by J. J Marric
"Don't think I'm nagging," Mrs. Mountbaron said, "but do be careful crossing Park Lane, Nanny. I always hold my breath while I see you cross, the cars come so fast."
"Clarissa won't come to any harm with me," the girl assured her, and smiled. "Don't worry, ma'am. I'd rather get run over myself."
"I really think you would," said Mrs. Mountbaron. She bent down, kissed Clarissa's forehead, and then opened the door to the passage. The nanny pushed the perambulator out into the passage and along toward the lift. Mrs. Mountbaron busied herself for three or four minutes and then, unable to keep away, she went to the window; Nanny should be downstairs by now.
Helen sat in the small sedan near the side street along which the nursemaid would come. The car was gray, there were thousands of identical models in London, and the registration number plates would change at the touch of a switch. The rear door was already open an inch, it had only to be given a single pull to open it wide. Stone was standing near the corner, and Ryman was in his own car on the other side of the street.
The nursemaid came wheeling her charge in a pink-and-white perambulator with a pink-and-white hood to keep the sun out of the baby's eyes. The nursemaid, rather thin and not particularly attractive, was pushing the pram steadily and bending forward, making chuckling noises at the child. She did not notice Stone at the corner, although he was only ten yards away. She did see the car as it started off noisily; and suddenly she stopped pushing, for the car came straight across the road toward her, and for a moment it looked as if it would mount the pavement.
". . . fool!" she snapped. "Why don't you—"
She broke off as the car stopped. The driver, with an eye mask covering the top of his face, sprang out of it so swiftly that she had no time to shout. He struck her viciously on the back of the head. As he did so, she was just aware of another man racing from the corner.
She tried to scream.
She felt another sharp blow, and staggered, letting the pram go and gasping for breath, terror deep in her.
She did not see the man snatch the baby from the perambulator and go racing to the corner, carrying it as he would a rugby football. She was actually collapsing as the car drove off. She did not hear the second car, round the corner, as it started toward Park Lane with the baby lying on the back seat.
Stone squeezed into Ryman's car while it was moving. He saw a man some distance away and a taxi approaching the main entrance to the block of flats; that was all.
"We've done it," Ryman said in a hoarse voice. "What did I tell you? We've done it. All we've got to do is go back to my place, treat ourselves to a drink, and then get ready for the afternoon job. Helen will give us a ring when she gets to the cottage." He was grinning excitedly as he swung round the next two corners and drew up quite near the block where he had his own flat. He and Stone had been away for twenty minutes in all; it was as easy as that. He parked the car and went striding along, shoulders back, handsome and devil-may-care-looking, with Stone less assured by his side. As they turned into the main entrance, a car moved behind them and two big men stepped from the entrance lobby.
There was a moment's horrified pause, then:
"The police," Stone gasped.
"Keep your head," Ryman said savagely, and he managed to keep up a semblance of a smile. "Want me?" he asked the nearer man.
"Are you Keith Ryman?"
"I am. What business is it—"
"I am a police officer, and it is my duty to charge you with complicity in the murder of Police Sergeant Horace Maybell on the night of . . ." the man began.
Ryman swung round.
Stone was standing absolutely still, a little polished dummy of a man. Two more cars had drawn up; there was a ring of policemen and detectives; and neither Ryman nor Stone even had a chance to run.
There were Mrs. Mountbaron, panic-stricken; the nursemaid, in an ambulance on the way to the hospital; the police, watching every danger point of Gideon's Friday list. There was Helen driving the little Austin along toward Barnes, snatching a glance over her shoulder every time she was forced to stop at lights, to see that the child was all right. She reached the riverside cottage in three-quarters of an hour, quite sure she was safe. But as she drew up, men appeared at the sides of the cottage and others appeared from the far side of the road. Before she could utter a word, the car was surrounded.
"Child safe and unhurt," Gideon said, rubbing his empty pipe with his big thumb. "Both men and the woman in the lockup." He used terms like "lockup" when he was in an expansive mood. "Stone's as ready to talk as Mitchell. It looks as if the only really dangerous man was Ryman. Neither he nor Stone has a record. It's time we put that right."
The Commissioner, now with Gideon in the Assistant Commissioner's office, was looking at him with his head on one side, and that almost unwilling smile on his lips.
"You forget that Stone informed us that the soiled-treasury-note van was the key objective."
"I didn't forget," said Gideon, and looked at the Commissioner thoughtfully, then went on: "Mind if I say something blunt?" Scott-Marie nodded. "Whenever we get wind of something like today's job, we're on a sound thing. We've got every trick any crook ever tried down on our list, and I'm lucky, because I've got a good memory. I know most of them by heart. But I'm only one of hundreds; the job starts down on the beat. Every man in uniform knows the weaknesses and the strengths of people on his own streets. He knows the householders who always leave windows open, the people who leave keys dangling on a piece of string at the letterbox, the people who leave a key under the front door mat, the shopkeeper who hasn't troubled to buy a safe—he knows the lot. He has to. And what he knows is passed on to the C.I.D. in his division. They all know the most vulnerable houses and shops worth breaking into, the men in their manor most likely to do a certain job. It goes up from them to the Divisional D.D.I.'s and upward. Our chaps know the Metropolitan area so well no one would believe it if they didn't have the evidence before their eyes. I just happen to be at the top of all the divisions, but I came up through all the others. The general knowledge, the tricks, the—the expertise of these chaps is the nearest thing to a living miracle I'll ever see."
He stopped, and grinned a little shamefacedly.
The Commissioner said, "Rogerson always told me that you know more about your job than any other man he'd ever met, and I can see what he meant. One thing I can tell you will cheer you up. I had a call from the Home Office this morning. The Minister told me that it was decided at yesterday's cabinet not to force any economies on any of us here. That's confidential, of course; you know how these fellows hate admitting that they're wrong. The thing which will please you most, though, is that the Home Secretary promised me that he would do battle with the Treasury to get our grant up. Now you've really got something to get your teeth into."
"They say," said Popple to Gideon, "that the Old Man told the Home Sec that if they forced any economies on the Force, he'd resign and tell the reason why. Almost a pity he didn't have to."
"Wouldn't surprise me if that's right," mused Gideon. "Like to do something for me from now on?"
"Just name it."
"Keep my name out of the newspapers."
Popple grinned.
Gideon saw the newspapers, with all their huge headlines, photographs of the Mountbaron baby, the three persons charged, the whole story; a positive surfeit of news. But there was no word about the soiled-notes plot, and there was only a passing mention of George Gideon. That suited him very well. When he went into the living room, Kate looked up, saw his expression, and knew that he was in a contented mood.
"Get yourself a whisky and soda," she said, "and I'll get your dinner. Any news?"
"We not only haven't lost," Gideon told her, "there's just a chance that we'll win."
THE END
Table of Contents
Pages