by John Creasey
Another burst of applause came from the Centre Court, and he wondered who was playing. He had to pass along there to get to the meadows which were used as parking places: he had left his machine in one of the nearest.
Then, suddenly, he saw a man who looked like the one who had shouted: “Go home, nigger!” And in a flash, his exaltation dispersed, and gloom replaced it. For that to have happened here, at his beloved Wimbledon!
Instinctively – knowing the only way to forget, the only way to salve his injured spirit, was to practise his service: practise it until he dropped – he increased his pace. All he wanted, now, was to get to that secret court at The Towers.
He saw several men about the park, three of them close to his motor-scooter. But he did not give them a second thought until he was astride it. Then, very slowly, three of them converged on him, and suddenly he realised what they were here to do.
For a split second he was thunder-struck. Then, with the nearest man only three yards away, he leapt off his machine and backed towards a car; lessons learned bitterly in his youth now racing through the years to help him.
Then the first man struck at him with a stick or bar, and the full horror of his purpose flashed through Barnaby’s mind. If he took one such blow on his serving arm, he had no chance at all to win the crown. He jerked aside, desperately – and somewhere, a whistle shrilled out. For a split second, he thought these men had sent for others: that he had no chance at all. Then they turned away and began to run!
He could not believe his eyes. The whistle shrilled again and Barnaby saw a policeman in the far corner, helmet high above the sun-brightened roofs of the cars, a whistle at his lips. His relief was so great that for a moment, he went limp. Then, as he started shakily forward, he struck his left leg on the bumper of a car and crashed down, instinctively thrusting his right shoulder forward to take the weight of the fall.
The first thing he felt was the sharp pain in that shoulder and in his shin.
The second was near-panic, because of the shoulder. He was deaf to the shouting, the shrilling of whistles, the pounding of feet. He was simply filled with blind panic at the unbearable shattering of his dream. Because he could not use that shoulder again for days: the precious, vital days.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Despair
Police Constable Donaldson was in that particular car park because he suspected that the pickpockets and bag-snatchers used two or three cars in the park, near the direct entrance from the courts, to stow away their loot. He was still in a flush of satisfaction because Superintendent French had told him that his report was being taken seriously and he was to see Chief Inspector Bligh later in the day. Meanwhile, French had pointed out, if he could find more evidence against Martha Triggett, then the stronger his case and the better his chances of transfer to the Criminal Investigation Department.
Donaldson’s attention had first been aroused by the frequency of the visits to that particular car park during playing hours. People came in late, often enough; but few, once they were at Wimbledon, left early. While keeping watch, he had noticed three different youths and two girls go up to one of three cars, open the boot, put something in, close and lock it, and return to the courts area. There were always hundreds of people moving about, going from one court to another – drawn by rumours of a close match or of a personality, or of trouble – so the pathways were always thronged.
What they do, Donaldson reasoned, is go and take a wallet or what-have-you and unload it into the car. Then, I’ll bet, someone comes and takes the stuff away.
He had been there at that particular time, standing behind a big, old-fashioned Rolls-Royce which gave him fair cover, to watch the three cars he believed were being used as a temporary cache. He had seen the four men come into the park and although he had recognised none of them, there was something in their manner which had made him suspicious. The way they looked around, for instance; the way they gathered in a kind of cordon, and waited – for what? His first suspicion was that they were car thieves, here on a lightning raid: but there was nothing hurried about what they were doing.
Then he had seen a tall negro coming across the park, and had noticed the way the waiting men tensed. The young negro had made his way to a motor-scooter and the policeman had looked from him to the four men. He did not fully understand; did not realise what was going to happen – until three of them began to approach the negro menacingly. And in the instant that one man struck with savage force, P.C. Donaldson blew his whistle.
Within seconds, other police were hurrying to the scene as the four attackers fled. Once they reached the crowded pathways, there was little chance to catch them, and all four got away.
But Chief Inspector Bligh, who had heard the alarm, had caught sight of one of the fleeing men. And he had no doubt at all that it was Sebastian Jacobus, the well-known Right-wing troublemaker and a ring-leader in the agitation against immigrants living in Britain.
Gideon’s lunch, with two prominent bankers who wanted to discuss general security for bank transport, was useful, but there was little he could promise. He would have to ponder deeply, as well as contact the City of London police and other forces in the Home Counties. As he left the City restaurant, close to the stark, new Barbican and mellowed St. Paul’s, he saw a coloured bus conductress, and his thoughts flew to Juanita Conception. The lunch hadn’t lasted too long, and he could just fit in a visit.
His driver ventured: “I had a bet with myself that you’d go to the hospital, sir.”
Gideon grunted.
Ten minutes later, he went into a small ward, where the girl was dozing. He half-wished he had not bothered her, for she was so obviously under sedation that the name ‘Gideon’ did not seem to mean anything to her. He murmured a few platitudes, and left, carrying a picture of her young face and the huge pad on her lips.
Once back at his office, he felt glad that he had been to the hospital. Such visits were never a waste of time. He had begun to look through some papers when Bligh telephoned.
The note of excitement in his voice was very noticeable as he reported.
“Quite sure it was Jacobus you saw?” asked Gideon.
“Positive, sir,” said Bligh.
“And they attacked this American just after he’d come off the court?”
“About half an hour afterwards, sir. And there’d been an incident when he was on the court, during his match. Just as he was at match point, a man in the crowd shouted out ‘Go home, nigger!’ I—er—happened to be there.”
“What happened?” demanded Gideon.
“Well, a rather fine thing, sir,” Bligh told him. “He was playing young Bruce Hamilton, one of Australia’s most promising young players. Hamilton obviously heard the baiting, and threw away two points. He was outclassed, mind you – this chap Rudge is a very powerful player. But his nerve was badly shaken and Hamilton might have turned the tables – very sporting gesture, it was. Afterwards – it’s a bloody shame – young Rudge fell and hurt his shoulder. It’s probably going to make him drop out and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d beaten some of the top seeds.”
“Pity,” Gideon grunted. “Bad enough if he’d just had an accident.” He was sifting through some papers on his desk and couldn’t find what he wanted. “Hold on, Bligh.” He pressed a bell for Hobbs, who came in at once. “Alec, I read something about Sebastian Jacobus today, he met a—ah! I’ve remembered. Wait a minute, Alec, will you?” He spoke into the telephone again: “Jacobus has cropped up in another job – we’ll find him and talk to him, but you concentrate on Wimbledon. How are things going on the pick-pocket front?”
“Not much doubt about what’s happening, sir – and Donaldson’s right,” Bligh answered. “It’s a very well-organised business. If I could come and report in the morning—”
“All right,” Gideon told him. “Ten-thirty.” He rang off
and looked up at Hobbs, half-smiling. “How did Bligh do at the meeting?” he asked.
“He was brilliant,” Hobbs said simply.
“H’mm. Watch him – we don’t want this to go to his head. He’ll be here at half-past ten tomorrow.” Gideon sifted through his notes: “Here’s what I want – Jacobus and John Spratt were seen in a huddle at the R.A.A. Club, this morning – no, yesterday.” He frowned. “And Charlie Blake died after telling Lem there was something being rigged over the Derby. And Lem certainly thinks Jackie Spratt’s are involved. What about those two Americans – Colonel-something-Hood and Thomas Moffatt?”
“We’ve had no report,” Hobbs replied. “They’re at the Chase Hotel but presumably behaving quite normally.”
“They are being watched, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Get an up-to-the-minute report quickly, will you?” Gideon said.
“Tonight?” asked Hobbs.
Gideon pursed his lips, then shook his head.
“Shouldn’t think we need it that fast. If anything urgent should crop up, we’ll be told. The morning should do.”
It was not like Hobbs to agree to put anything off and Gideon wondered what he had planned for the night. Then he realised that he hadn’t told Hobbs about the doctor’s report on Kate. So he told him in the simplest of terms.
Hobbs showed deep relief, touched with anxiety.
“Why don’t you take her down to Brighton yourself?” he asked. “We can manage here, and—”
“I don’t doubt that you can manage,” said Gideon drily. “But it’s not an emergency, thank God. I want to see what happens at Lord’s tomorrow. I—” He broke off, staring hard, almost as if he had been seized by a sudden pain. “If they are going to cause trouble at the match, it will be tomorrow, won’t it?”
“Yes,” Hobbs answered promptly.
“Can that girl talk, yet?”
“Juanita Conception? No, but she can hear questions and write the answers.”
“Good. I want all the details she can give me about the thousand tickets—” He saw Hobbs’ expression change, and asked abruptly: “What’s up?”
“Bligh went to see her this afternoon, and she told him,” Hobbs replied. “The tickets are all for tomorrow, that’s why I am sure about the day.”
There was a long pause, before Gideon let out a deep breath, smiled wryly, and said: “Then no doubt Bligh will tell us what action he proposes to take in the morning.”
They both laughed.
Lou Willison was not laughing. He was standing in the drawing-room of The Towers, fighting hard to hide his almost unbearable anxiety.
Barnaby Rudge was sitting awkwardly on the arm of a sofa, only a string-vest over his magnificent chest and torso. The injury to his leg made standing painful, and he held his right arm close to his shoulder. A doctor was piercing the top of a capsule with a hypodermic needle, holding it up to the window as he drew the liquid into the syringe.
“This will take the pain away,” he promised.
“But will it—” began Willison, and stopped abruptly. But Barnaby said it for him.
“Doctor Miller,” he asked, in a low-pitched voice, “will that help me get fit for a match tomorrow?”
“It won’t help you, and it won’t make the chances any less,” said the doctor, who was young and lean and healthy-looking. “Let’s have your arm!” He sponged a spot with alcohol, and put the needle in so quickly and skilfully that Barnaby did not even flinch. Then drew it out, slowly, and dabbed the spot with a fresh piece of cotton-wool. “There’s no point in fooling yourself, Mr. Rudge,” he added. “You won’t be fit for practice or match-play for several days.”
Barnaby looked sick. He got up almost blindly and crossing to the window, stood staring out at the shrubbery which hid the practice court, his jaws clenching and unclenching.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Willison asked desperately.
“Absolutely.” The young doctor shrugged. “He might be all right in three days, but either the shoulder or the leg could let him down if he plays too soon. That gash in his leg will take some healing, but there’s no muscle damage and we can kill the pain.”
Barnaby was muttering to himself: “So they hate me – hate me because I’m a negro! They hate me.” He turned slowly to Willison and the doctor, and they stood appalled at the expression in his eyes. “They hate me and I hate them! Every damn white man, I hate.” He was quivering with fury, and his eyes were glazed. “I was going to win, I tell you! I was going to win!”
Dr. Miller said as reassuringly as he could: “There will be another time, Mr. Rudge. If you need me again, Mr. Willison, I’ll be at home.” He packed his bag and went to the door; then, as Barnaby still stood glaring at them both, he paused to add: “I shall do anything I can.”
Willison was thinking: Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars – disappeared into thin air. My God, this will ruin me! Then his train of thought changed and he moved towards the young negro. If he himself felt as if the ground had been blasted from under his feet, what must Barnaby feel like?
“Barnaby,” he said, quietly. “Maybe you need another year. This way, you haven’t lost. This way, you’ll have a lot of sympathy next year. And you’ll win then, all right! It’s just a question of waiting.” Every word had to be forced from his lips: all the time, he was sick at the thought of how much he had lost.
Barnaby muttered: “Just because I’m black. No other reason – just because I’m black!”
Willison was thinking: Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! He put his hand on Barnaby’s left shoulder, but the boy shrugged himself violently free. Willison kept his hand outstretched and said: “Barnaby, you feel like hell and I don’t blame you. But don’t take it out on me.”
There was no softening in the hardness of Barnaby Rudge’s eyes.
There was a bright glint in John Spratt’s eyes as he read the Evening News, later that evening; for a front page banner headline screamed:
RACE HATRED HITS WIMBLEDON
Play on Number 3 Court at Wimbledon today was interrupted by a cry of ‘Go home, nigger!’ as Barnaby Rudge, a non-seeded player of great power, was about to serve for a match point against Bruce Hamilton, the Queensland champion. The cry put Rudge off his service, and Hamilton, in a splendid sporting gesture, threw away the next two points.
This was the first time any hint of racial prejudice has ever been revealed among the Wimbledon crowds . . .
The story was a summary of Rudge’s playing career, named Willison as his sponsor, and made reference to the several other non-white contenders. Then John Spratt looked down at the stop-press, and saw the red-printed paragraph:
Barnaby Rudge Attacked
Negro contender for Wimbledon crown attacked in car park late this afternoon. Understood his right shoulder and left leg were injured. Police on the scene prevented more serious injuries. See p. 1.
Soon, a messenger was on the way from John Spratt’s office to Sebastian Jacobus, with two hundred and fifty pounds inside an envelope which John himself had sealed.
Jacobus was alone in his small flat in Chelsea, when the front door bell rang. It made him jump, and he hated the possibility that this was the police. Instead, it was Spratt’s messenger. He ripped open the envelope, saw the money, gave the messenger a pound note from his pocket and returned to his living-room. He poured himself a strong whisky and soda, for his nerves had been badly shaken by the near-disaster. Then he counted the money, but even that did little to soothe him.
His three associates had gone to ground in their respective homes; but he knew that if anyone had been recognised, it was he.
His front door bell rang again, and this time, the sound stabbed through him. He was expecting no one, and could not imagine who this would be. At last, he forced himself to answer the bell, rea
ching the door as it rang for the third time. He opened the door, and knew on the instant that the two men standing there were police officers.
He did not even have the courage to bluster.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Silent Thousand
“Now,” said Gideon to Hobbs, next morning. “What have we got?”
“Problems,” answered Hobbs, drily. “Lemaitre’s back but he’s down with some kind of gastric trouble, and his wife says he’s doubled up with cramp! I told her to tell him not to attempt to come in.”
“Good. Turpin can stay in control of the Blake job.”
“Colonel Hood and Thomas Moffat have flown back to New York,” Hobbs added. “They caught a plane from London Airport late last night.”
“Oh, damn and blast it! If I hadn’t said wait, we could have talked to them.”
“At least it’s a pretty clear indication that someone doesn’t want them to talk to us,” Hobbs pointed out. “But there’s a rather odd little compensation.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Gideon said, wryly.
“They were seen off by one of Spratt’s runners – and with the Derby only a couple of weeks off, I’d say we can’t wait long before we tackle the Jackie Spratt organisation.”
“Go and see Lemaitre,” Gideon told him.
“Sure you won’t go yourself?”
“Yes. I may be on call from the Commissioner most of the day.” Gideon put his hand heavily on the folders in front of him: he had got that lot to deal with yet, too. “What else?”
“We’ve picked up Jacobus,” Hobbs told him, and his eyes brightened.
“Now that’s much better! Has he said anything?”
“So far, he’s refused to say a word – but there’s something odd about that, too.” Hobbs was obviously enjoying his report and Gideon had a feeling that he was deliberately letting out the good news piece by piece. So he waited, and Hobbs went on: “He had twenty-five ten pound notes on his writing-desk – in an envelope marked J.S.”
