by John Creasey
“Topless, of course,” said the superintendent who had divulged that piece of information at a morning meeting, “but clean as a whistle. I’d take my daughter almost anywhere today, knowing she’d probably been there before; but I’d take my wife and mother to this show.”
The management had been told that Gideon and his wife might arrive, and a special table was already reserved for them. Yes, Gideon thought, he wanted this to be quite an evening to remember for Kate. At the back of his mind he had the feeling that she felt that her life was, in usefulness, ending; he wanted her to know that in more ways than one, it could be a new beginning.
True, the day had been too busy to allow him to think too much about it. Within minutes of getting to his office he had learned that a man on the run after shooting a police officer, had been caught; that one major bank robbery had been foiled and its perpetrators held, because of a squeak from an informer. There was particular relish in both of these because he, George Gideon, had been at the morning briefing alone. For some years the Deputy Commander, Alec Hobbs, had taken much of the briefing session and been first to get the news, but Alec was on holiday, and would not be back for ten days. He was in Australia, combining a little police business and a lot of pleasure. Engaged to marry the Gideons’ youngest daughter, he visited police stations and Criminal Investigation Bureaux by morning when Penelope was rehearsing; spent the afternoons with her; and most of the evenings sitting and listening to her playing, marvelling that his future wife held magic in her fingers whenever she sat at the piano. Consequently Gideon felt himself to be completely back in harness, instead of sustaining the role of a kind of elder statesman. And at the morning briefings, when every senior officer in charge of an investigation came to discuss the case with him, he spent more time with old friends than he had in months; years. Perhaps of even greater value, he was able to study some of the younger superintendents, known better by Hobbs. He had long trusted Hobbs’ judgment of men: and that trust was being fully confirmed.
Gideon, then, was extremely busy, and absorbed in what he was doing. The anticipation of an evening out with Kate added zest to all of this, and until the last minute it had not occurred to him that he might be late. For Hobbs most certainly had his uses, one of them being to take over if late calls which needed supervision at Commander level came in. Tonight, a call had come from a midland Federation Headquarters.
“George,” the Commander of the Federation had said, “one of the ugliest prison escapes has just been reported from Dellbank.” Dellbank was perhaps the oldest top security prison in the country. “Two men escaped, and they killed a warder and later killed the driver of a car they stole. We think they’re on the M1 heading for London, but we’re not sure. And our only knowledge of the car is that it is a medium-sized one.”
“Put your Information man onto ours and I’ll brief them to give this top priority,” Gideon said.
“Thanks. Can I call you later?”
“I’ll leave word where I can be found,” Gideon promised, with a picture of Kate in his mind’s eye.
He dialled Information on the inter-office machine, gave instructions, then stood up and went to his window, which overlooked the Thames, Westminster Bridge, the Embankment and, across the river, London County Hall. Traffic was massed everywhere, gaily-beflagged ships and boats sailed in bright sunshine up and down the river; it was a beautiful evening. Big Ben, out of sight but within hearing, struck six, and he turned back to the desk and gave instructions to the car pool to send for Kate; then on second thoughts, told the driver selected to come and see him.
It was Harold Ferris.
When Ferris had gone, Gideon left the office and walked along the wide, bare-looking passages of the Yard, heading for the lifts and Information. Only when he walked was he seen at his best and most powerful. A tall, very big man, with massive shoulders only slightly rounded, he walked erect but thrustingly, as if he would allow nothing to stand in his way. He had a strong face, rugged more than handsome; a face which, if carved in stone, would be memorable for its strength. His eyes were a steely grey, matching in colour the thick waves of his hair.
He found Information already busy.
The motorway, M1, was being closely patrolled and two road blocks had been put up. Provincial as well as Metropolitan police were working closely together. Prints of recent photographs of the two wanted men were being distributed, and two were pinned up on the notice board of the Chief Inspector on duty. Gideon read:
George Pitton – sentenced to ten years imprisonment for robbery with violence. Seven years to go.
Arthur Dalby – sentenced to life imprisonment for rape and murder of a fifteen year old girl.
“Pitton looks as if he comes from the stone age,” the Chief Inspector remarked, looking at a simian-faced man with hair growing very low on a low forehead. “But Dalby—”
Gideon studied the photograph of the rapist killer, noting the remarkable good-looks, the kindly expression: it was almost impossible to imagine a man with such a face committing the crimes that he had committed.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Sent these to television studios?”
“Not yet.”
“Get them over. And as soon as you can, get copies sent to the Back Room for the Press.”
“Any statement, sir?” The inspector, a youngish man, was obviously anxious to do exactly what Gideon wanted.
“Check with the Federation,” ordered Gideon. “I don’t see why a brief recital of the facts shouldn’t be given, sprinkled with alleged and believed-tos – and certainly say they’re believed to be heading for London on the motorway.”
“Right, sir.” The inspector was already at a telephone, while an elderly messenger came into the big, long room, with its teleprinters and its up-to-the-minute, country-wide communication system, carrying a box full of more prints of the two prisoners. Messages were coming in of reports that the two men had been seen; but there were likely to be hundreds of such reports, all false, before the night was out.
There was nothing more Gideon could do.
He told Information where he could be found for emergency messages only, and then sent for another car; the handiest was a Flying Squad car about to start out after suspects inside a jeweller in the Strand, only a stone’s throw from Boulanger’s. Gideon squeezed in the back with two other men. Walkie-talkie radio messages kept coming in, while Information kept up a stream of instructions. If any of the others were ill at ease Gideon put that right by saying into a lull: “Now I know I wish I were back on this job.”
After a general laugh a man asked: “Were you actually in the Squad, sir?”
“Four years.”
“You mean we’ve got a chance of getting where you are, sir?” another man quipped.
Gideon joined in the laughter, then heard another instruction from Information. “Bandits in the Strand now attempting to escape in dark green Ford Cortina down Northumberland Avenue.”
The driver exclaimed: “Cut down Chandos Street and we’ll cut them—” He broke off, obviously suddenly remembering the precious cargo they had in the car. “Plenty of others can—”
“Cut down Chandos Street,” Gideon ordered.
The driver let his siren wail and then signalled a left turn and swung into the narrow street. As he did so, a green Ford Cortina came hurtling towards them. The Flying Squad man turned his wheel enough to avoid a head-on collision, the other driver swerving right, hit a traffic bollard, and crashed to a standstill. The driver was out and running fast towards the Embankment before the police car came to a shuddering halt alongside the wrecked Cortina. One of the policemen jumped out of the door across from Gideon and gave chase after the running man. A hundred people were standing and staring, and a taxi with its For Hire sign alight was only just behind.
“You chaps get on with the job and forget me,” ordered
Gideon. He was out of the car in a flash, and hailing the taxi. “I want to get to Boulanger’s in a hurry,” he said authoritatively. “That is a police car and they were giving me a lift.”
The taxi-driver looked at him with sharp interest. “Mr. Gideon, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t know you were still on the beat, sir!” The driver chuckled at his own joke and leaned out of his cab to open the rear door for Gideon, who only just ducked in time to save bumping his head. He sat well back, while the taxi squeezed past the wrecked car. As they turned into Whitehall Place and its gaunt mammoths of Victorian architecture, Gideon saw the thief who had got away collide with a man coming towards him; his pursuer was only a few feet behind.
So they got them all, he thought with deep satisfaction.
The sudden race and the collision carried him back over the years. His Flying Squad days had been among his most difficult – in fact, only seriously difficult days with Kate. On the Squad one had no hours, too little rest, no time for home life. How Kate had hated it! And how different things were now.
The taxi dropped him outside the entrance in the narrow street where Boulanger’s had served Londoners for at least four generations; and, it was said, neither the inside nor the outside had changed very much, some of it not at all. There was a tiny bar, where he expected to find Kate; he hoped he wasn’t too late, and a glance at his watch reassured him; it wasn’t quite half past seven, and he was here first. He much preferred it that way. A pale-faced proprietor, a great-grandson of the founder, and the head waiter came forward to welcome him. As they talked, and Gideon watched the door for Kate, a telephone rang at the bar. A moment later the French barman called out:
“Is zere a M’ Shideon, pliz?”
Gideon almost groaned as he took the receiver. If this really were urgent he might have to go, but he would fight it to the last. The thought made him smile grimly as he said: “Gideon.”
“George, we’ve got one of them,” a man reported, and only after a moment did Gideon realise this was the Federation Commander and he was talking about the escaped prisoners. “The man Pitton. He was caught driving the dead man’s car, the one which was stolen. We’ve no idea where the other man is yet, but if the way your chaps are working is anything to go by, we’ll soon have him.”
“Splendid,” Gideon said. “I’m glad—”
“Excuse me, sir.” A different man, the Information inspector at Scotland Yard, interrupted as the other was saying goodbye. “They caught all four of the men involved in the jewel raid in the Strand.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Gideon said. “This looks like being our night.”
“Can’t be sure yet, sir,” replied the Information inspector sententiously. “I think it’s going to be a busy night. Two lorry loads of citrus fruits were hijacked from Covent Garden this evening, and—”
“I’ll take reports of that in the morning,” Gideon said, for at that moment the door opened and Kate came in.
She looked stunning, in an outfit which Gideon had never seen before, but a single glimpse of her expression, before she caught sight of him and smiled, told him that something had distressed her; this wasn’t going to be the evening he had planned, and looked forward to so eagerly.
3
TÊTE À TÊTE
“HALLO, love,” Gideon said, drawing her forward and kissing her on the cheek. “I thought you said you couldn’t wear brown.”
Her eyes lit up. “Do you really like it?”
“Very much,” Gideon assured her truthfully. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get home for you, but—”
“Don’t worry,” she interrupted. “It’s good to be here.” Again she smiled but without the fullness of heart he had hoped for. “Ferris wouldn’t tell me where we were coming until we were actually in the street. Then I knew.” She turned as the patron came hurrying, hand outstretched in welcome; he kissed her hand and then murmured, “C’est impossible.”
Mischievously, he added: “You must please tell me the secret of how to grow younger.” It was as if he sensed that he must make some special effort to please her this evening; and Gideon thought she looked more genuinely cheered up than by what he had said. “Come, please – I have the special table for you.”
The special table was in a corner and one step above the rest of the main dining-room. On one side was a carved wooden screen protecting them from the kitchen door and kitchen noises; on the other a rather attractive stained glass window, while the entrance was wide enough for them to see most of the restaurant with its gay atmosphere of a French hostelry. On the table were six red roses.
“If you will tell me what you would like to have for an aperitif I will arrange it,” Pierre Boulanger promised. “And if you would like my recommendation for you, Mrs. Gideon, and for you, too, M. Gideon, I would suggest the filet de boeuf en croûte.” He spread his hands, and smiled, and disappeared, keeping an unobtrusive but careful watch on them. Before her filet Kate chose an avocado with shrimps and a bland sauce; Gideon, a pâté which he never failed to enjoy. The service was immaculate; they were treated as royalty; the food was a gourmet’s delight.
Yet, some air of tension remained in Kate.
Shall I ask her what it is? Gideon wondered, troubled.
I should have told him when I arrived, now it’s more difficult, Kate thought. If I keep it from him he’ll wonder why.
“Kate,” Gideon said, as he waited for another slice of the pâté, “what is it? No bad news, is there?”
Hesitantly, she said: “No, not really.” Then, realising the inadequacy of the reply she went on: “Not for us, that is.” Now she could lead into the subject, knowing how quickly he would understand the effect of the child’s death on her; for this huge man whom some thought dull and even insensitive had one of the quickest minds a man could have. That he had always possessed; but his sensitivity had grown slowly, over the years. “You know that the girl across at Mrs. Jameson’s was going to have a baby, don’t you?”
Gideon said in a surprised way, “Yes, of course.”
“It was stillborn,” Kate told him. “And the mother—well, Mrs. Jameson might be exaggerating but she implied that it was touch and go with the mother, too.”
“When did you find this out?” Gideon asked.
“Only a few minutes before I left.”
“And all the years rolled back and all the hurt was with you again,” Gideon said. His big but well-shaped hand closed over Kate’s, pressed gently, and stayed while the trolley was wheeled up and the silver hood was turned over, revealing a freshly cooked filet en croûte. The end cut looked temptingly appetising, but it seemed almost a sacrilege to over-indulge just now. The carver hovered, a waiter with the sauce hovered, each puzzled, until Kate said: “Darling, do you think I might have a tiny piece?”
Gideon stared, and then said: “Good lord, of course!” And the knife flashed and cut, while Kate turned her hand under Gideon’s and gave him a strong, reassuring squeeze.
“Yes,” she said. “The years and the pain rolled back, George, but so did some of the good things before and since. I wonder if—” She broke off.
“Yes?” Gideon watched her anxiously.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kate said.
“Nonsense. Of course it matters.”
“That is enough, M’sieur? Or a leetle more?”
“It’s fine, thanks.”
“Madame?”
“Just what I wanted.”
“Some haricots verts, madame?”
“No, just this.”
At last the trolley was wheeled away and they were on their own again, Kate beginning to eat. “In a minute,” her eyes said, and that suited him. Somewhere afar off the telephone bell rang and momentarily Gideon feared it was for him, but no one came. He saw Boulanger at the bar,
talking earnestly. Was it imagination or was the Frenchman worried? Thought and sight of him faded, and Kate finished her morsel of the filet and began to speak while Gideon was still eating.
“I don’t know why, George, but I’ve been”— She paused, groping for a word, and found one that would do—”unsettled, lately. Restless.”
“And with Penny away and the house empty, you find that surprising?” Gideon asked, mildly.
“I tell myself that’s what it is,” she said.
“But you don’t convince yourself,” Gideon responded.
“Not really.”
She leaned back, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her, that her discontent was George’s business now, and that she could trust him to cope with it. “I’m sure I need some other interest, but I’m not really sure what. I’ve been so busy for so long, and I suppose I’m not a natural do-gooder. I mean, working for the Red Cross, or muscular dystrophy, or—you know, don’t you?”
“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “I’m not sure but I think you have to start that kind of thing early.” He finished eating and took another sip of the full-bodied red wine. “If you took an interest in them I’m sure Harrington Street dwellers would think you the best neighbour they’ve ever had.”
“They might have, once,” she admitted.
Gideon’s eyebrows shot up. “And what’s changed you?”
“I haven’t changed as far as that’s concerned,” Kate replied. “At least, I don’t think so. But the neighbours have. How many people do you know in Harrington Street today, George?”
Half frowning, he admitted: “Not many.” After a pause he went on: “Very few, in fact. Half of the houses have been turned into flats, and a very different type of person lives there.” He watched as one of the lesser waiters cleared the table, and went on slowly: “Are you driving at anything, Kate? Do you want to move?” When she didn’t answer immediately he went on: “I could well understand it, the place is big and empty now, you must feel as if you’re rattling around in it when you’re there alone.”
