by John Creasey
“I’m bloody sure,” declared Firmani.
Gideon said, slowly: “Yes, I suppose so.” He pondered, but came up with nothing fresh, so he gave them the gist of what Dalyrymple had told him. It was Cockerill who said: “A lot of things point to Quickturn, once you start thinking of them, sir. Most of these wholesalers do a fair amount of business with them.”
“And the van salesmen . . .” Firmani explained to Cockerill, and then went on with a quick glance at Gideon: “It looks as if we want to wait for this meeting tomorrow, find out what’s discussed, and then take action, sir.”
Gideon looked at Cockerill.
“Is that how you see it?”
“I can’t see it any other way,” Cockerill admitted. “Would you like me to fix the mikes? It can be done after dark tonight. The roof is probably the best place, it’s one of those with open steel girders, easy to fix. We don’t have to break in.”
After a long pause, Gideon said decisively: “Yes, fix it.”
He telephoned Scott-Marie just before six o’clock, but the Commissioner was not yet back, so he wrote a succinct précis of what Dalyrymple had said, and a message: “Am going to allow the meeting to take place, then visit Black and Kilfoil in person, early tomorrow afternoon. G.G.” He sent this along to the Commissioner’s office by messenger, and then called for his car, and drove home.
He had the uneasy feeling that he had missed something, but the uneasiness was dispelled at sight of Kate’s radiant face when she opened the door to him. She gave and received a perfunctory kiss on either cheek, and then said: “There’s a long letter from Penny! The tour’s been extended by a month, she’s turning out to be the star soloist – Alec put that in! – and they plan to get married as soon as they get back. And George – look.” There was a postscript at the end of a long, often barely decipherable letter, which read:
“Alec and I have struck a bargain: mornings when I’m free I can come and practise in ‘my’ attic!”
And there was a PPS:
“I don’t know why I haven’t realised it before, but I do love him so!”
Gideon’s heart was lighter than it had been for days when he sat down with Kate for the evening meal.
But in the night worry came back to him, and he tossed restlessly.
Joseph Graaf was restless, too; but he slept on and off, gradually getting used to the idea of a mass murder, the only thing now that would keep them high and dry. One thing he knew; there was no flaw in Lancelot Black’s reasoning. Dead men could not talk.
Night and day had become much the same to Janice Westerman, and it was half past two in the early hours when she went into the kitchen to get a meal. Her captor wanted bacon and eggs, so bacon and eggs it would be. She knew he had bought the groceries from a small shop in a side street, for most of the things were wrapped in newspaper. She was taking the outer wrapping off the bacon, after putting eggs, butter, canned food and cheese away, when a photograph caught her eye: her own photograph! Astounded, she smoothed out the paper and saw a picture of “him” torn so that she would hardly have recognised it but for the one next to it, without a wig. On that instant, she realised who he was, and spun round towards the door.
He sat there: staring at her. It was no use pretending she hadn’t seen the photograph or that she hadn’t been shocked, and her breathing became shallow and fast. He came in, picked up the newspaper and read what it said, and then added: “So now you’re a celebrity.”
She made herself say: “No—no wonder you’re so sure of yourself, darling.”
She did not know how she got the “darling” out but she did know that it was effective, for there was a slackening of the tension about his mouth. They ate at the tiny kitchen table and every now and again he made some light semi-facetious remark, watching her covertly. When they returned to the living-room, he locked the door and put the key in his trouser pocket.
She knew, then, that she had just one chance: to fool him absolutely.
Presently she went into the bathroom and came back wearing a loose negligée. She stifled a yawn as she slid, affectionately, onto his knee. His hands began to caress her. She put her cheek against his, nibbled his ear, did all those things which she knew he enjoyed. It would only be a matter of time before he pushed her onto the bed.
Quite suddenly, he did this, flinging himself on top of her. For a few moments they played, her heart beating tumultuously for one reason, his for another. They kissed, wildly, exploratively, and as they did so she slid her hands down, down, and began to caress him. His kissing grew gentler, softer: for this he loved. Slowly, slowly, she moved, and then, suddenly, she struck.
He screamed.
She flung him off, and as he writhed she snatched up his trousers and dived into the righthand pocket for the key, found it, rushed to the door and pushed it with trembling hands, into the lock. Helpless, groaning, bent double, he could do nothing. She pulled the door open and went racing down the stairs, out into the street shouting hoarsely, wildly, for help.
A taxi-driver, passing stopped; his fare leaned forward in utter astonishment at this confrontation with a naked, screaming girl.
“D—D—Dalby,” she gasped. “Dalby’s at—at my flat. D—D—”
The passenger was out of the taxi now, taking off his jacket to cover her, while the taxi-driver used his two-way radio to tell his controller to send for the police. By then Janice was shivering violently, and her teeth were chattering; she hardly seemed to realise what had happened.
Because of his broken night, Gideon slept later than usual the next morning, and was wakened by the telephone bell. When it stopped, he thought, I’ve been dreaming, and then he heard Kate speaking, and opened his eyes to see her fully dressed and standing by the telephone.
“Yes, I was just going to call him. Who?” She listened for a moment as Gideon struggled up in bed, and then handed him the telephone.
“It’s Mr. Sharples.”
“Ah,” said Gideon, and was wide awake on the instant. “Hallo. . . . What have you got for me?” As he listened a smile began to dawn on his unshaven face, and it broadened into a grin and then into a laugh. Sharples went on as if thoroughly enjoying the telling, until Gideon interrupted, saying: “Thank heavens for that. Obviously a girl of ideas. Have you told Westerman?”
“He’s been over and collected her.”
“Good.” Gideon sprang out of bed, his tiredness forgotten.
It wasn’t really late; but it was nine o’clock before he left for Scotland Yard, acutely aware of the meeting to take place in three hours’ time.
21
EXPLOSION
GIDEON left his car for a driver to put away and went straight up to his office. The whole place was astir with ribald, masculine humour; the story of the way Janice Westerman had outwitted Arthur Dalby on everyone’s tongue. The coarseness which came so often neither annoyed nor surprised Gideon.
There were more folders than usual, and all the new ones had a pencilled-in title or heading. Two were bank robberies and one, very ugly, the murder of a night-watchman at a London departmental store. Everything was in hand; he needed to check and to get the full stories from men from the divisions who were already handling the case. All of this took a lot of time and it was getting on for eleven before he turned to the cases already in hand.
He did not look at the report on Dalby; that could wait. He gave only a cursory glance at Firmani’s report; that had become virtually a side issue although it could have caused a dozen deaths. He opened the fat report on the FOOD BUYING CASE as Tiger had for some reason called it, and found everything he had been told last night down in black and white, but only one new positive factor in a note signed by Cockerill.
Microphones which will pick up everything at the meeting have been installed. We have a rendezvous safe from observation at the top of Serveright’s, a hundred yar
ds away.
Microphones.
Gelignite.
A meeting of a dozen suspected men, and if the police knew of a dozen then there might well be at least twice as many more; perhaps three times as many. Why? Instructions for thefts, hijacking, the transfer of goods, everything in this racket must surely be passed on carefully, by telephone or by word of mouth. Why a meeting? Why—
Something seemed to explode inside his head.
For a moment which might in fact have been seconds and might have been a minute or two, he felt numbed by it; aware but not convinced. It was as if the explosion had brought a great flash of understanding into his mind, but another part of that mind refused to believe that anyone could possibly plan to kill a group of men in cold blood.
Dead men told no tales.
“It can’t be,” he said, and pressed for Tiger, who came at once. “Get Mr. Cockerill here, quick,” he ordered.
“He’s not in, sir. He’s gone to superintend the surveillance on the warehouse so as to make sure all of our chaps are well hidden before any of the others arrive. Mr. Firmani’s gone there, too – and I believe Mr. Lemaitre was going to join them. Er—there’s one thing you should know, sir.”
Gideon, getting up from his desk with ponderous deliberation, barked: “What?”
“The Honourable Mr. Kilfoil is going to address the meeting at twelve sharp.”
“Oh,” Gideon said. “Is he.” He still felt as if the noise and the flash from the explosion were whirling about in his head. “Is he. Have a car sent round – not mine, one with a radio.” He stood by the desk as Tiger went out, and for once Hobbs’ stand-in looked as if he could not understand Gideon’s expression. He dialled Scott-Marie’s number, knowing that the Commissioner might not be in. But he was in.
“The Commissioner.”
“Gideon,” Gideon said. “I’ve added everything together, sir, and I think that the suspects plus a meeting at that warehouse plus a large quantity of gelignite plus the probable existence of detonators plus Firex in large or small quantities add up to one major explosion. I’m going over myself, sir. We’ve an observation post at Serveright’s close by. I’ll radio instructions to our people while I’m on the way.”
There was hardly a pause before Scott-Marie said: “I shall meet you at the warehouse, George,” and rang off before Gideon could make any protest.
It was not a time for protest. There was an hour and a quarter – no, ten minutes – before he would know for certain whether he was right. The warehouse could be raided, of course, and any explosives rendered harmless, but that would warn some of the men and the place would be closely watched by the other side. He rang for Tiger, who appeared at once, saying: “Your car’s on the way, sir.”
“Thanks. Call the RAOC and ask them if they can have a man at our warehouse rendezvous in half-an-hour. Let me know by radio.” He turned to the passage door and opened it – and Merriman, one hand raised to knock, almost fell onto him. Never before had Gideon seen excitement shining in this man’s eyes and burn on his cheeks. In his free hand he held what looked like a photograph.
“Sir! I couldn’t get you on the phone, but sir – that van of Larsen’s, the van which the jelly was in—Look, sir!” He thrust the photograph in front of Gideon’s nose, and went on in a voice that was very nearly a shout: “Top left hand corner, we missed it before but I’ve just seen—”
“I’m on my way there,” Gideon said. “You come with me.” Merriman’s mouth dropped wide open; and then sheer joy chased the excitement out of his eyes.
It was no more than twenty minutes to the Gnocchi warehouse in Smithfield, and Gideon sat in the back, Merriman by the driver; Gideon had not realised how huge the man’s shoulders were. Within five minutes a message came: “Royal Army Ordnance Corps will be there, sir.” Gideon grunted, and leaned forward. “Give me that thing, Inspector.” Merriman handed him the telephone, and he went on: “My office please. . . . Hallo, Chief Inspector Tiger? . . . I want a close but not obvious watch kept on Mr. Lancelot Black, Mr. Joseph Graaf and all the senior staff of Quickturn Limited. None of them is to be allowed to leave the country.” He waited for Tiger’s “Yes, sir,” and handed the instrument back to Merriman.
“You knew, sir, didn’t you?” Merriman said, quietly.
“I guessed: you brought the proof,” Gideon said.
He thought that Merriman went red about the neck, but soon put the man out of his mind and concentrated on the next hour. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but was far from sure that he could do it all. He watched the stalls and the open store fronts in Long Acre, the litter of vegetables on the cobbles, here and there some fruit or flowers, and then they came to the sector which had been razed. On one edge, nearest him, was the tall, new Serveright building, and soon they turned in. No policemen were in sight, but inside the building there were several, as well as plainclothes men, whom he recognised. He went up to the top floor, which appeared to be taken over by the police. One or two of Serveright’s security men were about, and a Captain in the RAOC was talking to Cockerill.
“My goodness,” Gideon said. “You were quick.”
“I was at the Tower, sir – not far. How can I help you?”
“Have you seen the stuff we’re dealing with?” asked Gideon.
“Chief Inspector Cockerill told me the size of the cans and I’ve seen a label,” answered the bomb disposal man. “I know the stuff all right.” He turned towards a window which overlooked a wide expanse of demolished buildings. In the middle was a single brick building; it was difficult to judge the distance but it must be a hundred yards away at least.
“If that blows up, will it do any damage anywhere else? Here, for instance?”
The Captain pursed his lips, and then slowly shook his head.
“I can’t see why it should, provided no one’s roaming about.”
“Good. Can you get over and check when the explosion’s due?”
The Captain nodded, then turned and went off, wearing a long coat over his uniform. He was back in twenty minutes, to report: “Twelve thirty, on the dot.”
“Good,” said Gideon, as Scott-Marie entered the office, and he raised his voice for the other’s benefit. “We’ll keep it clear,” he went on. “Thanks.” He turned to Cockerill and Firmani. “I’m going to let the meeting start, so that we get everyone who turns up,” he said, “and at five past twelve, raid and empty it. We’ll have about twenty-five minutes, so we want plenty of vans and Black Marias. And plenty of rush,” he added, gruffly. “Then I want all the men we pick up, including Mr. Kilfoil if he’s there, to see the place go up. If that won’t open every mouth among them, nothing will.” He looked about him at men who seemed stunned into silence, and then went on: “I’d like to arrest Mr. Kilfoil myself.”
Scott-Marie came across and shook hands, then settled down to watch from the window.
They watched the drivers and others heading for the Gnocchi warehouse, many driving up in cars, a few walking. They saw a Rolls-Royce, undoubtedly Kilfoil’s, draw up, and the member of the board of Quickturn get out of his car. That was a signal for the police to move in. No one inside the building had any indication of what was going to happen when the doors opened and the raid began. Kilfoil, standing on a roughly-made platform, began to complain, and Gideon said: “Wait twenty minutes, sir, and you’ll see what it’s all about.”
They waited and watched with agonising tension, until suddenly there was a great flash; a roar; and fire. Debris went high into the air but none came as far as the forecourt of the building and no harm was done except to the morale of the men who had been told to go to the building. The only man who did not speak was Kilfoil. As Gideon charged him with conspiracy to defraud, he looked as if he would never recover from the shock.
An hour later, Cockerill, Firmani and Merriman entered the offices of Quickturn, taking the
chairman and the secretary completely by surprise. They did not speak when charged with attempted murder and conspiracy to defraud. Within an hour, police accountants had taken over completely, within two, Dalyrymple’s Association was working on plans to keep the stores open, until the legal and illegal aspects were sorted out. The two arrested men were taken to West London Police Court, and would be charged before a magistrate next morning.
Gideon managed to avoid most of the clamouring Press, and to get home reasonably early. There was a message from Scott-Marie, which said very simply: “The more I think about it the warmer my congratulations.” Gideon put the message in a box in which he stored his few mementos, watched the television news, rejoiced with Kate and felt both deeply satisfied and a little flat at the same time. He was tired. The pace of the past week told on him. He would be glad when Hobbs was back—
But Hobbs and Penny would want a honeymoon!
Suddenly, he thought: Or are they having one now?
He thought of the changes in society, conventions, morals and beliefs, and he wondered how Janice Westerman would face the future.
“Daddy,” she said to her father, a few days later, “I can’t, I just can’t, stay here. I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do, but I’ll be all right. I’m one of the wild ones – but I can look after myself.”
“Janice,” her father said with a wry smile, “I really believe you can.”
Series Information
Published or to be published by
House of Stratus
Dates given are those of first publication
