by J. J Marric
Then Miss Sharp came in with a small tray, a spotless white cloth on it, a china coffeepot, hot milk, brown sugar crystals, and some whole-wheat biscuits.
Gideon spent an hour in his own office before going to the conference; Bell and Culverson had everything under control. Only one serious job had come in: a request from Norfolk for help in investigating a haystack fire mystery in which a man had been burned to death.
"Who've we got to send?" asked Gideon.
"Mickle got back from France this morning. He's done all he can on that forged franc job, says that the Frenchies aren't much further ahead with it," answered Bell. "I wanted to give him a couple of days off."
"What about Bert Challis?"
"He'd be about as much use in the country as a barrow boy!"
"I dunno," Gideon said. "Try him, Joe."
"Right," said Bell.
"If I'm wanted, I'm with the Old Man."
Gideon walked off to the conference, deciding that he would have to study the lists he had prepared, draw them up into a kind of schedule of memoranda, and then distribute copies to anyone who was going to help. He ought to have at least ten copies. It wouldn't be a bad idea to take his rough notes home tonight and let Kate have a look at them. He reached the Commissioner's office two minutes ahead of time and found the other A.C.'s and the Deputy Commissioner already there. He was chaffed by two of these and solemnly congratulated on the dockside job by two others, and then sat down to a discussion on a subject he seldom thought about: road accidents.
The latest monthly figures were in, and were, on the whole, 5 per cent worse than those for the corresponding month of the previous year; the figures were undoubtedly worsening all the time. It was not specifically a matter for the Metropolitan Police, but for years the traffic and uniformed branches had studied the problem and made recommendations, few of which had been carried out. Gideon made no comment at all during the meeting, but answered one or two specific questions and, when he was on his way back to his office, found himself forced to consider the accident rate and compare it with the indictable crime rate. It was alarming. Nearly 600 deaths and 17,000 serious injuries in one month. Compare those figures with the deaths by murder: 27 in the month. Even allowing for the difference in intent, this was an illuminating disproportion; killed with intent, 27; killed by accident or carelessness, 574.
It was easy to understand a man like Prendergast, the Assistant Commissioner for Traffic, thinking that he really had a man-size problem.
Gideon had a very thoughtful, rather uneasy half an hour afterward. It was undoubtedly true that he had been so obsessed by his own department and its problems that he had not thought seriously enough about the others. The danger now might be that he would widen his perspective at the expense of his effectiveness with the C.I.D.
"Not if I know it," he said to himself, and entered the A.C.'s office. His desk was very tidy—obviously Miss Sharp had been in here—and there was a note: "Can you call Mr. Bell?" and several memos from the various departments; but there was no sign of his penciled notes. He dived for the wastepaper basket; they weren't there. He strode to the door; if that damned woman had destroyed those papers in an excess of orderliness, he'd just about let her know about it.
She was typing very fast; one of those typists whose fingers moved but whose hands seemed only to hover over the keys. She glanced up, eyes bright and alert behind pince-nez.
"I left some notes on my desk," Gideon said peremptorily.
"Yes, Commander, and I knew you would not need them for at least an hour. I typed them in triplicate. I thought you might find that helpful."
Gideon felt completely deflated, and, as he looked down at the woman, was sure that her eyes were twinkling behind those lenses; she was not the sobersides she appeared to be. She sat straight, graying hair drawn back from her forehead with a comb and tied at the back with a black ribbon; it gave her a slightly Grecian look, with her white blouse and gray skirt.
"That's fine," he said at last. "Thanks. Do you believe in working overtime?"
"Whenever it's necessary, of course, but the Assistant Commissioner always arranged not to keep me late on Wednesday, when I go to my art classes."
"Art classes," Gideon echoed, and rubbed his chin in a way which had become a habit he did not know about. "I'll remember that. I thought you might like to take a copy of these notes home, study them, and let me know what you think about them in the morning. What I want is the angle of people who aren't so prejudiced as I am."
"I'll gladly do that," Miss Sharp agreed. "In fact, I'd like to, sir, but I think I'm just as prejudiced as you."
On his way home, in a better humor than he had been for a long time, a humor marred only by the failure at Bournsea—that job was the more exasperating because they were probably within an ace of getting the right man—Gideon saw in his driving mirror a rakish-looking sports car following him. He had never noticed the car before. The fair-haired driver had a nice-looking blonde beside him, and she was sitting a little too close for safety and freedom of movement. His mind spurred by the afternoon conference, Gideon found himself wondering what could be done to lessen accidents at their source: the driver. This chap, for instance.
This chap swung out near some traffic lights, put on a burst of speed, and roared past Gideon's black Wolseley. It would not be true to say that he was driving carelessly; just over-confidently.
The blonde had stared at Gideon as they had passed.
"Know who that was?" asked Keith Ryman.
"He looked like a heavyweight champion," said Helen facetiously.
"That's Gideon of the Yard," Ryman informed her, smiling as he stared ahead. "He's hit the headlines lately, and given me one or two ideas. But he's just a thickhead like the rest of these cops; something nasty will happen to him one day. Now, pet, about this nursemaid job. I know you won't like it, but you'll have to lump it. The thing is, do you know how to handle kids well enough to seem genuine?"
"Keith, darling," cooed Helen, "I've three sisters and a brother, all younger than me. It wasn't until I got away from home last year that I stopped being a real little mother. I can look after kids all right. How long do you think I'll have to do it, though?"
"Perhaps a week."
"Oh, I can stand a week. How old is the kid?"
"About a year."
"Not even house-trained," Helen complained. "Well, provided it really means a big cut, darling, I'm in. The only thing is, what will happen if the job falls through?"
"I'll make sure you're not involved; all you have to do is look after the kid," Ryman told her. "The important thing is for you to have a kid about the same age at the cottage for a few days before this one comes—the police will only be on the lookout for women with kids who've just popped up from somewhere."
Helen looked at him, head back and eyes narrowed, lashes sweeping to her cheeks.
"Clever boy," she murmured. "My sister Amy will be glad to have a rest from hers, but I'll be loaded for nearly two weeks. Don't forget I'll be earning that big cut."
"You'll get it," Ryman promised her.
That was as they crossed Hammersmith Broadway, in a stream of traffic. On the curb of the Underground station were a constable, young and spruce in a new uniform, and an elderly sergeant. Ryman saw the sergeant, but it did not occur to him that it was Maybell.
But he thought of Maybell.
He was sufficiently far ahead in his plans to believe that he could go ahead with all of them in ten days or so.
They were heading for a little bungalow that he owned on the riverside, just above Richmond.
"When am I going to know who the kid is?" asked Helen, as they drove over Barnes Bridge.
"I'll tell you in good time," Ryman answered.
"Don't you trust me?"
"I'm trusting you, aren't I?" He took a hand off the wheel and squeezed her leg, then appeared to give all his attention to his driving. But he was not doing so. He was thinking of the child he planned to
kidnap, and also thinking that the important thing with that job, as with everything else, was to cause a distraction. There was a kind of parade ground for perambulators in Hyde Park, where nurses forgathered and other children played and the babies in the prams stared at the fascinating color and movement of their fingers. One who was regularly in the parade was Clarissa Mountbaron, the only child of the extremely wealthy Richard Mountbaron. This parent had inherited both a fortune and the ability to make more money buying and selling real estate; and he had an equally wealthy wife, an American named Charlotte. Ryman had decided not to take a child old enough to talk or run about; a babe in arms could be hidden more easily, would create less fuss, and would create just as much sensation. Every policeman in the country would be on the alert, and if one or two false clues were laid, dozens—perhaps hundreds—could be lured away from the places where he was planning to strike.
Ryman had considered everyone he knew of with a child of a reasonable age, and had selected the Mountbaron infant as the most suitable.
Next he had to plan the details of the kidnaping.
He did not seriously take into account the risk to the child.
Chapter 13
RIDDELL
One of the angriest and most resentful men in the police force, perhaps the angriest during those few days, was Chief Inspector Thomas Riddell. For some hours after Gideon had rounded on him, Riddell had felt that he could walk out of the Yard and out of the Force; for an hour he had been very close to doing it. But he was no fool. He had seven more years to go to a full pension and was living right up to his income. There might be easier and better-paying jobs outside the Metropolitan Police, but he had lost his chance of getting one.
He had told Gideon what he believed was for Gideon's own good; and now, three days after he had arrived in Bournsea, he still could not read the name Gideon or hear it spoken without bridling, although he did not think anyone else noticed that. He was pretty sure that Hill thought he resented having been sent out of the Yard on this job but did not suspect a personal grievance.
After the newspaper huzzahs following Micky the Slob's arrest, Riddell had felt even worse, and very bitter. Among other things, being in Bournsea compelled him to cancel two social engagements which his wife had made, and she hadn't been particularly understanding.
To make it worse, Riddell was in poor digs. In the holiday season, accommodation wasn't easy, and all the Yard men had to be fairly close to the police headquarters, housed in an old building at a poor part of the town—the day-trippers' end, close to the main pier. Riddell's room was small, it overlooked a back street, and his general view of Bournsea was of countless towels and swim suits hanging out to dry; the crying of babies; and the noise of radios turned on too loud.
All of this was Gideon's fault.
Anger made Riddell apply himself to the child-murder problem more single-mindedly than he had approached a case for years. In effect, Gideon had told him that he was a no-good, lazy so-and-so, not the realist he had always considered himself. There were two days in which he could respond: by doing damn-all, which was what Gideon obviously expected, or proving that he could pull his weight with anyone.
By the second day, he had realized that being instrumental in solving this case would be the best way of getting some kind of revenge on Gideon. Hill had assigned him to the odds and ends rather than any specific job; for instance, he was trying to find people who owned a dog without having a license, and he was still checking the stories of those who claimed to have seen this man and the dog. He had now found three statements saying that the man had gone off on a bicycle, but still there was no good description of the cyclist.
On Thursday evening, Riddell was eating an evening meal in company of a holiday-maker, his middle-aged wife and their surprisingly young family, all wanting to see the television. His thoughts were on revenge. What he needed was to discover something no one else had spotted: a completely new angle.
He finished his meal, which hadn't been too bad, went out, and strolled along the promenade from the pier. It was very noisy, for the coaches had not yet taken the day-trippers away. The beach was littered with paper, ice-cream wrappers, brown-paper bags and newspapers. The sea was calm, and hundreds of people were still bathing although it was after eight o'clock. Riddell was immaculate in his brown suit, wearing a snap-brim trilby, handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket, and tie and socks matching the spotted border of the handkerchief. He was the only well-dressed man in sight. A few girls looked at him, but he was in no mood for thinking about girls who bulged out of sun dresses or low-cut blouses, so he took no notice of them. As he studied the stretch of beach where the man, dog and child had been seen, a thousand people must have been in view. Something of the real magnitude of the task came over him.
"But there must be some angle no one's seen," he told himself, and paused to light a cigarette. "Two girls, both seven years old—both strangled after being assaulted." Riddell felt no repugnance, saw this now simply as a case. "Man and dog—dog's saliva and paw marks, anyhow—in both cases. No footprints, no bicycle tire prints reported." He had studied all the reports and the photographs so closely that he would never forget them.
He called to mind everything he had seen and read, and among these was the photograph of the dead child. She had been a pretty kid, but Riddell, who was childless, was looking at the mental image of the photograph only for the help which it might be able to give. He was the complete professional.
Then he exclaimed, "They both had fine golden hair!"
He walked on a few steps.
"That's a point," he told himself. "Both very blonde, both blue eyes, both pretty, even for children." Now he stood and stared out to sea, oblivious of a pleasure steamer which was bringing home its load of weary passengers. He went briskly to the copse where the children had been found. Only a small part was still cordoned off. A few gawpers stood by this rope cordon and the two uniformed policemen who were guarding it; uselessly, Riddell thought. He walked briskly up a narrow cutting which led from the beach to the town itself, and caught a bus to the other end of the town and the police station. He went into the office allotted to him and Hill, and was glad that no one was there. He went to a filing cabinet and took out photographs of each of the murdered children.
"Could almost be sisters," he said aloud.
He pulled up a chair and sat down, with a feeling that he might have found what he was seeking. Then he opened the various files on the case. There were dozens of these; the way Hill had set the local men to work was an eye-opener. Riddell knew exactly what he was looking for, and found a file marked: CHILDREN REPORTED MISSING PAST 12 MONTHS. Inside this were seven photographs of different children, and to each were attached written or typewritten notes. Of the seven, four were blonde, and although they were not really alike, in general appearance there was a great likeness. Riddell now found himself almost uneasy with excitement. He put aside the cases of the dark-haired children, and read the reports on the others; two had been missed from the beach, one from her home, one had got lost on the way from school to home. In three of the four cases there was a note:
Child states she was offered sweets by a strange man.
Riddell put all seven cases together so that each of the photographs was side by side. Then he checked the notes carefully, and decided that in five cases the circumstances were identical except that in three the child had been allowed to get safely away.
In these, the man had taken the child for a bus ride; or for a walk; or for a swim. In no case had the local police been able to trace the man.
Riddell had enough sense to realize that this was simply because nothing serious had developed; the police had not had reason to expect murder or assault.
Riddell heard footsteps, and frowned, suspecting that they were Hill's. They were. Hill opened the door and stopped suddenly in the doorway, his big mouth drooping open in surprise. If he makes any sarcastic remark about overtime, Riddell thought, I'll
tell him to go to hell. He stared up with a curious mixture of defense and aggression as Hill came in.
"Hallo, Rid, got anything?"
"Could be," said Riddle.
"Pretty lot of kids." Hill looked at them all. "Could almost be sisters, couldn't they?"
"That's what I thought. See what I'm driving at?"
"Dunno that I do," said Hill. He sat down on a corner of the small desk, and took out a tobacco pouch and a patent cigarette-making machine. "Let's have it."
Riddell said, "I think it's possible these four girls—" he tapped photographs—"were taken away by the man we're after, but he didn't harm them. It might even have started harmlessly enough, with just a pervert's liking for blonde children with long fair hair and blue eyes. We don't need to go into the motive of the maniacs, do we?"
Hill was looking at him steadily.
"Damn good point. Where do we go from there?"
"How many girl children about this age are there these days?"
"Not so many," said Hill, and finished rolling his cigarette, which he seemed to do without a glance at the machine or the tobacco and paper. "We could soon find out, though. Get in touch with every primary and kindergarten school, public and private, and find out. Shouldn't take much more than an hour or two in the morning. Like to handle it?"
"Yes."
"Ta. Any other bright ideas?"
"No," said Riddell, and was not sure whether there was a hint of sarcasm in the remark or not. "I just concentrated, and —but you know how it is."
"Gideon always says that he'd rather spend one hour thinking over a case than ten hours collecting clues," said Hill. "Amazing how often Gee-Gee's right." Riddell did not speak.
"I just came in to have a look at the postmen's reports again," he said. "Funny about that dog, too. There just isn't one answering the description as far as we can see—how many dogs did we look at yesterday?'