by John Creasey
Gideon held out his cup for more tea, seeing in his son’s face a certain embarrassment at this youthful outburst. He said gravely: “We’ve had a lot to cope with, Malcolm. Each generation has its problems.”
“That’s all very well,” said Malcolm, handing him the cup back. “But this was a fire-trap. Not only was the night watchman burned to death, but the whole building was gutted. It said only two walls were left standing. Production in these old buildings must be inefficient, anyway. I just don’t understand it.”
Gideon said, sharply: “Burned to death, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“Did they give any clue as to how the fire started?”
“It said the police were investigating the possibility of arson.”
“No doubt we are,” said Gideon. “And if it was arson, the man’s death was murder.” He stood up, curiously aggressive in manner. “Any other news?”
“Not to speak of,” Malcolm replied, uneasily.
“Any electricity cuts?” asked Gideon.
“They didn’t mention any,” said Malcolm, puzzled by that question.
If there were any more power failures the reports would probably come later, Gideon decided, as he went upstairs to shave and bath. He could not get thought of the fire out of his mind, nor thought of what Malcolm had said. While he was bathing he heard Kate talking to one of the girls. Priscilla and Penelope still lived at home, each having a room now that Tom and Matthew, their elder sons, were married; and Prudence, their eldest daughter was not only married but a mother.
Kate had bacon, eggs and fried bread ready for him when he got downstairs. She was full of the scope and brilliance of Dr. Zhivago and did not appear to notice that Gideon was preoccupied.
As he drove towards the Yard on a misty morning which promised heat, Gideon saw the smoke rising out of the power station’s great stacks, a slow-moving, billowing mass which seemed to be a source of energy in itself. It was rising straight upwards this morning, there wasn’t a breath of wind. A police launch loomed out of the mist, and soon afterwards a lighter, low in the water, carrying timber.
For furniture? Gideon wondered.
Gideon’s office was on the second floor, at the head of a tall flight of stone steps. It overlooked the river, and from his window he could see the London County Hall, Westminster Bridge and, in the other direction, Waterloo Bridge and the Royal Festival Hall; this morning, all the outlines were softened by the haze.
He turned to his desk.
Hobbs, his Deputy Commander, was on holiday somewhere in Scotland, probably with relatives; Hobbs had always been reticent about himself and his family. Lemaitre, for years Gideon’s chief assistant, was at N.E. Division as Superintendent: this would probably be his last posting. Gideon was very conscious, these days, of the fact that he dealt mostly with men younger than himself, at the Yard. There were exceptions, in Fingerprints and in the Laboratory, but whenever he had his briefing sessions all but one of the men would be in the early or middle forties.
They would all be able officers, too; committed to police work, and trained in a way which would have been unbelievable in the days when he was on the beat.
He looked at his file, prepared by his stand-in assistant; whom Hobbs was training. This was a Scotsman, McAlistair, with a noticeable but unaggressive accent; he was ginger-haired and freckled, with pale blue eyes. On top of a file marked: ‘New Cases’ was a note: ‘Mr. Lemaitre will call you at 9.30.’
It was now nine twenty-eight.
Gideon sat down and opened the top file. The first one, as he had half-expected, concerned the fire at Bethnal Green, which was in Lemaitre’s manor. Was this what Lemaitre was so anxious to talk about? Gideon, skimming through two reports, made a mental note to call the chief of the London Fire Brigade, and to instigate further inquiries about the dead man, the night watchman, Walter Garratt: the name rang a bell somewhere in the back of his mind.
One of his telephone bells rang, and he picked up the receiver.
“Yes, Lem?”
“Thought you weren’t going to turn up,” complained Lemaitre, who was the only man on the Force who had ever been over-familiar with the Commander. “It was arson.”
Gideon said heavily: “Oh, was it?”
“Home-made petrol bomb, apparently. The fire boys say there’s no doubt, but I’d like an assessor out as soon as it can be done – if that’s all right with you,” added Lemaitre, with belated deference.
“Won’t the company arrange that?”
“Mickle and Stratton, you mean – they’ll fix it through their insurance people, yes, but I’d like one of our own consultants,” said Lemaitre. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”
Gideon said: “In what way?”
“Old Jeff Mickle’s as straight as a die but he doesn’t do much in the business these days. I wouldn’t trust Gerald Stratton with a penny,” said Lemaitre. “He lives high on the hog, likes expensive women, gambles, and has a West End flat. Young Mickle, the other active partner, seems all right; got a nice little wife, and they live in Islington pretty well on the factory doorstep. What can you do, George?”
“I’ll have a word with Carmichael,” promised Gideon.
“That’s a good idea. Ta. And there’s another thing,” Lemaitre went on. “One of my chaps—”
“Police Constable Jack Race saw a cyclist,” began Gideon.
“Okay, you’ve read my report,” approved Lemaitre. “I’ve had two other reports from passing motorists that a cyclist was seen turning out of Dove Lane, but haven’t got a real clue yet. The thing is, it might be one of the employees. “
“What makes you say that?”
“Obviously knew his way about,” Lemaitre told him. “The front gate was unlocked, so he’d got hold of a key. If you ask me, it’s an inside job.”
Lemaitre always had a positive opinion; thirty-six years of service in the Force had not cured him of jumping to conclusions early in every inquiry.
“Did this man Race get a close look at him?” asked Gideon.
“I haven’t talked to Race yet,” admitted Lemaitre. “He’s downstairs, waiting. George—” he broke off, and muttered, “Sorry.”
“Go on,” Gideon urged.
“When can you talk to Carmichael?”
“In an horn: or so, for certain. What’s your hurry?”
“I want to be after Gerald Stratton,” said Lemaitre, grimly. “I don’t know why but I’ve got a funny feeling about him. And if there’s no doubt it’s arson—”
“You said there was no doubt.”
“You have to be convinced,” Lemaitre retorted gruffly.
Gideon concealed a chuckle.
“I’ll get down to it soon, Lem, and. I’ll start a few inquiries about your man Stratton – you don’t want to do it your end, I gather.”
“Ta, George, that would be great! Just what I want. No, he knows all my chaps, and I don’t know that I’ve got any bright enough for Stratton – pretty average lot down here these days.” Lemaitre’s tone was immeasurably brighter. “I’ll send details over. I just have a feeling.”
“I know your hunches,” said Gideon. “Lem—
‘‘Yessir!”
“Had any power cuts lately?”
“Eh?”
“Power – electricity cuts.”
“Had one this morning, as a matter of fact,” said Lemaitre. “Only lasted about ten minutes, but a hell of a nuisance. What made you ask?”
Gideon said with great solemnity: “I just have a feeling.”
Lemaitre caught his breath – and then positively cackled with laughter.
Gideon rang off, made notes of what he had promised to do, reflecting ruefully that he could not rely absolutely on his memory these days: at one time he would have kept all
this in his head without a moment’s hesitation. Then he looked through the other files, and pressed the bell for McAlistair, who came in through a communicating door with the speed of a jack-in-the-box.
“Good-morning, sir.”
“’Morning,” returned Gideon. “Who’s waiting?”
“No one’s actually waiting,” McAlistair answered. “Superintendent Jones will come as soon as you send for him, but the others can wait – there’s nothing new in, apart from Mr. Jones’s report.” When Gideon didn’t answer, McAlistair went on a little uneasily. “I could get the others along pretty quickly, but I thought you’d want to concentrate on the fire and the power failures.”
Gideon said gruffly: “Don’t start thinking for me, McAlistair.”
“No, sir.” McAlistair sounded crestfallen.
“What’s on your mind about power failures?”
“We’ve had seven in the Metropolitan area in the past nine days,” answered McAlistair, “and I could tell—I felt pretty sure you were particularly concerned about the one at Battersea.”
Gideon studied the alert, eager face for a few moments, not quite sure what best to do. McAlistair was obviously bright and he was right but nothing justified the sending away of senior officers when they had been waiting – and expecting – the usual morning briefing. McAlistair became even more subdued under the scrutiny.
In his most genial voice, Gideon said: “If you want to lose seniority, all you have to do is start making decisions for me. I want to see everyone on the list between now and twelve noon, without fail. Now! You’re right about the power station business. I don’t like it a bit. I want Mr. Piluski here in twenty minutes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gideon nodded dismissal, and sat back for a moment in his big chair with its padded back and seat and its polished wooden arms. In a day or two he would know whether McAlistair would really make good. If he showed resentment at this little homily, in any form, the odds would be against him. Gideon guessed all would be well; and then corrected himself wryly: he hoped all would be. He leaned forward and opened the morning letter file – and sat, staring at the one on top.
It was the buff-coloured letter form that prisoners in Her Majesty’s jails were allowed to send out. There were ten words on it, written in a bold, flowing hand.
Commander Gideon, it said, I did not kill my wife.
Geoffrey Entwhistle.
Chapter Four
Yesterday
Gideon picked the flimsy letter up and stepped with it to the window. He remembered this man vividly, could picture his bony face and angular body, the tropical pallor of his skin, his big, greenish-grey eyes, and most of all his bitter resignation. From the moment of his arrest and throughout his trial he had repeated over and over again: “I did not kill my wife.”
How long ago was it? Two years, or three? Two. Golightly, the Superintendent who had been in charge of the investigation had recently retired and gone to live in Australia partly on pension, partly on a legacy received by his wife. He had always been very sure he had caught the right man. So had the Public Prosecutor. So had the jury. Consequently, Entwhistle was now serving a life sentence, in Dartmoor. Why send such a man to Dartmoor? Gideon wondered. Whatever else, Entwhistle wasn’t an habitual criminal.
The jury had found that, after being away from his wife for three years in tropical Africa, he had come back and strangled her. The whole gamut of circumstantial evidence had been unearthed – overheard quarrels, incompatibility, Entwhistle seen leaving the house and returning later, his tardy report that he had found his wife murdered.
“Look for a lover,” Gideon had told the officer in charge.
They had found no lover and no evidence of one. Three children of the marriage, ranging from a boy of eleven to a girl of four, had been skilfully questioned about friends visiting their mother: and neighbours bad been questioned much more directly; but there had been no evidence of an affair. Margaret Entwhistle bad gone out one or two evenings a week, during part of that three years, leaving her own mother or neighbours as baby sitters, but she had gone to a theatre, or evening classes at the Central London Art School, or to the pictures. Piece after piece of circumstantial evidence had fitted into the pattern, and yet – and yet Gideon had felt a little needle of doubt as to Entwhistle’s guilt.
Now and again, since, he had felt the prick of that needle.
It was not an unfamiliar feeling. He had felt it about other cases, and in at least two events had proved his instinct wrong; in them, justice had undoubtedly been done. It was less instinct, Gideon himself sometimes argued with Kate, than a sense of accumulated doubt. Some trifling piece of the puzzle couldn’t be found, and without it guilt could not be entirely proved.
This letter was Entwhistle’s way of re-opening the case. It might simply be a despairing final attempt to get a pardon, and it was interesting that the prison governor had allowed the letter through that suggested sympathy. There was nothing Gideon could do, at least for the time being, for he had reviewed the case with utmost care both before and after the verdict
He marked the letter: Entwhistle Case file and put it in one of the trays on his desk. The other correspondence was mostly routine: from county police forces, asking for or giving information about suspects or unsolved cases, from the Divisions on non-urgent matters, from two European countries with belated information about a gold smuggler now in jail – how long it sometimes took for information to catch up! He pressed the bell, and McAlistair did his jack-in-the-box act again.
“Mr. Piluski coming?” asked Gideon.
“He’s on his way from Battersea, sir, but traffic might make him late.”
“All right. Send a girl in.”
“Right sir.”
The ‘girl’ who came from a stenographers* pool, was at least fifty-five, grey-haired, with a pleasant, if homely face and big, rimless spectacles. She sat near Gideon, surprisingly nice legs crossed, and took down his dictation at a speed which intrigued him. Deliberately, he went faster and faster and she kept pace without the slightest fumbling. When they finished, he asked: “Got it all?”
“Yes, Commander.” There was a hint of a smile in her brown eyes.
“Good. Bring it in yourself when it’s done, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” She went out, using the passage door, and Gideon sat back. It was almost a record, he had been dictating for twenty minutes without a telephone call. Could it be McAlistair, zealously protecting him? If so he would really have to deal heavily with the man.
His telephone rang, and he plucked it up.
“Gideon.”
“Mr. Carmichael of the London Fire Brigade is calling you, sir.”
“Put him through,” said Gideon, and had a quick mental image of Lemaitre. He decided that this call must be the result of some pretty assiduous wire-pulling.
Carmichael’s voice was quite unmistakable – cultured but brittle. He was the Chief Officer of the Brigade, a man of Gideon’s age, and they had come to know each other well during a highly concentrated investigation into a series of fires, started, it had transpired, by a psychopath with an obsession about slums. With many officials, Gideon was cautious, not sure that there was mutual understanding. He had no such doubts with Carmichael.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, George. I won’t keep you long. Have you looked into that Bethnal Green fire yet?”
“Very superficially,” Gideon said.
“Go into it more deeply, will you? I’ve a feeling it’s one of a series, caused by the same man – or at least, in the same way!” Carmichael added hastily. “Reminds me of the trouble in 1961, when the man Bishop started dozens of fires before you caught him.”
“Then I’ll look into it right away,” Gideon promised. “Remember Lemaitre?”
“
I certainly do! He’s your man in N.E. Division now, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s just asked for an assessor independently of the Insurance company.”
“Very astute of him,” approved Carmichael. “Whom will you send?”
“You name him.”
“Sir Humphrey Briggs,” Carmichael said without hesitation.
“Right,” promised Gideon, and then added as an afterthought: “I suppose he’s in the country – didn’t he go to that Conference in San Francisco?”
“He’s back.” Carmichael answered, promptly. “Like his number?”
Gideon noted the number down, telling himself that Carmichael had almost certainly been in touch with Briggs; everybody was being most solicitous this morning. That was a trifle, compared with the apprehension the Chief Fire Officer obviously felt. There were always fires, there were always individual cases of arson, but organised and systematic arson with a continuing motive was different altogether.
Gideon put in the call to Sir Humphrey Briggs, and while he waited, looked through the files of cases still unsolved and on which he had been personally consulted, or wanted regular reports. There was the missing Epping Forest child, for one – the all too familiar story of a young girl child lured by an unknown man into a car, an agonising wait for her return, then notification to the police after too many wasted hours. If children were clocked in, if parents reported them missing within an hour say, after they were due home, a tremendous lot of heartache, over and above the lives and suffering of the children, might well be saved. Funny, he hadn’t thought of that before. He made a pencilled note: “Earlier alert” and skimmed the previous day’s routine reports. There had been more extensive searching by the police, by the military, and by some neighbours. That was a new development which he didn’t much like. If people were playing at being vigilantes, they must be gravely dissatisfied with the work of the police.
He pressed the bell for McAlistair, but the door remained closed. He waited a couple of minutes, glancing through reports on a bank robbery, a post office raid and a fraud case which the Yard and the City Police were working on together. And he made a note to have young Gerald Stratton of Mickle and Stratton, checked carefully. Then he pressed again. This time, McAlistair appeared, though a little less quickly than, was usual.
