Gideon's staff

by J. J Marric

  Gideon picked up the telephone that was ringing.

  "Gideon," he announced.

  "Thank Gawd you're back," said Hopkinson of NE. "How long are you going to hide yourself in that smart office?"

  "What's the trouble, Hoppy?"

  "Picked up a bit of information that might be helpful," Hopkinson told him, "but it doesn't affect me much, and I thought it ought to be passed on to CD. Remember Charlie Daw?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Well, one of my divisional chaps was over there with some friends for a few days, and says that Charlie's been casing a house in Woodside Road, Hammersmith. A wholesale jeweler lives there and he takes a lot of jewels home with him. He has a big safe at the house and prefers not to leave it at the lockup shop. Care to tip Benson off?"

  Benson, the Chief Superintendent in charge of CD Division, which included Hammersmith, was notoriously a law unto himself, and difficult to approach.

  "I'll fix it," Gideon promised.

  "That's what I like to hear," said Hopkinson. "George, I don't want to swell you up with pride, but the trouble with old Bell and that sergeant is that they can't say a thing like that. The best they can do is 'I'll see what we can arrange.' No authority, if you see what I mean. Don't mind me chipping in with that, I hope?"

  "Glad to know," said Gideon. "I can see it's a weakness. Thanks, Hoppy. I'll be seeing you. Oh, wait a minute! Rose Lemman's coming up after her eight-day remand today, isn't she?"

  "Not to mention Micky the Slob."

  "We don't need to think twice about Micky," Gideon said, "but it might be a good idea to allow Rose Lemman bail, if she can put up a bit. If she applies, I shouldn't oppose it; just leave it to the beak."

  "Good idea," agreed Hopkinson.

  He did not say the obvious: that in five minutes he had seen two aspects of Gideon's particular genius for his job: the authority with which he could speak and act, and the knowledge he had of the mood of the criminal fraternity. If leniency were shown to Rose, a kind of sympathy bond would spring up between police and criminals. It might not mean a great deal, but would help a little. It might even lead to a few squeals.

  Gideon called Benson, and made it seem as if he himself had seen Charlie Daw.

  "Grateful for that, Gee-Gee, thanks a lot." Benson was a brisk man. "I'll have the house specially watched for the next night or two. Daw won't get away with anything again."

  "That sergeant who caught him still around?"

  "Maybell? Yes," answered Benson. "Very sound man. He's just decided to keep on until he's sixty-five, and I didn't discourage him. How is the fight with the Home Office going on?" Benson only just succeeded in concealing his laugh.

  "So-so," said Gideon; that was his stock answer.

  So the place which Charlie Daw had been told was a cinch, and which he was to raid tomorrow, Thursday, night, would be specially watched by the police.

  Detective Officer Dave Archer's one serious weakness during that particular period was his eagerness to leave promptly on certain evenings, and also his tendency to haunt the telephone at particular times of day; true, he did not spend much time talking to his fiancée, but he was not concentrating wholly on his job.

  That Thursday evening he was, however, when making a report on an arrest made during the afternoon—of a barrow boy known to have stolen two cases of oranges. It was half past five, and he did not greatly mind whether he left at six o'clock or seven, for this was Drusilla's night with her mother, and his for reading up the police manual. When he was called to the telephone, he expected it to be a message from one of the officers out on duty.

  "Hallo, darling," Drusilla greeted.

  "Silla!"

  "I've just got home, and Mother's decided that she would like to go and see that French film we saw on Monday," Drusilla said. "I wondered if by any chance you would be able to find me a sandwich and a cup of tea if I came round to the flat for an hour or so."

  He could picture her eyes, laughing at him.

  He glanced round quickly, and no one was within earshot.

  "Sounds gloriously improper," he said. "Wonderful! You couldn't call in at a Corner House and get something for the sandwich, could you?"

  "Love to! All right, darling, see you soon."

  Archer finished his report with surprising speed, and was at his small, two-room flat in a house near Paddington, not far from the Edgware Road, at twenty to seven, before his Drusilla arrived.

  As always, she looked clear-eyed and fresh, and to him quite lovely; she yielded against his body when he held her as if there was nothing more she wanted.

  They were to be married in a month's time.

  That Thursday evening the Mountbarons spent together, looking at television, reading during the shows they didn't like, alert for any sound from the nursery.

  There was none.

  "The whole thing is taking shape now," Gideon said to Kate. "I shall do two reports, a brief one as you suggested, as an appetizer, and a fully documented one. The figures are worse even than I thought. Every division has come up with facts and figures quicker than I expected, too; they're all sick to death with just scraping along. It's a blurry funny thing—"

  He saw Kate smile, quickly, and knew why: no one could ever get used to massive Gideon saying "blurry," instead of "bloody" but it had started when his first child had begun imitating him, nearly thirty years ago, and he had realized that he must watch his language.

  "—that I didn't realize just how bad the situation was until I talked to the chap from Fleet Street, and he put it into words. In fact it's worse than he made out. If we could get a ten per cent increase in staff we'd work miracles in this city." He was glowing with enthusiasm. "We'd keep a lot more chaps on from sixty to sixty-five, too; they'd be able to release younger chaps for the active work. The way this thing is shaping, well really have a case, even for a one-eyed Home Sec."

  "How is Popple now?" asked Kate. "He really started it."

  "Keen as mustard. Looks in every day with some suggestion or other—and the Old Man came in twice today, to talk about a draft of the memo I've just shown you about the effect of drawing men from one division to help another. That shook him. We've had nineteen of these concentrated-search cases in a year. Don't realize it at the time, do you?"

  "I know there are a lot of them," Kate said, and looked at him very thoughtfully. "Think you'll want to go on until you're sixty-five, not sixty, George?"

  He hesitated.

  "What do you think would be best?"

  "I suppose we'll have to wait until it's nearer the time to decide," Kate said, "and that's not for eight years. But I've always had a dream that we might take a really long trip before we're too old to enjoy new places and things. I mean, a really long trip."

  "We will, if we can afford it," Gideon answered her.

  He wondered how many Yard men who worked past the sixty mark did so because they needed the money, and how many of them did so because the job held them so tightly. He knew that Kate feared the unrelenting hold of the job on him more than the shortage of money.

  So did he.

  Chapter 16

  ATTACKS

  Only two and a half miles away, and at that very minute, Sergeant Maybell was turning the corner of the street where he lived. There were some lighted windows and two street lamps, but on the whole the street was very badly lit. It did not occur to him to be nervous, but he knew that women and young girls disliked walking along here at night on their own, and he knew also that there were many more cases of assault and attempted rape than there had been a few years ago. That was one of the reasons why he had decided not to resign next year. He walked with the long, easy stride of a man who was physically very fit; he kept his bicycle at the station, which was only ten minutes' walk away, because he enjoyed walking to and from his work. He did not think very seriously about the lighting in the streets, or the fact that the doorways and the porches might hold a prowling man; they were at least as likely to be holding
a cuddling couple. Maybell, who was too old to be a cynic and too experienced to be surprised, was whistling a tune that was at least forty years old.

  >He heard a sound behind him.

  He turned his head.

  He felt his helmet tipped over his eyes, and as he twisted round, felt a blow on the back of his head that brought awful pain. It spread from the point of contact down his neck, into his body, into his limbs. He felt himself crumpling up. The second blow, although in fact even harder, did not hurt so much, because he was nearly unconscious already.

  His assailant turned and hurried away, and Maybell lay there, dying, for nearly five minutes before a man turned the corner and saw him.

  Charlie Daw, one of the cleverest locksmiths in the business, and who had boasted that he had never found a lock he could not open, proved to his own satisfaction that night that he had not lost his skill while in prison. He had waited for a policeman to pass by on his beat before going to the side door of the jeweler's house. It had a good lock, but was not really difficult. He pushed the heavy door open very cautiously, stepped inside, shone a flashlight about the dark passageway, and then put it out and closed the door. He knew exactly where the safe was here—beneath the stairs, concealed by wooden paneling on the staircase itself. He listened intently, but heard no sound; obviously the jeweler was out, or upstairs in bed. He studied the paneling and then found the control switch which released it and enabled him to slide a door open.

  The safe was directly in front of him.

  He stepped forward, concentrating his flashlight on it, and as he did so a light went on in the hall. He swung round in alarm, and saw three plain-clothes men approaching him from three different doors.

  "Now turn it in, Charlie," one man said laconically.

  "Who's the so-and-so who squealed?" Charlie demanded viciously. "Tell me who it was, and one of these days . . ."

  About the same time, Rab Stone went to the Paddington house where David Archer lived, and up to Archer's flat on the second floor. He had seen no light from the street, and that puzzled him and made him even more uneasy than he usually was over this job. He reached the tiny landing and pressed the bell. There was a dim yellow light falling on the staircase, but no sound at all.

  Speed was the essence of success in a job like this.

  No one answered the ring.

  He pressed the bell again and heard the ringing inside the flat, but no sound of movement. He backed away from the door, then shone a light onto a card which was pinned to the door; it was a printed visiting card, and announced: Mr. David Archer. There had never been any doubt about this being the right flat.

  Where was Archer?

  He was always home on Thursday evenings; Si Mitchell would not make an elementary mistake about that.

  There was a sound downstairs, the opening of the street door, and a moment later the closing of the door and footsteps on the ground-floor passage.

  Stone pressed against the wall at the foot of the next flight of stairs up, where the doorway jutted out. He had just a chance to avoid being seen. He felt sure that Archer was approaching, and he could tell from the whistling that the detective was as happy as a man could be.

  In fact, Archer had never felt so buoyant. He had just seen Drusilla home, spent twenty minutes talking to her and her mother, and was now positive that there would be no obstacle or difficulty put in the way of their marriage. In four weeks' time it would be Mr. and Mrs. Dave Archer, much sooner than he had first anticipated. From the moment of meeting Drusilla it had been like falling downhill; he had been quite unable to stop himself from becoming more and more obsessed with love for her. Four weeks: and in that time they had to decide whether to come and start their married life in this poky flat or find a larger one; whether to spend a small fortune on a Continental honeymoon or to have a few days at the south coast and the rest of the two weeks—his holiday for the year—in London.

  He thought: "The one certain thing is that we'll need a double bed!"

  He grinned, stopped whistling, took out his keys, and selected the front door key. He began to hum. Metal scraped on metal, and he pushed the door open. It creaked. He groped for the light switch and, as he did so, heard a movement from his right. He had not seen or heard anyone there before, but now he turned, bewilderingly swift with his reflex actions.

  He saw the dark figure of a man launching himself forward, and in the pale yellow light saw a knife in the man's hand.

  He swept his right arm around.

  His elbow cracked into the other's face, but at the same moment he felt a searing pain in his back, between the ribs; near the heart. It was an awful, frightening moment. He hissed, trying to tense his whole body and so prevent the pain from becoming worse, still trying to protect himself. He felt himself falling. He had strength left, and he shouted the one word: "Help!" and he buffeted the man again, striking him somewhere about the head.

  "Help," he tried to shout again, but there was very little sound from his lips. "Help," he whispered as he sank down, frightened, helpless, aware of movement and nearby sounds, aware of another searing pain in his back.

  His breath hissed inward again.

  He thought he heard someone call from the flat upstairs. He did hear footsteps. There was still pain; it was not new, but the same one as before. It seemed to be spreading. Footsteps thundered on the stairs, he heard a door slam, then saw light appear above his head. The man who lived in the flat above came hurrying down, while another man came up from the flat below.

  Outside, Stone was gasping for breath, holding the knife, running desperately to the motorcycle which was parked around the corner. He ought to be walking steadily. He ought to be taking this quite calmly, but he could not. As he neared the corner he was in great fear in case someone turned it and bumped into him, and he actually held the knife ready to use in emergency. He reached the motorcycle and began to wipe the bloodied blade with a piece of rag he had brought with him for the purpose. He thrust the knife between his trousers and belt, then straddled the machine. Although it could not be more than a minute since he had left Archer, he felt terrified in case the police were summoned by a call to 999; they could reach any given spot in sixty seconds.

  "So you got him," said Ryman, with deep satisfaction. "Sure he's dead?"

  "I didn't have time to feel his pulse, but—"

  "Did he see you?"

  "Didn't have a chance," Stone assured him. He had revived his spirits with a whisky-and-soda and, looking back, was prepared to believe that he had done a perfect job. If he could believe Keith, Keith had, too.

  "Then the first half of the job's gone right," said Ryman. "That's fine, Rabbie, old boy, what did I tell you? You stay here for the night, and Helen will give us both alibis. There isn't a thing that can go wrong."

  "What do we want alibis for? No one can suspect us, can they?" Stone demanded.

  "You've never said a truer word," said Ryman. "Don't be so touchy." He slit open a new packet of cigarettes, lit one, and went on musingly: "Charlie Daw was out at Hammersmith, and Cartwright was doing a job at Paddington. By a remarkable coincidence there will be squeals about each of them tomorrow morning."

  Stone didn't answer.

  Ryman said roughly, "What the hell's the matter with you now? I'm sick to death of you looking as if the bell's going to ring with the police any moment."

  "Keith," said Stone, and stopped. "Keith," he went on, "if they know who did the jobs, or if they think they know, it won't draw the police off on a big manhunt, will it? They'll just pick up Charlie Daw and Cartwright."

  Ryman actually backed a pace away; and there was the hush of dismay before he said gruffly:

  "We won't send the squeaks through, that's all, we'll leave the police to find out for themselves."

  But his voice was hoarse with the shock of realizing that he had been so blinded by the brilliance of the idea.

  "And they won't have any idea who's taken that baby," he said, more sharply. "That's c
ertain."

  Gideon was actually asleep when the telephone bell rang. It was a long time since he had been roused by night regularly, but the habit of years quickly reasserted itself, and he was awake on the instant. He heard Kate gasp; so she was also awake. The telephone was by the side of the bed near the light; he hitched himself up and stretched out for it, then put on the light.

  "Gideon."

  "Hi, Gee-Gee." There was no mistaking the bright, perky Cockney voice. This was Lemaitre, for years Gideon's chief assistant, more recently the Chief Superintendent on night duty at the Yard—in effect Gideon's counterpart by night. "Sorry to wake you up, old cock, but you'd tear us to bits in the morning if I hadn't. Nasty show tonight."

  Gideon was sitting erect, and Kate was looking at him, thick hair in curlers, her face a little shiny with night creams.

  "Let's have it, Lem."

  Lemaitre told him

  ". . . and Maybell's a goner, must have died instantly. Archer's got a good chance, they say—knife just missed his heart. Lost a lot of blood and he'll need watching, but with luck he'll be about again in a few weeks. The devil of it is, who'd have a cut at a coupla coppers on the same night? That's the question."

  "Send to the division, pick up Charlie Daw—" Gideon began.

  "Couldn't have been Charlie," declared Lemaitre. "He was picked up in Hammersmith on another job. We know the time that Maybell got his. Charlie simply couldn't have done it, which is a spot of luck for Charlie Daw, because if there had been time I'll bet we'd have had him on toast for it. What do you intend to do, George? Coming over?"

  "Yes, right away."

  "Still the same old pioneering spirit," said Lemaitre, and it was easy to imagine his grin. "Okay, old cock, I'll have a cuppa char ready for you."