Sport, Heat, & Scotland Yard

by John Creasey

  “When she took so long to tell you, Penny asked her why. She said she wasn’t feeling well enough to cope; that if you were upset by it, she wanted to be at her best. At her strongest. Penny told me this, so I looked in to see Kate, yesterday.”

  “Oh,” said Gideon, and Hobbs hesitated again, then told him, quietly: “She isn’t well, George. She’s getting stabbing pains in her chest. She’s terribly afraid of cancer.”

  Gideon opened his mouth but did not speak: tensed his hand about the pipe till it hurt, but did not relax his grip. The noise of the traffic, the brightness of the day, the files on his desk – even Alec Hobbs – all seemed to vanish in one vast blur as he felt this awful shock go through him.

  Kate – cancer! Oh, God, no! He was gripped by an icy fear that literally would not let him move. Then, slowly, gradually, it eased; but only to leave him very, very tired. He put out his hand to the telephone: it rang, as he touched it.

  “There’s still no answer from your house, Mr. Gideon.”

  Gideon grunted again: “Keep trying.” Now the silence was in no way reassuring, he could imagine her – ill. Ill – and alone in the house. Ill – and unable to reach the telephone.

  He snatched up the one which went straight through to the Information Room, and as it was answered, snapped: “Have a car go at once to my home and find out if Mrs. Gideon is there. Break in, if necessary!” He rang down on a startled: “Yes, sir!” and closed his eyes as a heavy, dull headache suddenly engulfed him. After a long moment, he managed: “One thing is certain, Alec, you were right to tell me. Thanks.” He could have added: “I wish to God you’d told me weeks ago!” but any hint of recrimination would do no good. Instead, he asked: “Has she seen a doctor?”

  “She—she told him she had indigestion.”

  “She must be terrified,” Gideon muttered. And although he had been aware of something different about Kate he had never even dreamed of this; had not even taken the trouble to talk seriously with her, to try to make her talk. How blind could a man be? As he sat there, he wondered how long it would be before a report came in from the Divisional patrol car. And then for the first time since Hobbs had asked for that private ten minutes, he thought fleetingly of the cases going through, of the hundred-and-one things that constantly preoccupied him – virtually obsessed him.

  God above, it was his fault! If he had been more aware, if he had learned earlier, he would have made Kate see a doctor, gone with her, if necessary. He was the only one who could have made her.

  The telephone rang, and he snatched it up. Kate?

  “Superintendent Henry would like a word with you,” said the operator.

  “Who? – oh.” His voice flattened. “Yes. Put him through.”

  Henry, he thought. The second Test Match, the young Jamaican woman – Conception. The risk of a mass demonstration at the Mecca of cricket. The Action Committee. Danger for the girl. All of these things were conscious thoughts, deliberately, painfully, plucked from his memory; normally, they would simply be part of instantaneous and comprehensive knowledge of each case. At least there was a little delay on the line: time for these separate droughts to fall into place.

  “Commander?” Henry said, at last.

  “Yes.”

  “Commander!” Henry repeated, and his voice sounded thick, as if he were having difficulty in articulating. Normally, Gideon would have waited, knowing there must be something badly wrong; now, he asked sharply: “Well, what is it?”

  “I’m—I’m afraid something’s happened to—to Detective Constable Conception.” Each word sounded hoarser than the last: “She—she’s been missing for eight hours. She should report in every four hours—I’ve never known her miss, before. But she—she hasn’t called since last night. She should have reported at eight o’clock and twelve noon. I’ve checked at her apartment and she didn’t get in, last night. She reported at eight o’clock last night that there was an emergency meeting and she’d been asked to attend. And I thought—well, sir, if we question the members of the Action Committee, we may not get the truth.”

  There was a pause, before Henry went on: “I—ah—I would like your guidance, Commander. I’ve come to the conclusion that you were right – she is in physical danger.”

  “I will call you back in fifteen minutes,” Gideon said, very deliberately. “Presumably you’ve checked her recent movements closely?”

  “As far as I can, sir.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” repeated Gideon, and rang off.

  Juanita Conception, bound with cord and gagged with adhesive-plaster, lay in a darkened room. She was alone, but the sharpness of fear had gone and now she half-dozed. The effort of thinking seemed to make her drowsy, as if her mind refused to cope any more: found it simpler to accept the inevitable. Faces swam in her consciousness, from time to time. The faces of the young men she had betrayed. Gideon’s face, when he had asked her with a kind of approving roughness whether she too would go to the stake for what she believed in.

  She was ‘going to the stake’ now.

  She didn’t seriously expect to leave this room alive.

  It was two o’clock on that second Monday in June; the tenth of June.

  Barnaby Rudge felt very, very confident; yet there was something inside him, burning like a fuse. He knew that he had never been so fit in his life. He knew he could defeat his opponent without using his service once. But that service, now that he was walking on to the court, seemed like something alive, inside him: something imprisoned, straining to get out.

  He could still hardly credit that he was there. Although it was surprising how ‘ordinary’ everything was, on the surface. This court itself – here, at Wimbledon! – might have been any court in the world. There was a small crowd, no more than a hundred or so, wandering about in the bright sunlight. Even the Centre and No. 1 Courts, he knew, were half-empty. Only the ice-cream vendors were busy, but no one else.

  He put his sweater over a hanger, shook hands with the umpire, shook hands with his young, fair-haired opponent, and went to the court. Every muscle in his body seemed to sing.

  Aunty Martha was very pleased with her new pupils; she had had them watched with great care, and they had all behaved very well. Little Kitty Strangeways was slightly nervous: she needed more practice with crowds. And Cyril Jackson had enjoyed it too much. He almost took chances, to prove how good he was. Cyril was a great one for dares, and would do anything. He might even try to cheat her, for the fun of it.

  If he did, of course, he would very swiftly learn that there was never any fun in cheating Aunty Martha. She simply dared not allow it, no matter how ruthless she had to be.

  At the Jockey Club’s Headquarters at Newmarket, in Suffolk, there was an unofficial meeting of the stewards; quite normal at this time of the year. The main interest, of course, centred on the Derby, an interest as great today as ever it had been since the first race, nearly two hundred years ago. And there was a great deal of discussion, for no horse had been scratched and there was so far no clear favourite: at least six horses were equally favoured in the betting, to date.

  Of course, it was a long time, yet, before the off – nearly three weeks. Horses could fall out, get hurt on the hard courses, or reach and pass the peak of fitness. But every owner and every trainer with whom the Club was in touch reported a clean bill of health and seemed to be in high hopes. If this went on, there would be over thirty runners, not far off a record.

  The general consensus of opinion was voiced by Lord Burnaby, the Chairman.

  “It should be a very fine race, one of the best and closest – provided only,” and he cast his gaze towards the heavens, “the weather holds!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cross-roads

  Gideon put down the receiver after talking to Henry, and knew that he himself stood at the cross-roads of decision. He had never faced such an an
xiety; not even when – years ago – there had seemed a real danger of separation between him and Kate. Nor, much later, when their oldest daughter had been near to death, her first child stillborn.

  Now, he was conscious of a strange and compelling pressure; yet despite it he had his job to do. Slowly, other thoughts filtered into his mind; he was returning to normal in one way, at least.

  Lemaitre was due to telephone from New York in less than half an hour, he remembered. And there was the Madderton bank job to review: when the financial big-wigs were upset it always caused trouble, and he wanted to be completely au fait with the case before he was called on to report.

  Hobbs asked: “What can I do, sir?”

  “That was Henry,” Gideon told him. “The Jamaican girl’s missing. He wants to know whether to question the people she was working with, or let it go for a while. If we question them, they’ll know we’re after them and they’ll be quite sure she’s on the Force. If we don’t—” He broke off, and picked up the receiver. “Get me Mr. Henry, of AB Division.” He looked hard at Hobbs. “No question about it, of course, we’ve got to find the girl. Might put the fear of God into the young hotheads, while we’re at it.”

  “Or the fear of Gideon,” Hobbs murmured.

  “How anyone could be afraid of telling me the truth—!” Gideon snorted, then broke off abruptly. “Alec, you mean to tell me—?” He drew the mouthpiece closer: “Hallo—Chas? Yes—didn’t need the fifteen minutes, after all. Do you know the names and addresses of this Action Committee? And the Central Committee . . . Good . . . Round them all up – every mother’s son of ‘em! Put several cars on the job, then use a Black Maria and pick ‘em up where the cars have found them . . . Yes, tell the Press about the round-up – but better not say it’s a Lord’s demonstration. Eh? . . . Yes, that’ll do . . . Get ‘em all together in one room – if you can . . . The canteen’ll do fine! Right.” He put down the receiver and gave a grim smile. “He’s satisfied, anyhow – that’s what he wanted to do.”

  “Will you go and see the crowd?” asked Hobbs.

  “I’ll see. Now, what else is—?” Gideon frowned. Then asked, almost humorously incredulous: “Alec, is Penny scared of me?”

  “In some ways, yes,” replied Hobbs, flatly. “In some ways you’re a pretty terrifying person, George. You set standards which—”

  He broke off as the internal telephone rang: this might well be Information, with news of Kate. Gideon lifted the receiver quickly, smoothly, with no sign of tension.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s no one at your house in Harrington Street, sir,” the Chief Inspector in charge of Information reported. “The back door was unlocked, so there was no need to break in. Is there anything else we can do?”

  “Have the house watched, and when my wife comes home have me informed at once,” ordered Gideon.

  “Right, sir!”

  Gideon rang off, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Then he looked up at Hobbs with a taut smile, pursing his lips in such a way that he really did seem frightening. He didn’t speak for a few moments, and when he did it was almost ruefully.

  “I didn’t think the day would come when Kate would talk to you and not to me. You used to scare the wits out of her!”

  “I scared Kate?” Hobbs stared, incredulously.

  “You see, you don’t know how terrifying you are, either! I—”

  Again he broke off, as a long shrill call from the telephone seemed to carry a note of exceptional urgency. Or emergency? He picked it up. “Gideon.”

  “There’s a call from New York on the way for you, sir,” the operator told him. “Mr. Lemaitre would like to speak to you personally.”

  “Put him through,” Gideon said. He motioned to the extension on Lemaitre’s old desk, and Hobbs picked up a pencil and the telephone at the same moment. Two or three different noises and two or three different voices, one strongly American in tone, sounded before Lemaitre’s own broad Cockney twang came across as clearly as if he were somewhere in London.

  “Hi there, George!”

  “Hallo, Lem,” Gideon responded, equably.

  “We’re really on to something!”

  “Let’s have it,” urged Gideon.

  “I’ve talked to these smoking-room boys – all four of them – and they all say the same thing,” Lemaitre reported. “These two Americans are in the horse-training business – from Kentucky. Here goes: Colonel Jason Hood . . . JASON Hood, got that? And Thomas Moffat . . . Moffat – that’s it! They may be staying at the Chase Hotel, Kensington . . . In their cups, they said they’d come over to clean up on a big deal involving the Derby. It was obviously on their minds, the whole trip. Someone’s fixing it the way Charlie Blake told me, but I don’t know who or how. They didn’t ever name the people they were going to see, but we can take it from there, can’t we? One good long talk with them should fix it. I’m booked on a plane that gets me into London about ten-thirty tomorrow morning – but if I know me, after a flight that long, I won’t be much good for—”

  “We’ll make a start this end,” Gideon promised, looking a question at Hobbs, who nodded. So he had all the names down: would start the new line of inquiry at once. “Why don’t you stay over there for a day or two, Lem? You could check the American end more closely – find out more about the Colonel and—”

  “Must I, George?” Lemaitre sounded like a rebellious little boy.

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “I don’t want to lose a minute getting the bracelets on the swine who killed Charlie,” Lemaitre said fervently. “If we could break Jackie Spratt’s at the same time, I’d die happy!”

  “All right,” Gideon decided quickly. “See you tomorrow.”

  He put down the receiver on Lemaitre’s exultations, as certain as anyone could be that Hobbs was thinking along almost the same lines as himself. There wasn’t another man on the Force of Lemaitre’s age and position who would have rejected an offer to stay on in New York, all expenses paid. Hobbs put down the extension, tore a sheet off the note-pad, and crossed to Gideon.

  “There’s only one Lem,” he remarked.

  “Yes. And as far as I can see, only one Alec Hobbs,” Gideon retorted. “I’d like to talk about this business – Penelope – again when I’ve digested it.”

  “Of course. Whenever you wish.”

  “Right.” Gideon braced himself: “Now: I’ve been thinking about these two American horse-trainers. They won’t recognise any of our chaps, so it doesn’t matter who we put on to them. We’d better have someone who really knows the racing game, and he’ll have to work pretty fast.”

  “And with Lemaitre,” Hobbs pointed out.

  “And with Lemaitre. On this job, a man of equal rank, I think.” As Gideon pondered, frowning, a groove appeared between his eyes – in that moment he was surprisingly like John Spratt. “Turpin,” he decided. “Jack Turpin. He’s about Lem’s weight and he won’t tread on his toes. Where is he, do you know?”

  “Down at Newmarket. There was that doping job, at Brighton, and the doped horses were trained at Newmarket.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, talk to him, find out how far he’s got, and have him here this afternoon if it’s practicable. If I’m not here, brief him yourself.” Gideon looked at the note which Hobbs had given him. “Colonel Jason Hood and Mr. Thomas Moffat.” He glanced at his watch. “My God, it’s twenty past two!” He picked up the pipe and put it in his pocket. “I’m going over to AB Division. I’m not easy about the girl.”

  “Have a sandwich before you go,” Hobbs urged.

  Gideon stared; and laughed. “Kate ask you to make sure I eat enough?” he demanded. “I think I’ll go across to the pub.”

  Hobbs said: “Good idea. You could have a glass of beer, too!”

  Gideon was halfway down the steps leading
to the courtyard before he thought: “But Alec hasn’t had any lunch, either.” He paused, shrugged, and went on: Hobbs wouldn’t starve. Hobbs and Penny — good God! It wasn’t possible, was it? He had some quick mental pictures of Penny, coming in late after her performances. Little devil! he thought, and laughed. Then stopped laughing, and thought of Kate. His stride lengthened as he went on.

  Kate, at that moment, was lying full length on the cold, uncomfortable couch of an X-ray unit at the South Western Hospital. A coloured radiographer was talking on the telephone, a red-haired Irish assistant was tucking a little foam rubber pillow under Kate’s head. The strange contraption above her – the square ‘eyes’, the runners, the box like a camera – looked like something from another world. Not since Matthew had been young and complained of violent ‘tummy-ache’, had she seen an X-ray unit. That old picture had shown a safety pin and a nail, in Matthew’s stomach.

  What would this show in her chest?

  The radiographer put down the receiver, came across, made a few adjustments and then unexpectedly smiled down. She was a big, middle-aged, broad-featured woman who looked, in her ample white smock, even bigger than in fact she was.

  “How long have you had this pain, Mrs. Gideon?”

  “Not—not very long.”

  “Now then, ma’am, does that mean days or weeks or months?”

  Kate, feeling utterly helpless, was driven to remember what she simply did not want to admit.

  “I suppose I first noticed the actual pain about a month ago.”

  “And what was it before that? A tickle?”

  Kate was startled into a laugh. “Well—hardly a pain. A pin-prick, rather.”

  “And now it hurts like hell, eh? Now hold your breath for a few seconds. In . . .” The radiographer switched on and there was a whirring sound; then a click. “Now I’ll want you over on your side; your right side. Let me help you.”

  In all, she took six plates; and when she had finished, said with half-laughing assurance. “The doctor will soon find out what’s happening to you, Mrs. Gideon. And knowing what the trouble is, is halfway to getting rid of it. You can dress now.”