by John Creasey
George had always loved this part of London.
Behind him was the high building of the Port of London Authority, to his right the narrow street leading to Eastcheap and Mincing Lane, to Billingsgate Market and to the Monument. As a boy, he had worked here; and at weekends when he was on his own he would often return, staying most of the day.
It was nearly half-past eleven; time to go back to Mill Lane.
He unlocked the safety chain of his bicycle which was parked close to the kerb, and cycled off, with his slow, deliberate movements. He knew the City and the East End well enough to be able to keep pace with the new one-way turnings, and although he could go up to Aldgate and then to Whitechapel, the quickest way was to cycle past the forbidding walls of the Mint. Then he would head for Wapping High Street with dark warehouse walls on one side, then to walk his bicycle through the alleys until reaching the bottom end of Mill Lane, close to the chemical factory.
He did not realise that he had been followed by two men.
The first man was Biddle from Jackie Spratt’s, who was at the wheel of a dilapidated van. The other was Detective Sergeant Leslie Bell of N.E. Division, in a utility van driven by an older detective officer.
There was a thick build-up of traffic at a junction near the Mint, and Jensen was able to get through more quickly on his bicycle than either of the vehicles. The stench of diesel exhaust and the grating roar of powerful engines were all around him.
“We’re going to lose him,” Detective Sergeant Bell said. “I’ll nip out – I may be able to keep up.” He climbed out of the van as traffic began to move again, and strode after Jensen.
At the same time, Biddle thought: He’s going the back way.
Biddle began to fret and fume in the traffic, saw a gap through which he could squeeze, drove to Aldgate and then turned into Whitechapel Road, approaching Mill Lane from the top end. He did not drive down Mill Lane but along another parallel road, and reached the bottom end as George Jensen came out of a cobbled alley and straddled his bicycle. Biddle knew that someone else was in the alley, but took no notice. Jensen was within a minute of reaching the office again, and he mustn’t get there.
Biddle was sweating.
He swung the wheel of the van when he was only ten yards behind Jensen, who heard the rasping of tyres on the gravelled road and turned his head in alarm. He saw the van bearing down on him but had no chance to change direction or to dodge.
On that instant P.C. Race, who had been sent to watch Jackie Spratt’s shop, saw what was happening. Without a moment’s hesitation, virtually without thought, he leapt forward in an effort to push the cyclist out of the way. He might have succeeded but for an instinctive action on the older man’s part, for Jensen flung himself to one side, trying to clear the cross bar of his bicycle.
He failed.
Race could have saved him had he stayed on his bicycle, but as it was he hardly had time to save himself.
Jensen crashed down, and the van struck him. His head smashed against the kerb, and he knew a fraction of a second of intense pain before losing consciousness. Biddle jammed on his brakes and sat shivering in his seat. Two men and several women, approaching, stopped in their tracks and stared with horror. A man further away came running and another appeared from behind the old van. Race got up, bruised, and grazed, and then went down on one knee beside the cyclist.
There was blood everywhere, all over the forehead and the face – everywhere.
The running man drew up.
“My God!” he exclaimed. And then hoarsely: “We need an ambulance.”
Detective Sergeant Leslie Bell took a tiny two-way radio from his inside pocket, called his station, and reported.
“There’s been an accident between a van and a bicycle in Mill Lane. Doctor and ambulance are needed urgently. This is Detective Sergeant Bell,” he added, hastily. “I will wait at the scene of the accident until both arrive.”
He switched off, glanced at Race and said: “Bloody good try, I’ll see the Superintendent hears about this,” then stared coldly at Biddle, who was watching him open-mouthed.
“Come down out of there,” he ordered.
“I—I didn’t see him! “ Biddle cried. “He came out of nowhere!”
“You saw him,” Bell said. “Get down, and answer some questions.”
“I—I—I didn’t see him!” Biddle insisted. He climbed down slowly, lips quivering, teeth chattering. Others came up now, mesmerised by the crushed, bloodied body, the wrecked bicycle, and the shaking driver.
“He drove straight at him,” a woman accused.
“I didn’t, I didn’t see him!”
“What’s your name?”
“Biddle, John Biddle, I—”
“Let me see your licence,” Bell said stonily.
Slowly, Biddle took out his wallet. More and more people drifted up until there was quite a crowd when the ambulance arrived, its bell ringing, followed by more police. The drab street was suddenly crowded and noisy. Police pushed their way through to the injured man, and a young doctor followed. Bell, writing down the licence details, watched both the driver’s face and the doctor’s.
“He’s alive,” the doctor stated. “That’s about all I can say for him.”
“I didn’t see him!” screeched Biddle.
“You must have seen him,” said Race. “You didn’t give him a chance.”
The odd thing was that the words did not seem ironic to him; they were literally true.
Two telephones rang on Rupert Kano’s desk at the same moment. He lifted them with both hands, said “Just a moment,” into one and: “Kano here,” into the other.
A man spoke in a very quiet, almost whispering voice.
“They’re tightening security everywhere, Rupe.”
Kano put a hand over the mouthpiece of the other telephone, and said: “What do you mean?”
“I told you Gideon had been out to New Bridge, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Since then security’s been tightened at all the power stations, not just one or two. And Gideon was at the Ministry yesterday.”
“All right,” said Kano. “I get you.”
“You won’t fix any more blackouts, will you?”
“Not until I know what’s going on,” said Kano.
He rang off without another word, held the mouthpiece of the second telephone very tightly, and stared out of the tiny window. He opened his lips and tapped his very white teeth with his fingernail. Then, slowly, he put the other telephone to his mouth.
“Sorry to keep you,” he said.
“Mr. Kano, they look as if they’re going to take Biddle to the police station,” a man said excitedly. “I was upstairs, I saw it happen! He knocked a man off a bicycle, it looks as if he killed him.”
“Does it,” Rupert Kano said, coldly. “He never could drive.”
He put the second receiver down, stood up, stepped to the door, and put on his jacket. Without saying a word to anybody, he went through the betting shop and into the street. The crowd was still thick at the far end of the lane, and an ambulance was coming this way. Beyond were several policemen, Biddle’s van, and two cars.
Rupert Kano walked towards the Mile End Road.
He was a compact, athletic figure, with his bow tie, dark, curly hair, highly polished shoes, and brisk walk. He did not once look round, reached the main street and, a few minutes later, went into Aldgate East Station. He took a District Line train as far as Charing Cross, and from there walked towards Buckingham Street and Adelphi. He went into a small block of new flats, and a lift took him up to the penthouse. He stepped into the main bedroom, which overlooked the river, and stripped down to his under pants. He went into the big, modern bathroom, ran water first into a hand basin, then into a bath. He took a lotion fro
m a cabinet, poured it into the hand basin, and began to wash his hair.
Almost at once the water was stained black.
He emptied, washed again and again with the same shampoo, then studied himself in the mirror. It was difficult to recognise in the fair haired man the one who had entered the room a short while before. Even his eyelashes had changed colour. He finished off with a shower, then towelled himself vigorously. He put on a dressing gown and went into the living room, which also overlooked the river. He sat back in an easy chair and dialled a City number.
A woman answered.
“This is Sir Geoffrey Craven’s secretary.”
“This is Wilcox,” Kano said.
“Just a moment, Mr. Wilcox.” The moment proved a long one, but Rupert Kano alias Wilcox did not move.
At last a man spoke in a pleasant, cultured voice.
“Is this a true emergency?”
“Yes,” Wilcox said flatly.
“If it is about the security precautions at—” began Sir Geoffrey Craven.
“It’s more than that,” said Wilcox.
“Where are you?”
“In John Street.”
“I’ll see you in an hour, but I won’t have long,” Craven said brusquely.
“If we’re not careful, we won’t have long,” retorted Wilxox. He put the receiver down as abruptly as he had in Mill Lane, and went into the bedroom. He put on a pale fawn-coloured suit of a noticeably different cut from the one he had been wearing, then went into the kitchen and plugged in a kettle. He made himself some coffee, drank it black, leaving the flat immediately afterwards. Fifty-five minutes from the time he had put down the telephone he entered an office building near the Bank of England, and was taken up in a hand-operated lift to the fifth floor. On the door leading to the offices was the name: Sir Geoffrey Craven and Company Limited – Merchant Bankers. There were also a number of other registered company offices. Among them were Hibild Limited, Associated Euro-Electronics Limited and Hotel Fitted Furniture Suppliers Limited.
Kano alias Wilcox went in, and pressed a bell marked Inquiries. A young woman in a short sheath dress above very long legs came towards him.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilcox.”
“Good morning, Sylvia.”
“Sir Geoffrey is expecting you.” The girl led the way along a narrow passage to the big room in which Craven was sitting. He was tall and very thin with hawk-like features and a deeply-lined face. Wilcox, obviously at ease, obviously on equal terms with this man, shook hands.
“What is it?” Craven asked.
“I’ve had to leave Mill Lane,” Wilcox announced.
“It had to happen sooner or later,” Craven said. “Is it such an emergency?”
“I think one of our men, Biddle, will tell the police about young Jensen and the fire-raising,” said Wilcox. “And Stratton, who would have sold out to us, tells me he’s been slung out of Ezeplan. Old Mickle won’t give in. I think we ought to withdraw our offer at once.”
Craven nodded.
“I’ve always treated the Mill Lane office as a dead end – somewhere to walk out of one day, and now I’m out,” Wilcox said. “But the police will probably try to discover if there is a working arrangement between me and Jackie Spratt’s. As Kano I had the Board of Trade licence for dealing in stocks and shares, but he put up the money.”
“Can they prove it?”
“No. But they may suspect it strongly enough to start at the top,” said Wilcox. “Gideon is an old friend of Lemaitre, and they work closely together.” He paused, only to go on: “And Gideon was at the Ministry of Power yesterday as well as at New Bridge.”
“So I am informed,” said Craven.
Neither of the men spoke for a few minutes, and it was Craven who broke the silence: “Gideon is only a policeman.”
“He’s a policeman who makes one visit to the Ministry of Power, and within hours the whole security of the power stations is doubled, in some cases trebled,” retorted Wilcox.
After a pause, Craven asked: “What is it you want to do?”
“I think we should act at once,” said Wilcox. “If we don’t we may not be able to act at all. If the police do trace a connection between Spratt and the fires, we may find them uncomfortably close to us, and we could have to stop everything. I don’t think we can afford to wait.”
After another, longer, pause, Craven said: “You couldn’t possibly mean that you can’t wait, could you?”
“No,” said Wilcox. “I could leave England today and live in luxury for the rest of my life, you know that very well. By staying even an extra three or four days, I’m taking a risk. But I want Electronics New Age.”
“Is it really worth the risk?” asked Craven. “We could wait a few weeks – a few months, even – until this scare blows over. We’re not really pushed yet. You’ve always gone in and out of the country under your real name of Wilcox, nothing need prevent you going out and coming back when the time is more propitious. I think there’s an unnecessary risk of failure if we strike now.”
“I don’t,” Wilcox replied. “If I know Gideon, and I’ve made a study of the way he works, he will anticipate what we’re planning. He’s done it twice before, to my knowledge – divined a plot, I mean, simply from his knowledge of the circumstances. He may have plumped for the sabotage for its own sake theory, but he won’t neglect anything else. Give him a week or two and he’ll have worked out a scheme to block whatever we do. If we stop after we’ve got Electronics New Age, then we’re home and dry. We’ll have everything we need, we needn’t push firms like Ezeplan, and with Jensen dead that can’t be traced to us. Hibild is as safe as houses at the moment. Once we’ve stopped operating, Gideon will never get us. If we simply postpone this job, we’ll lose Electronics New Age, but if we lay low and start work on something else in a few weeks or a few months, the police may be waiting to pounce. In any case,” went on Wilcox in a tone of finality, “I doubt if Boyd can wait.”
“That’s the most convincing thing you’ve said yet,” remarked Craven. “All right, we’d better meet somewhere tonight”
“Not somewhere,” Wilcox corrected. “My place. Let’s say ten o’clock.”
Craven did not argue.
Chapter Eighteen
Hobbs
Deputy Commander Alec Hobbs did not know why, but he knew that when Gideon returned from Fulham with his notes about the electricity failures, he was in a much brighter mood. Something at home had pleased him. Hobbs had spent the past few hours going over the cases which had come up during his own absence, and as he studied Gideon’s notes, he reflected more than he had ever done on Gideon as a man and as a policeman. Gideon had a gift – which might in fact be an acquired habit – of putting himself into other people’s shoes. He could feel deeply for such a man as Entwhistle, for instance, and imagine what Entwhistle would feel like if he were in fact innocent. He could suffer with Frank Morrison and at the same time sympathise with and so understand Lillian Morrison’s, distress.
In some ways, this characteristic had disadvantages. For all his stern exterior, Hobbs thought, Gideon was in some ways too soft-hearted. But it had one enormous advantage. He could put himself into a criminal’s shoes and think like him, working out what the criminal was likely to do, and thus, could anticipate it. A surprising number of men and women were in jail because of this quality in Gideon. The most remarkable fact to Hobbs, however, was that Gideon was not wholly aware of the quality. It worked mostly through his subconscious.
And Hobbs believed that Gideon’s preoccupation with Entwhistle, for instance, often busied his subconscious mind while his conscious one was dealing with a larger-scale case, like that of sabotage.
Some time that afternoon, Gideon would send for him, and he checked with some of the Superintendents, including Lemaitre, so that he w
ould be able to give Gideon the latest information about them all.
He could not tell Gideon about Lillian Morrison, however.
She stood in front of the dressing-table mirror in her own home, staring, not at her reflection, but at a photograph. It was of Frank and Sheila, taken the year before. She, Lillian, had been at the window, watching them playing in the garden, Sheila running, Frank lifting her high. Lillian had rushed downstairs to get the camera, and snapped them; it had been one of those lucky chances: a perfect photograph.
They looked so gloriously happy, as in fact they had been. She had been, too; on top of the world.
And Sheila was dead.
Frank was – a murderer.
And it was her fault If she hadn’t been tempted into that shop, if her fancy hadn’t been taken by the little flower hat, if, if, if, if.
She stood up, slowly.
She stood at the window looking down on the spot where they had been standing for the picture. Two gardens along, a neighbour waved, but she did not respond. She went slowly downstairs and along to the kitchen, knowing exactly what she was going to do. She had no doubt that Frank now hated her, blaming her for Sheila’s death. There had been times of tension because she could have no more children – he had blamed her for that too.
And he was right: she had never told him that she took birth-control pills. He didn’t dream that was the explanation of her “barrenness’. She closed the kitchen door. Frank had fitted a patent sealing strip, to keep out draughts, both at this and at the back door. She drew the curtains across the window, so that no one could see in, then put a cushion down close to the gas stove, opened the oven door, turned on the tap, and put her head inside.
She could smell the gas.
Soon she would be unconscious.
She did not feel any fear or distress, just relief, as sleep stole over her.
Gideon finished the final draft for the power cuts investigation, and pressed the bell for Hobbs, who as usual came in quickly but without any show of haste. Gideon motioned to a chair asking:
