Gideon's staff

by J. J Marric

  "Don't go," urged Gideon. He was staring at the window, the lamplight and the reflection of Kate's face, but he did not really notice Kate. "Daw was near Maybell, and we had a squeak that he would be in Hammersmith. Don't go." He stared tensely as he tried to see the association clearly in his mind. "Daw always swore he'd get Maybell when he came out, didn't he? And wasn't there a whisper a few weeks ago, after Archer had stopped the man Cartwright in the smash-and-grab, that Cartwright's father said he'd get Archer?"

  "Gorblimey!" Lemaitre gasped.

  "Put a call out for Cartwright, and then keep both him and Daw on ice for me," Gideon urged. "I'll be there in half an hour." He rang off, pushed the bedclothes back, then belatedly glanced at Kate. "Sorry, Kate, but two of our chaps have been attacked tonight. I'd better go and see what's doing myself. No need for you to get up, I can get all I want at the Yard." He squinted at the mantelpiece clock. "It's only just turned twelve, early yet."

  Kate didn't say "Must you go?" and even when he was leaving the bedroom, did not abjure him to be careful, but he knew exactly what was in her mind. The telephone had not disturbed any of the children, and he crept downstairs with unnecessary stealth, went out, and walked briskly to the garage nearby, a lockup that was awkward to get into and out of. He did not greatly mind taking his time, either then or when he was driving toward the Yard. He wanted the notion he had had about Cartwright to take root. Coincidence was acceptable up to a point, but the Maybell-Daw coincidence was quite remarkable, and if by any chance Cartwright was picked up near Paddington, it would not be simply remarkable, it would be astonishing.

  He was at the Yard at twenty minutes to one.

  In an office almost too bright with flourescent lighting, Lemaitre grinned up at him from a large desk. Lemaitre was a bony, thin-faced man with a big mouth, who smiled often.

  "Guess where we found Cartwright," he said.

  "Paddington."

  "Edgware Road, so you're not far wrong. He was just coming away from a furrier's place with a couple of mink stoles. He and Daw are both waiting downstairs for you. Want any help?"

  "Like to sit in with me?" Gideon asked.

  "I'd better not, George, there's a lot coming in tonight. Small stuff, mostly, but you know how it is."

  "Right," said Gideon. "Who've you got to come and take notes for me?"

  "Young Brennison. Remember him? He—"

  "I remember him," said Gideon. "The one who's more Irish than you're Cockney."

  Brennison was tall and raw-boned, with the look of the Irish about him, but not a very pronounced brogue, and renowned as a shorthand writer. He entered the first waiting room with Gideon, sat in a corner, and took out his pencil and pad; he had a gift for effacing himself so that whoever was questioning a suspect had the field all to himself.

  Charlie Daw was a small, hardy, thin man, with a thin mouth and hard blue eyes; he had a grayish pallor, the kind that often comes from many years in prison. There was nothing remotely prepossessing about him, and in his limited way he was a thoroughly evil man.

  "So I said I'd get Maybell, and one of these days I would've, but do you think I'd be a bloody fool enough to make it look like murder?" he said to Gideon. "Not on your flicking life. I come out of stir flat broke, and you hound me everywhere I go. I had to try and make a living somehow."

  "Who put you on to the job tonight?" asked Gideon. "You didn't think that one up for yourself, you haven't been out long enough to case that or any other place properly. Let's have the truth—who told you about the job?"

  "You saying some so-and-so squealed on me?"

  "You've got a mind. Use it," Gideon said. He was a foot taller and four inches broader than the prisoner, who was standing by a chair, bitter-faced, his fists clenched as if he would like to squeeze the life out of whoever had informed the police. Gideon offered him a cigarette, and he snatched it. "Right," Gideon went on as the man lit it. "Now start thinking. Someone told you that the Hammersmith job was worth doing. Someone told you to do it tonight. Someone killed Maybell tonight. See if you can add up two and two."

  Daw was drawing hard at the cigarette.

  "Don't make me have to spell it out for you," Gideon said.

  "Gawd!" exclaimed Daw, and his eyes blazed with fury. "It was Si Mitchell, the son of a bitch! He told me he'd see me right, said he knew where I could unload the stuff, he even staked me ten quid. Why, if I—"

  Cartwright was a man of much higher intelligence than Daw, and he spoke in a well-modulated voice; it was hard to believe that he had taught his only son a life of crime.

  "I meant to get Archer all right, and I hope he died; it will save me the trouble. It wasn't Si Mitchell who gave me the key to the furrier's, though, but one of Si's boys. You'd better work on them."

  "Bring in Simon Mitchell," said the radio, the teletype and the telephone to every divisional station and every substation of the Metropolitan Police. "He is wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Sergeant Maybell. Bring in Simon Mitchell. . . ."

  But Mitchell was not found that night.

  Chapter 17

  SNATCH

  Helen was in the bathroom, and the two men could hear the shower hissing and splashing. Ryman was in an undershirt and a pair of flannels; he had not yet shaved. Stone had been up before any of them, and was shaved and spruce, his hair plastered down so that it looked as if it were groomed with a black lacquer paint. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his movements were jerky as he stared down at the headlines in the three newspapers which had just arrived at the flat.

  LONDON HUNT FOR POLICEMAN'S KILLER

  ran one, and the sub-heading ran:

  Every Available London

  Policeman Joins Search

  TWO POLICEMEN SAVAGELY ATTACKED

  ran another.

  "We'll get the killers if it's the last thing we do"

  —Gideon of the Yard

  GREATEST LONDON MANHUNT

  said the third simply.

  Ryman was beginning to smile as he read these. He glanced at Stone, who did not speak but was reading the text of the report on Archer.

  "God!" he gasped.

  "What's that?"

  "Archer's alive."

  "You bungled it!"

  ". . . waiting by his bedside," Stone was reading, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead. "They want a statement, so he's not come round, thank God for that. Not that he could say anything if he did talk; he didn't see me."

  "You sure?" Ryman demanded.

  "Of course I'm sure!"

  "Then stop yapping," Ryman said, and his eyes seemed to dart to and fro as he read the story in the Globe. "Maybell was dead when they picked him up. I didn't fall down on my part of it." He was reading for something else, flung the paper aside and picked up another. "Anything there about Daw?"

  "No."

  "Cartwright?"

  "No."

  "That's all that matters," said Ryman. "They can't get onto us anyhow; even if Si was still in the country they couldn't get onto us, and they can't get onto Si unless Daw or Cartwright is picked up."

  Stone said, "You didn't talk like that yesterday."

  "I didn't think we'd have Archer alive yesterday."

  "What the hell difference does that make?" Stone stared into Ryman's eyes, and began to scowl; and as Ryman glowered at him, Stone moistened his lips and said in a strange, almost whispering voice: "You don't know what you're doing; you've made a hell of a mess of this. I always knew you were too clever, and now—"

  He broke off.

  They stood glaring, the newspapers on a table between them. Helen came out of the bathroom, wearing a wrap which was painted with huge daffodils. She had on no make-up, her complexion was without a blemish, and a shower cap made her face a perfect oval.

  "What's the matter with you two?" she demanded, looking from one to the other.

  Stone said, "He's boxed the whole thing up."

  "If you—" Ryman began.

 
"Now, take it easy. Little birdies in their nest mustn't disagree," reproved Helen, and she went to Ryman and took his hand and smiled sweetly at Stone. "All you wanted to do was make that Gideon man and the police busy so that you could handle the bank job without much trouble. Right?"

  "Right," agreed Ryman. "And that swine Gideon—"

  "I had just a peep at the newspapers and I should say the cops are going to be very busy," Helen said. "So what are you worrying about? The only one who might be able to put a finger on you is Si Mitchell, and he's in France. We've just got to keep our heads, and collect that baby; then we'll be right on top. And I'm going to drive the kid away—no one will look twice, then. There's no need for me to be at the bungalow." She gave Ryman a little push, and asked: "Do you want me to give you cornflakes and milk, or shall we send down to the restaurant for a real breakfast? I'm hungry."

  Three hundred yards away, Mrs. Mountbaron was looking in at the nursery, where the baby gazed up at her and then gave a quick, almost convulsive smile; its hands began to wave with sudden eagerness.

  Gideon read the newspapers as he ate a hurried breakfast a little after nine o'clock; he had not reached home until four, and had had exactly four and a half hours' sleep. Kate was the brisk and competent housewife; he could hear bacon sizzling. The reports of the attacks on the police did not greatly interest him, and he searched for mention of the two arrests, but found none. He had asked that no mention be made of the arrests, and the newspapers were being helpful. There were divers comments, including letters in two of the newspapers. One said:

  We are now finding out the bitter truth of the assertions made by Commander Gideon of Scotland Yard about the deplorable situation in the Metropolitan Police. Whether Commander Gideon was wise to make his statement so publicly is immaterial. The brutal fact is that the greatest police force in the world is in danger of being reduced to impotence. . . .

  Gideon folded the newspaper, handed it to Kate as she put his breakfast in front of him, folded another paper to a column headed "Crisis at the Yard," and read:

  An ax can be a two-edged weapon. The economy ax which is being held like a sword of Gideon, if we may be allowed metaphor, is most certainly two-edged where the Metropolitan Police Force is concerned. It may save the taxpayer a few hundred thousand pounds, but it will certainly cost him much more as a private citizen.

  Sooner or later, the brutal savagery of such crimes as those committed last night will bring this home to the authorities, who can hardly have forgotten the two weeks' old murder of another detective who was carrying out his duty.

  Gideon read that between mouthfuls of sausage, bacon and egg, and saw that Kate had finished the other leading article. He put his newspaper down and picked up his teacup. Kate had only done her hair roughly, and hadn't made up, but her eyes were as bright as ever.

  "I don't know whether you're going to win," she said, "but I'm beginning to feel sure that you're not going to lose."

  She was just about on the mark, Gideon thought hopefully. He picked up the receiver of the hall telephone, asked for the Yard, and inquired about David Archer. "No change," he called out to Kate. "I'll try not to be late, dear." He hurried out to his car, passing two neighbors on the way, each anxious to stop and have a word, each making a point of using the title "Commander." He drove more quickly now than he had during the night. The Yard was a different picture altogether: dozens of men were on the move, there was much briskness and bustle—not really unusual, but not quite typical. He caught the prevailing excitement, which stimulated him as it would nearly every man here. He hurried to the lift, eager to find if there was anything new in. Men saluted, nodded, smiled, and called out greetings. He thrust open the door of his own office, and four men glanced around at him.

  Bell was there, looking chubby and very bright-eyed; Sergeant Culverson was big and rather like a good-natured bear. Lemaitre hadn't gone home, but looked as if he could fall asleep on his feet.

  And Scott-Marie was standing with his back to the window; it was the first time Gideon had ever seen him in this office.

  "Good morning, sir. Morning, all." Gideon hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry that the Old Man was present; it might stifle informality. But it did not seem to have affected the others yet, and Lemaitre said:

  "Morning, George. Glad some people have got time to sleep."

  A telephone rang, and Bell answered it.

  Gideon joined the Commissioner.

  "Anything I can do for you, sir?"

  "Came to see you, and found the others coping," said Scott-Marie. He looked pale and thin-cheeked, was a little thin-voiced too; judged from his appearance and manner now, he was a man without enthusiasm or strong feeling. "You don't know that Superintendent Lemaitre discovered this man Mitchell flew to Paris yesterday, do you?"

  "Sure?" Gideon flashed to Lemaitre.

  "No doubt about it this time," Lemaitre said, with deep satisfaction. "A flash came in just after you left; didn't think there was any need to keep you out of bed any longer. I happened to know that Lodwick's in Paris on that currency job—he went over again yesterday morning—so I asked him to have a word with the Sûreté. They traced Mitchell for us, and Lodwick's bringing him over. They're due at London Airport at ten o'clock. That might be a call from the airport to say they've got in."

  "Well, I think I'll go back to bed," Gideon said. "Things get done when I'm not here. Did Mitchell come willingly?"

  "Apparently. There was no time to get an extradition order, anyhow. Not much doubt about the facts now, George." Lemaitre had the gift of being completely natural, whatever the circumstances. "Mitchell put Daw and Cartwright up to the jobs they did, and there isn't much doubt they were to be framed for the attacks on our chaps."

  "I'd like to know what's behind it," Gideon said. He felt a little out of place, without having his chair to go to, and with Scott-Marie also standing. "No point in anyone without a grudge wanting to kill a couple of our fellows for the sake of it, and you can be sure there's a pretty big reason for it." He rubbed his chin. Bell had finished on the telephone and was making a note, so it wasn't very important; just the inevitable reports coming in. "Been thinking about that since I got up," Gideon said to Scott-Marie. "It was pretty obvious that there was a big motive. Only one thing I can think of."

  "Damned if I can think of one," interpolated Lemaitre.

  Bell asked, "Have you got something?"

  Scott-Marie was looking at Gideon with a curiously intense smile, as if he was really stirred at last

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "The idea is to draw us off," said Gideon. "We've got to take the rough with the smooth, and some of the rough about the publicity I've been getting is that everyone knows how tight we're stretched. Wouldn't put it past someone to toss a couple of smoke bombs, metaphorically speaking, so as to get us on one foot. If that's what's happening, then biggish things might be planned. These chaps would be pretty sure that we'd be kept so busy today that it would seem the best time." He turned to Scott-Marie. "You agree, sir?"

  "You're the detective," the Commissioner said. "It certainly makes sense to me."

  "What've we got?" Lemaitre demanded, rubbing his eyes. "What happens Friday? Any bullion movement out to the docks or the airports? Any special movement of jewels? Any—"

  "Joe, get the file marked 'Friday' out of my right-hand drawer," said Gideon. "No, never mind, I'll get it." He hurried across, and as Bell opened the drawer, took the necessary file out, slapped it on the desk, and opened it.

  "This was planned down to the last dot," he said, "and that means they're after something that happens every Friday, or else something we've had plenty of notice about for today."

  He found that Scott-Marie had moved with him; all except Culverson, who was watching from the small desk, crowded round him. "Morely's auction," he read. "Movement of bullion to and from the Bank of England from these points." He pointed with a pencil at a map. "Small consignments and all very strongly prot
ected. I wouldn't think anyone would have a cut at those. Geramino's jewel auction is every Friday. The post office carries a lot of soiled notes from most of the provincial banks to the Bank of England; it's clearance day. Hmm." He stared at the details about the soiled notes. "If that's it, the problem is to know where to start. There are four main collecting centers in the city, and all the money is sent out to the destruction plant in one van from the Bank of England. Always did think it should be destroyed at the bank, but—"

  He broke off.

  "Can't take anything for granted, but I wouldn't mind putting my money on a used-notes job," Lemaitre said softly. "Hasn't been tried for five or six years. Up to a hundred thousand quid for the taking. What are you going to do, George?"

  Bell and the others were asking the same question, silently.

  Gideon said: "I'm going to draw a dozen men from each of the divisions that can spare them, and protect all the banks concerned in this. And I'm going to have a special guard on all the other vulnerable places, like Morely's, Geramino's, the main post offices and the big banks. If they raid a bank or go for any of these places and we haven't taken precautions, we'd kick ourselves." He had almost forgotten that the Commissioner was present. "Wonder if Mitchell's on his way yet."

  The telephone bell rang almost on his words; the sergeant lifted the receiver, and a moment later said:

  "Yes, sir, he's just leaving London Airport. Should be here in half an hour, and if he knows anything—" He broke off. "Mr. Lodwick and Mr. Chappel are with him."

  "Thanks," said Gideon, and dropped into the chair that Bell had vacated, picked up another telephone and said, "Gimme Information." He waited only for a moment "Vic, connect me with the car Lodwick and Chappel are in, somewhere out at London Airport. . . . Yes, I'll hold on." He looked into Scott-Marie's eyes now. "If Mitchell's come willingly he might have decided to turn Queen's evidence; no reason why he shouldn't be questioned on the way here. . . . Hallo, that you, Chappel? . . . Lodwick, yes, you'll do. Now try to find out from Mitchell . . ."