had been aware of the cyclist who had passed him while he had been on duty last night. So that must have been on his subconscious mind while he had been asleep.
Oswald, who was a boarder in a private house not far from Ealing Common, was lucky in more ways than one
. His landlady, Mrs. Stilwell, an elderly but sprightly widow, positively mothered him. He had only to bang on the floor with a stick which she placed by his bedside for that purpose, and she would be up with the tea and the newspapers. He had got in soon after eight in the morning and dropped off to sleep right away. Now it was nearly two o’clock by the watch at his bedside. He knocked, and sure enough, her footsteps soon sounded on the stairs. They met as he came out of the bathroom.
“Good morning, my hero!” she greeted him, beaming.
“What’s all this?” he inquired. “I’m no hero.”
“According to the Evening Globe you are,” she declared.
There he was, in the reproduction of a photograph he had had taken soon after getting his uniform. This was next to a photograph of the antique shop and the backs of the two men he had caught. The detective sergeant who had appeared to belittle what he had done the previous night had given him full credit. And for the first time he realised what a haul they had made:
One estimate puts the value of the stolen jewellery recovered at over thirty thousand pounds. The police at Ealing are busy checking each item against the description of stolen jewellery. A great number of people who lost valued heirlooms and jewels of great sentimental value may soon be overjoyed.
“And I’ve turned away four reporters,” his landlady reported, with both pride and satisfaction. “It’s amazing how they find out where you live, isn’t it? Oh, there’s a note for you from the station; a policeman brought it round and said you had to have it by two o’clock.” Characteristically, she changed the subject at once: “I’ll have bacon and eggs for you in half an hour – that’s at a quarter to three sharp, mind.”
She closed the door on her own trim figure, in a plain grey dress which matched her thick grey hair, as neatly groomed as if she had a secret hope of being photographed with her hero.