by John Creasey
“Well, Abby?” Gideon asked.
“Eric Little was seen to pick up a girl at Swan and Edgar’s on Tuesday night, just before the call went out for Marjorie Belman,” Abbott said. “The girl answered Marjorie Belman’s description. It’s a belated report from a uniformed man, and I’m having the story checked. Might be the angle we’re looking for.” If he had come in simply to report this, it was a bad sign. Gideon waited, concealing his disappointment, and then Abbott glanced at Bell, as if he wished the Chief Inspector wasn’t there.
“Joe, nip along and get those letters from the typing pool for me,” urged Gideon and winked. Nothing flustered Joe Bell, who was not only self-effacing and competent, but a first-class second-in command. As he went out, Gideon wondered, not for the first time, who would replace him, and shrugged the thought off.
“Something on your mind, Abby?”
“Yes,” said Abbott. “Wasn’t sure whether you’d want Joe in on it. Er - did you know I used to play a lot of tennis with Ray Cox?”
Gideon sat up, surprised. “That’s news to me.”
“Well, I did. We were out at J.I. together for years. I - er - happen to know Ray’s nose has been put out of joint. None of my business,” Abbott went on hastily, “but he’s been giving his department hell this last day or two. He always was a bit tense. Thought you ought to know.”
“That’s a big help,” said Gideon warmly. “Thanks.”
“You won’t let Ray know that I - er - warned you?”
“No one warned me.”
“Thanks, George,” Abbott said. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”
When he had gone, Gideon stared at the rain on the window, glad that Abbott’s mind was working well, and wondering how he could get around Cox’s antagonism. Warnings from Ripple and from Abbott must not be ignored. Before he reached any kind of conclusion, Bell came back, and at the same instant the telephone rang. Gideon picked up the telephone.
“That’s probably Rip,” said Bell. “He was due to call from Paris.”
“Gideon speaking . . . yes, put him through,” Gideon looked up at Bell. “Yes, it’s him.” He waited until Ripple’s voice came. “Hallo, Rip. How’s Paris?”
“They’ve put a bit of paint on since I was here last,” said Ripple. “The Surété’s got it all laid on pretty well over here, too. Specially-trained men will come with de Gaulle’s party, and they’d like to send over about thirty of their chaps familiar with Algerian colonists and nationalists to have a look round. Have we any objections?”
“No. How will they come over? As tourists?”
“That’s the idea. All unofficial.”
“I’ll fix it with Rogerson,” promised Gideon. He talked for another couple of minutes, without learning any more, and replaced the receiver slowly.
“He expecting trouble?” asked Bell. Gideon explained.
“Be a bit of a load off our backs,” said Bell practically. “Better make sure how many will want accommodation, we don’t want to have to give ‘em bed and board here. They say that there’s hardly a hotel room left in London for the week of the Visit. The Yanks are coming over in shiploads.”
“Why not ask Miss Timson to book a hotel for these French chaps? That place over at Chelsea won’t be any good; the Aussies will be back by then.”
“Okay,” said Bell, and immediately called Rogerson’s secretary. Gideon heard him draw in his breath, and for once Bell raised his voice.
“When the Assistant Commissioner’s not in, you’ll take your orders from the Commander. I don’t care if it keeps you here all day.” He rang off as angry as Gideon could remember seeing him. “The impertinent bitch.”
“May be trouble with her boyfriend.” Bell was the one man whom Gideon had told about the Australian and “Vi.” To give Bell time to recover his temper, Gideon went on: “Joe, I’d forgotten the hotels and bars. There will be more con men at work at the big hotels than we’ve had for a long time. Who’ve we got spare?”
Bell recovered and considered.
“Parsons,” he came up with, at last. “He knows London hotels as well as anyone.”
“See if he’s in,” ordered Gideon.
Parsons was a chubby, jolly, happy-looking man with a smooth skin and a ready tongue. He listened to Gideon for ten minutes before he said: “I’ve got it, skipper. We want every hotel detective on the lookout for suspect con men, and we want a few of our chaps spread around pretty thin, because we can’t spare many. Mind if I make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Might be a good idea to have New York, Washington, Paris and Bonn send over photographs of any of their missing con men, so we can distribute the pictures to the hotels.”
“Do that,” approved Gideon.
It was at half-past six in London, and in New York the time was about half-past one. The door of the Police Commissioner’s office at headquarters opened and a tall, slim man in a plain grey suit came in, without any of Lemaitre’s kind of bustle.
The Commissioner looked up.
“You heard anything new?” he demanded. “I’ve heard enough to make me think that O’Hara’s flown to London, and that could mean he’s going to try to kill the President there,” the young man answered. “I think it’s time we informed Washington.”
“That’s exactly what I’ll do, Jed,” the Commissioner said.
Gideon still had that restless feeling, and wished that he could go out on a job himself instead of leaving them all to others. Abbott and Cox between them were on his mind, and he was uneasy in case concentration on the plans for the Visit should make him slip up on one of the more immediate jobs.
There was no doubt that Abbott was seriously worried about the Belman girl, and it would be easy to put that down to Abbott’s lack of confidence. But supposing he was right? Should Gideon have made a great effort to trace the girl? He was still brooding about Marjorie Belman when he heard footsteps outside and he looked up at once, for these were the footsteps of a man in a hurry. There was a perfunctory tap at the door before it opened, and Abbott stood dramatically on the threshold.
Abbott’s news showed in his over-bright eyes and his pale cheeks. It was almost an anticlimax when he said: “They’ve found Marjorie Belman, drowned off Sandown in the Isle of Wight. That swine got her.” Gideon said very slowly: “Have we got Carraway?”
“He’s over at his main showrooms now, I’ve sent a Q car to watch him.”
“Come on,” Gideon said, and stood up. “Let’s go see him.”
9: Killer?
It was like being released from solitary confinement. Gideon strode along the passages of the Yard with Abbott a pace behind him, and men saw him and stood hastily aside, or watched covertly from half-open doors. The word went round: “Gee-Gee’s on the rampage.” There were sighs of relief when he headed for the lift and the main door. His car, with a chauffeur at the wheel, was pulling up at the foot of the steps: Bell had lost no time.
“Hop in,” Gideon said to Abbott. “Tell me about it on the way.”
All there was to tell were the bare facts, reported by the police from Sandown. Abbott hardly knew whether to blame himself for the girl’s death or to feel vindicated. The chauffeur, slowing down as lights changed to amber, felt the back of his seat move as Gideon gripped it, and boomed: “Get a move on.”
“Right, sir.”
Traffic seemed to fall aside for them. Policemen who recognized Gideon’s car kept the evening crowds at bay. They swept along Whitehall, along Haymarket to Piccadilly, and around to Regent Street, then to Portman Place. Five minutes before he had expected, Gideon saw the big new garage, painted a pale pink, with the name: CARRAWAY CAR SALES AND RENTALS.
Thirty or forty new-looking cars with price labels were parked alongside the petrol pumps where two boys were busy with petrol. The car pulled up near the showrooms in which new cars were standing, with ‘IMMEDIATE DELIVERY’ signs over the windscreens. Gideon got out of one door and Abbott the other, on the insta
nt. Gideon caught sight of a glossy-haired, stocky little man talking to a tall woman - and saw the way this man stared at Abbott, and how he looked across at a door marked: OFFICE. Gideon did not know it then, but this man was Eric Little. He had no time to warn Carraway before Gideon and Abbott reached the door which Gideon pushed wider open. Carraway was sitting at a flat-topped desk, in his shirt sleeves, cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked immaculate.
“What the hell . . .” he began, and then appeared to see Abbott for the first time. His lips tightened, his eyes narrowed.
Gideon growled: “Mr. Carraway?”
“I’m busy. Can’t you . . .”
A telephone rang on his desk. Carraway stretched out for it, but Abbott moved swiftly, took it first, and said into the telephone: “I’m afraid he’s busy. Will you call him back?” and rang off.
“You’ve got a nerve,” Carraway said roughly. His eyes were still narrowed, but he had shown no outward signs of fright. “Who are you?”
“I’m Commander Gideon of New Scotland Yard. When did you last see Marjorie Belman?”
“What the hell’s that got to do with you?” Carraway demanded.
He certainly wasn’t going to be easy; in fact, he was going to be a hard man to beat. It was already easy to understand why Abbott was unsure of himself: Gideon glanced out the window and saw the glossy-haired man driving off in a car with the woman beside him. The couple would be followed, and if he was demonstrating a car it would make no difference. Two more Yard men were in sight already.
“Answer my question, please,” Gideon said.
“Why the devil should I?”
“Try answering it.”
“Now you listen to me,” Carraway said coldly. He pushed his chair back from the desk, squashed out his cigarette and stood up. He spared a glance almost of derision for Abbott, and then looked back at Gideon. “I don’t care if you’re the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police himself, no one’s going to burst into my office like that and get away with it. I had enough trouble with Abbott over the murder of my partner, I don’t want any more over a skirt.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I tell you . . .”
“All right, Abby,” Gideon said, roughly. “Let’s take him along to the Yard. Call the others.” Abbott stepped to the-window and raised his right hand. A man standing at the far end of the rows of cars came forward; another followed him. Gideon saw Carraway lose colour, and moisten his lips momentarily, but that was his only sign of weakness.
“I can’t waste time going to the Yard. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I haven’t seen Marjorie Belman-for days.”
“How many days?”
Carraway said: “Three or four.”
“How about Tuesday night?”
“I didn’t see her Tuesday night,” declared Carraway. The other two Yard men were at the window waiting for a signal from Gideon. “I was working late. Ever since Rawson died I’ve worked late every night. I’m trying to do two men’s work.”
“Can you prove you didn’t see Marjorie Belman that night?’
Carraway exploded: “Why the hell should I? Why . . .” he broke off, paled again, hesitated, and then stared at Gideon as if worried for the first time. He was very, very clever. “What’s happened to her? What’s the matter?”
“Sure you don’t know?”
“Just tell me what it’s all about, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Gideon did not know why he evaded the question as he did; there was something of a sixth sense in his move, that sense which made him so much more able than most detectives. He knew that Abbott would not interrupt or give him away, and he said. “She’s been missing since Wednesday evening.”
“Missing,” echoed Carraway. “Missing? Didn’t she go home?’
“You didn’t exactly encourage her to, did you?”
“Listen, Mr. Gideon,” Carraway said, “this isn’t an inquiry into my morals, is it? The kid wanted a gay life, so I gave her one. If she’d known what was good for her she would have stayed with me. But her family nagged at her, and finally she gave up. She told me she was going back to them.”
“Did you quarrel with her?”
“I don’t quarrel with hysterical kids,” Carraway sneered. “While she was sensible, she was okay.” He moistened his lips again. “Er - didn’t she go back home?”
“She’s not been seen for three and a half days. Unless you’ve seen her.”
“I haven’t set eyes on her,” Carraway insisted. “The last time I saw her was Monday. She’d had a talk with a sister, who’d been sent round by Ma and Pa, and the session upset her. I tried to calm her down, but she wasn’t having any, so I told her if she preferred living like a nun, it was okay by me. I walked out of the flat I rented for her when she said she was going back home.” He frowned. “Are you sure . . .”
After a pause, Gideon said: “I’m sure.” He stood looking at Carraway intently, twice as powerful as the motor-car salesman, and then nodded and said: “If you hear from her, let us know at once.”
He turned and led the way out, Abbott nearly stumbling over his heels, and then looked around sharply; but Carraway’s expression hadn’t changed. The man with the glossy black hair, an Italian type, was driving back into the garage with the woman still by his side.
“That’s Eric Little,” Abbott volunteered. “Want to talk to him?”
“Not now,” Gideon said, and climbed into his car. He waited for Abbott to join him, and the doors slammed. “Carraway’s going to be a tough nut,” he declared. “Don’t let up on him, Abby.”
“Believe me, I won’t,” said Abbott. “But, George . . .”
He was getting bold.
“Hmm?”
“He didn’t bat an eyelid.”
“He didn’t bat enough eyelids,” Gideon growled. “He put on his poker face too soon.”
He knew that a weaker man than Carraway would probably have given himself away under the weight of that sudden pressure; and he felt quite sure, as Abbott did, that Carraway knew exactly what he was about. It would probably be best to attack him through one of the others, now - Little, for instance - and he must be followed wherever he went in an effort to break his nerve.
In spite of the failure to make Carraway give anything away, Gideon felt better; the little flurry of action had done him good. It would also do Abbott good, in the long run, to know that he wasn’t failing on an easy job.
Abbott already seemed rather more confident of himself.
“Don’t you worry,” he said, quietly. “I’ll make sure he’s watched. Why didn’t you tell him she was dead?”
“Let’s keep him on the hook a bit,” Gideon advised. “His defences were up too soon. We need a bit more evidence.”
“I’ll get some evidence,” Abbott said grimly. “I’ll keep Little and the others on the hook, too, and try to make them squirm.”
Soon after Gideon and Abbott left the office, Eric Little brought the middle-aged woman back to sign a hire-purchase agreement. The woman was rather too self-confident and loud-voiced. Carraway let her take control of the situation, witnessed the agreement, took her check, and watched her drive out of the garage. She was seen off by Little. Then he shrugged his arms into his coat, went out, and met Little between the roadway and the office.
He hardly moved his lips as he said: “They don’t know she’s dead. Watch yourself, they might be tailing you.” In a loud voice, he went on: “If I don’t get a drink, I’ll break a blood vessel. You take over.”
He walked on.
On Saturday evening, about the same time, Eric Little shook hands with a plump man who had just signed a hire-purchase agreement for an Austin Cambridge, and escorted him to the door of the showrooms. Then he went back and picked up each of the two London evening papers, early editions, which were on his desk. Each had advertisements for the company’s rental and sale cars, but he was much more interested in news about Marjorie’s body. The body of “a y
oung woman in her early twenties” had been found off Bembridge on the Isle of Wight, but the police, according to the report, hadn’t yet been able to identify it.
“It’s as safe as houses,” he told himself, and remembered how the two Yard men had been rebuffed. Carraway certainly kept his nerve, and that was all there was to it. Strong nerves. If that damned sister hadn’t come round -
He saw a girl walking past the petrol pumps towards the door. At first, he felt as if someone had stuck a knife into him, it was such a shock. That walk. That hair. He stood by the desk, white-faced arid with his hands shaking as he lit a cigarette; then the girl stepped out of the shadow of the cover over the pumps and he saw that the likeness was only a passing one.
But for that moment he had thought that this was Marjorie Belman, come back to life.
The girl hesitated outside the door, looking in. Little was placed in such a position that he could see out, but could not be seen - he always liked to make sure that he could size up callers first. When standing still, as when walking, this girl was uncannily like Marjorie. The cigarette burned Little’s tongue because he drew in the smoke so deeply.
It must be the sister. He hadn’t seen her clearly the other night, but - who else could it be? She came in, looking around. Near her was a bell push marked INQUIRIES. Little moistened his lips, stubbed out the cigarette in a large ash tray, and stood up. The girl saw him. Her eyes were very like
Marjorie’s, too, but her complexion was much fairer - and now that she was closer he saw that her hair was dark brown. There was another difference; she had more of a figure than the dead girl - was much fuller at the breast.
“Good afternoon,” Little said, as breezily as he could. “Can I help you.”
She looked at him appraisingly. His heart was thumping, he still felt the effect of that uncanny likeness, and he knew cold fear, but she showed no sign of recognition.