A Conference For Assassins

by John Creasey

  Gideon grinned.

  Another report said that there was no indication as to where the soil heaped up in a suburban garden had come from. The divisional superintendent simply said: “Will check when opportunity arises,” and Gideon decided that it was not worth too much trouble.

  “We can check that when the rush is over,” he said to Bell.

  “Rush? What rush?” said Bell.

  Gideon laughed, thought warmly of Bell, and then lifted a telephone: “Get Mrs. Gideon for me,” he said, and sat swinging his leg. There was an empty sense of anticlimax now that so much was over, and the persisting feeling of uneasiness had no specific cause. The trouble was that he had nothing active to do, and he needed action.

  Bell had gone home early.

  The call was a long time coming through, which probably meant that Kate was out.

  “Mrs. Gideon, sir.”

  “Hallo, Kate,” Gideon said. “Like to know something hard to believe?”

  “You’re not coming home tonight,” said Kate philosophically.

  “I’m free now. Care to come up and have a stroll along the route? I’m told they’re gathering pretty thick already.”

  Kate began: “I promised Priscilla I would . . .”

  “She home?”

  “They’re all home.”

  “Bring ‘em all up,” said Gideon expansively. “I’ll lay on a meal somewhere.”

  “No, don’t do that, it’ll be hopeless getting a meal out tonight,” said Kate. She was obviously pleased. “You get something at the Yard and we’ll have a snack here and be in Whitehall at nine o’clock. Is that all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Gideon.

  At five past nine, he saw Kate, Priscilla, Penelope and young Malcolm, all hurrying because they were a few minutes late, all looking eager and fresh, Malcolm leading the way through the crowd, the girls behind him, Kate bringing up the rear, a head taller than any of them. A lot of men looked at the Gideon girls and as many took notice of Kate.

  They met at the corner of Parliament Street and Parliament Square; Kate and Gideon touched hands, and then they began to move among the crowds thronging the square and walked back along Whitehall past the thousands of people who planned to sleep out all night.

  It was warm, the weather forecast was good, more and more people were streaming along, and the front seats were already taken. Rubber cushions, little stools, air-beds, all of these gadgets and a hundred others were in use. The crowd was high-spirited and good tempered. A crowd of young Australians had a spot nearly opposite Downing Street, and were shouting exchanges with a smaller crowd of French students and some middle-aged Americans.

  “I ain’t done such a thing as this in my whole life,” a woman said, with a Southern drawl. “But nobody’s going to stop me tonight, Jim. I’m staying right here.”

  “You do just that, Ma’aaaam,” an Australian mimicked.

  The Gideons reached the narrow stretch of pavement in front of the stand for which Gideon had bought Kate a ticket. The pavement here was crowded, but only one row of all-nighters was allowed on the curb. Gideon took no special notice of them.

  Malcolm Gideon actually stepped over Matthew Smith’s legs.

  The program sellers, the sellers of cardboard and cheap mirror periscopes, the souvenir peddlers were out in their hundreds and Gideon wondered how much of the stuff being offered had been stolen. There were reports of a strained relationship between Sonnley and Klein, but crooks had been known to use a quarrel as a smoke screen and, if anything, it made Gideon more suspicious. He saw pound notes and ten shilling notes changing hands freely, for London crowds were always free with their money on nights like these.

  He saw Donnelly and Webron on the other side of Whitehall; they waved. There was no sign of Mollet or Bayer, but as he reached the Mall he saw Parsons, on his own, looking like an evangelist. Gideon felt Kate’s hand touching his. Some Australian detectives were in the Mall, but Wall wasn’t among them. The Mall was already jammed tight with people.

  Near the Palace, Gideon saw Ripple mingling with the crowd; they exchanged glances, but otherwise did not acknowledge each other.

  20: Great Day

  London stirred. . .

  Along the route of the morning’s procession, thousands of Londoners woke after the long, uneasy night, cramped, stiff, hungry, unwashed, unshaven, bleary-eyed, dour at first, but quick to find good humour.

  The trek to the toilets began. The trek of the hawkers and barrow boys, the program sellers, the souvenir sellers, began. The cameras began to click, for the sun had risen early and the sky was a clear blue: the unbelievable perfect day. It was warm at six o’clock, warmer at seven, getting quite hot by nine o’clock; but long before then the crowds were thronging in from the suburbs. The extra buses were carrying massive loads; the unseen, unheard tubes were running through London’s bowels and disgorging passengers from the stations at Westminster Bridge, Piccadilly, Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square, at Victoria, Dover Street and St. James’s. Scarlet buses dropped their passengers as near to the procession route as they were allowed to go; and masses walked across the bridges, the young hop-skip-and-jumping, many parents flagging already, the middle-aged and the elderly showing a curious earnestness.

  This was a great occasion, one of London’s great days, second only to a coronation.

  The restaurants open for special breakfasts were crowded and long queues waited outside them. The coffee bars could not serve lukewarm coffee and stale buns fast enough.

  The scene along the Mall was at once so familiar, and yet so strange, that visitors from overseas were baffled and bewildered by the packed throng, the masses of paper used overnight as sheets, the mess, the muddle, the good temper, the colour, the drabness, the bare arms, the men’s shirt sleeves.

  And out of London’s divisions came the uniformed policemen to relieve those who had been on duty all night.

  In the information room, Gideon and Cox followed their movements as the units reported.

  They came from the perimeter of London and all the outer divisions, in black marias, in buses and in coaches. Each policeman carried his shiny rolled cape because England’s June could not be trusted. Each man was dressed in heavy dark blue, each helmeted, each already hot, slow-walking, firm-footed, quite unperturbed by the occasion, knowing that his job was as much to keep the crowd in humour as to keep them in order; the contented crowd would offer little trouble.

  The police walked in dozens, in twenties, in thirties and forties, under the command of sergeants from the central divisions. They took up their places along the route, in front of the crowds, standing quite close to one another. The ribaldry began to flow from the people behind towards the policemen, who stood at ease and joked among themselves but did not tempt fate by answering back the civilians.

  “Perfect job, your chaps,” Gideon said, and Cox smiled mechanically.

  Then came the first of the troops, from the Navy, the Army, and the Air Force: battalions of them marching in military precision to the places en route which they must line; heels clicking, arms swinging, more unbending than the police, obeying barrack-square voice orders, some looking a little apprehensively up at the sky. If it didn’t cloud over before long, it was going to be stinking hot, and hours standing under this gruelling heat was no one’s idea of a joke. They talked in asides, ignoring the banter of the crowd. Horns honked on the outskirts.

  The Special Branch and C.I.D. men mingled with the crowd. All the windows on the buildings were watched. In each of the buildings officials checked that no unauthorized person got in. Men from the Special Branch climbed up through skylights to the roofs, and some took up positions which they would hold all day. The television and newsreel cameras were at their various vantage points, click, click, clicking in practice runs.

  Big Ben boomed out, impersonally, resonantly. The sun rose higher. The prospect of the hawkers grew less, but they were well satisfied, many already packing up and going h
ome; but the newspaper sellers were out in force. The pigeons in Trafalgar Square had a forlorn and neglected look; their turn would come when the crowds started to move again. Now only a few children fed them corn, and few cameras clicked there.

  At Wellington Barracks the Guards foregathered; the Horse Guards, the Household Cavalry, the Life Guards. The big, black horses were saddled and bridled; collar chain, breastplate and sheepskin were checked; all that was metal gleamed and glittered. The men were marshalled, medals shimmering and plumes erect as a fox’s brush, tunics tight across packed shoulders and deep chests, pouch belts looking as if they were powdered with un-melted snow, white breeches stiff as with starch or pipeclay, spurs glistening behind the jack boots, forever a threat but never to be used on the flanks of the big black horses. The gauntlet gloves were pulled on firmly; each state sword was held fast by its white sling.

  The order rang out.

  The Guards moved into position, as if horses and men were moved by the same reflexes and the same impulses, and they rode along the Birdcage Walk towards the Palace, where the State Coach and the coaches for the heads of states had been waiting - with security police from all four countries watching surreptitiously, looking for anything which was even slightly amiss.

  Huge crowds, gathered on the steps and the fountain opposite the Palace, broke into cheers before they were due. People laughed and shouted and chattered and eased cramped muscles. Time ticked slowly by until the first roar went up as a row of police from the Mounted Branch led by their inspector clattered out of the Palace gates and clip-clopped smartly up the Mall and along the whole route: to clear the way, to tell their colleagues on the sides and among the trees, at the roofs and at the windows, that all was well farther along the route and that the procession would soon start in earnest. The police riders looked straight ahead,, winning some cheers touched with irony, as many with admiration, bringing cracks from the crowd to the standing uniformed men . . .”Didn’t your mother teach you to ride a horse, Charley?” or “Mind he don’t bite you, Bert,” or “When are we going to see the real thing?” But it wouldn’t be long, now, and the crowd knew it. There was a kind of tension among them all; faces were turned right or left towards the direction from which the first of the cavalry would come. Suddenly there was a great roar of cheering as the golden coach appeared in the Palace yard, the clattering guards in front and behind it, a figure in gold-coloured satin sitting on one side, the Duke in his uniform as Admiral of the Fleet on the other. Now the deep-throated cheers rose in waves along the Mall and the periscopes went up. The tall and the tiny went on tiptoe, fathers lifted pleading children, and the cries of protest came. “Expect me to see through yer blooming head?’ Small feet kicked against stiff shoulders and chests, the lucky six-footers stood at the back, looking disdainfully over the masses of heads. The troops lining the route clicked to the salute as the royal carriage drew near, and then the other heads of state, first the American, then the French, then the German...

  The Special branch and C.I.D. men were keyed up, even the most experienced of them tight-lipped and hard-eyed, watching, watching for any trifling tell-tale sign of danger. The men from the four countries were with their English colleagues now, watching, hopeful, admiring; still a little anxious, in case the one thing they could not prevent should come about. A shot could ring out; a fool might try to rush towards the carriages. But nothing happened to alarm them. The Queen’s Guard rode by in sun-bathed splendour, the gilt of the coaches and the beauty of the dresses, the radiance of the Queen, the calmness of her consort, the massive elegance of the President of France, the tall, slim figure of the President of the United States in a morning suit, the President of West Germany, like a carved figure from the Black Forest, face unsmiling.

  The procession was at its height.

  The coach in which the President of France and his lady rode turned out of Admiralty Arch towards the Houses of Parliament.

  Gideon was now in his office with Cox, a more relaxed Cox, watching a television picture of the corner of Parliament Street and Parliament Square, so he had a bird’s-eye view of all this pomp and panoply. His anxieties were drawn out of him by the beauty and the splendour, and by thought of the hopes which mankind based on this one day.

  Farther along, in the House of Lords, that golden chamber, the members of both Houses were waiting. The police who protected Parliament were on duty at the gates, and what happened once the coaches were through was no direct concern of Gideon’s. If there were to be trouble he believed it would be on the way in - any time, now; any moment. But there had been hundreds of processions before; he himself had taken part in dozens and there had been no serious trouble at any, yet, no single act of madness.

  He saw a picture of the stand where Kate was sitting, very glad that she was there. Malcolm was somewhere among the crowds; the two girls had stayed away. Then he frowned. The pavement in front of the stand was jammed tight with people, although he had ordered two lines only. He glanced at Cox, and saw Cox’s face suddenly pale and drawn, saw his hands clench.

  “I . . .” began Cox, and gulped. “I forgot to order that pavement clear. I - God!” He was sweating.

  “It won’t do any harm,” Gideon reassured him quickly. “Bound to have something go a bit wrong. It’s been near perfect. Forget it.”

  He saw a little man in front of the stand, the very front. Then he looked at Kate again.

  Kate Gideon was watching with a feeling almost of enchantment, like most of the women in the stand. About her were the Americans, the French, the Germans, the Indians, the Africans - people from all countries and all continents, with huge cameras or with small cameras, now whirring, now clicking. Some people were silent, watching, holding their breath, eyes strained to get the nearest vision of the Queen. Glasses pressed tight against a thousand eyes, the magnified figures showing something of the radiance. Kate looked her fill at the Queen, who seemed younger at each of these great occasions, and then watched the Household Cavalry clattering and clicking behind. She saw the white horses of the coach in which the President of the United States was sitting; after which would come the President of France. His carriage would be here in two, or three, minutes. The whole procession would not last for more than seven or eight minutes; but every second was well worthwhile;

  Rosie Sonnley was in the stand, sucking peppermints. Cox’s wife was there, within waving distance of Kate. Doris Green sat with her hand in Arthur’s, warm and snug. She knew how much older he was, but it did not seem to matter to her; this was like a golden dream. They were just behind two empty seats.

  Detective-Inspector Ricky Wall, of the Sydney C.I.D., was sitting halfway down the stand, actually on the steps, to allow a little woman next to him to get a better view. Just below him was Donnelly. Webron was somewhere in the Mall. The place where Lemaitre was to have been on duty was vacant, but few noticed that.

  Wall felt the kind of emotional excitement which he had thought himself proof against; he saw Donnelly wave his hands, and thought he heard his cheers, as the President of the United States went by, completely self-assured, his lovely wife perhaps a little overawed.

  Donnelly, still cheering, saw a man sitting on the curb open a small case and take out a vacuum flask. That seemed so odd at such a moment that Donnelly stared.

  The man Donnelly noticed was at the front, and must haves been there all night, but when the cheering was at its height, when the moment was supreme, he was taking out a Thermos flask! Wall watched him closely, too.

  Donnelly saw that the man did not unscrew the top, but held the flask by his side. He would not have been able to see so clearly, but the police had kept the road itself clear, and there was a gap where a party of children stood. Why take out a flask at such a moment? And why take out a flask at any time and not pour out? Then Donnelly remembered talking to Ripple about a bomb disguised as a Thermos flask, captured from Algerian extremists. Donnelly jumped up and ran down the steps, then saw Gideon’s aide, Joe Bell
, on the street corner near the man. To shout would be a waste of time.

  Donnelly vaulted over the front of the stand, by the steps; a woman cried out, but her voice was drowned. The nearest soldier swung around to face the crowd. Donnelly landed on the pavement. Bell saw the movement out of the corner of his eyes, swung around and recognized the American. Bell came pushing his way through the thick crowd, cursing the fact that the pavement here hadn’t been kept clear.

  “What is it?”

  “Look at that guy,” Donnelly shouted close to his ear. “That man with the flask!”

  The French coach was corning now, the clip-clop-clip of the horses’ hooves sharp and clear, the coachman holding the reins as if born to it. The President was bowing, his wife smiling and inclining her head. Cheers from the crowd of French students rose in wild waves, and then they swung into the first bars of the “Marseillaise.” Bell turned to see the little man in crumpled clerical grey holding the flask in his hand. He raised his hand high, then drew his arm back, as would any man who was going to throw. The people alongside him were too anxious to see the procession to take any notice, and the soldiers were watching Wall, Bell and Donnelly.

  Bell roared: “Stop that!” and sprang forward. The little man must have heard him for he half-turned, arm drawn right back, Thermos flask tight in pale, thin fingers. Bell was only two yards from him when the man swung around and hurled the flask into the air. As he did so, a guardsman saw the danger, stuck his rifle forward, and caught Matthew Smith on the forearm. Instead of going towards the President of France, the flask rose high into the air, and then curved more quickly down towards the front of the stand, behind Smith. Smith began to kick and struggle. Bell put a hammer-lock on him, thrusting his arm up, and saw the flask dropping downwards. For an awful moment he thought that it would fall into the stand. He let the prisoner go, and flung himself towards the falling object. Another C.I.D. man came running, but was too far away to help.