by John Creasey
Gideon sat very still.
It could be one of those good days, he told himself, with rising excitement. It could be the day when the Yard got the breaks, at last, against Jackie Spratt’s. Hobbs almost certainly thought that was true; hence the gleam in his eyes.
“How does Jacobus explain the money?” Gideon asked him.
“He says it was a winning bet, placed with Spratt’s.”
“It could have been.”
“Yes,” said Hobbs. “But it wasn’t. The firm doesn’t put its pay-out money in envelopes: they use rubber-bands and a wrapper. It looks as if he had been paid for doing a special job. And we know he attacked Barnaby Budge, which is a pretty special job.”
“Two and two,” remarked Gideon, with increasing elation. “Where’s the envelope?”
“Up in Fingerprints – we should get a report any minute. I’ve told all the others to wait till we send for them. Bligh’s already waiting.”
“Alec,” Gideon prompted, softly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do you know, I couldn’t really tell you,” said Hobbs, just as quietly. “Or at least – George, I don’t like admitting it, and I’ve nothing solid to go on – but I have a feeling this is going to break Jackie Spratt’s wide open. And I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The Spratts have been backing Lavis to win the Men’s Singles – backing him very heavily, through different channels. Which means they wouldn’t want an outsider to win, would they?”
“They certainly wouldn’t!” Gideon’s excitement was audible, now, in his voice. “Have you told Bligh all this?”
“No. I think Bligh’s got enough on his plate, for the time being. I thought—”
Hobbs broke off at a tap on the communicating door with his own room. Gideon called “Come in”, and it was promptly opened by a big, grey-haired, untidily-dressed and shapeless-looking man, as pale and flabby as Gideon was tanned and hard. He was carrying an envelope and some papers in his hand and there was a gleam of rare enthusiasm in his eyes.
This was King-Hadden, the Superintendent in charge of Fingerprints, perhaps Gideon’s oldest friend at the Yard, after Lemaitre, and a man so old in the Yard’s service that in the ordinary way he took everything with almost maddening matter-of-factness. For him, this display of interest was downright excitement.
“Hallo, Nick,” Gideon greeted him.
“Morning, George – Alec.” Satisfaction positively shone from him as he advanced, holding the envelope as if it were precious. “Now we have got something, this morning! See that?” He put down the envelope and pointed to a grey patch. On close inspection, this proved to be a fingerprint which had been brought up by brushing grey powder over it – and as usual, much of the powder had contrived to adhere to the cuffs of King-Hadden’s coat.
Then out of the envelope, like a rabbit from a hat, he drew a photograph. “Photo-enlargement of the same print,” he announced. “And then – look at this!”
Gideon waited, with a kind of choking excitement; Hobbs, too, was more visibly tensed-up than he had ever seen him.
With exasperating precision, King-Hadden took the other documents from under his arm and placed them carefully on Gideon’s desk so that both he and Hobbs could see them. This was a copy of the Records file on Charlie Blake, with Charlie’s dead face, photographed, stuck to one corner. Pinned to this, was the photograph of a fingerprint.
“See that?” King-Hadden cried in triumph. “That’s the print we got off Blake’s neck-the thumb print of his murderer. And that—” he pointed to the one on John Spratt’s envelope— “is identical! Same print; same person. The man who handled that envelope with the money in it was Blake’s killer. Find that man, George, and you’re home and dry!”
After a long moment, Gideon said into a hushed silence: “Where is Jacobus, Alec?”
“Over at Cannon Row,” Hobbs told him.
“Bring him here,” ordered Gideon. “Bring him here at once.” He looked at King-Hadden’s big, pale face with a grimly approving smile. “Good job you were so quick off the mark, Nick! Our man might have taken fright and—” He glanced sharply at Hobbs. “He hasn’t, I hope?”
“We’re watching all the Spratt brothers,” Hobbs assured him. “They’re not going to get away. I’ll go over for Jacobus myself, George,” he added. “Would you like to see Bligh while I’m gone?”
After a pause, Gideon said: “Yes. Yes, I will.” He clapped a hand on King-Hadden’s shoulder as he went out, still very pleased with the way things were going. “Thanks again, Nick. That’s a real shot in the arm.” Then he turned to the communicating door as Bligh came in briskly from Hobbs’ office.
Without speaking, Gideon motioned to a chair. He needed a few seconds to adjust himself, unwind a little; and it would do Bligh no harm to control any impatience. He went to the window, and looked out; and the brightness and the gaiety of the river, the familiar panorama of Bridge and Embankment, brought him a kind of peace. It was such a pleasant day, too – the thirteenth in a row without rain, in London, but with a slight breeze which made the river surface dance and gentled his forehead as he stood there.
Bligh had obeyed the tacit injunction to sit, but he sat like a statue, hardly seeming to breathe.
At last – what must have been to Bligh, at long last – Gideon returned to his desk and seated himself in his own vast chair. He was aware of Bligh’s scrutiny, and wondered what was going on behind the younger man’s eyes. Gruffly, he told him: “Recognising Jacobus could be very important indeed.”
“My luck, sir,” said Bligh, and did not add: “has turned.”
“Call it luck if you like,” Gideon grunted. “We’re not sure yet, but it might take us to Jackie Spratt’s bunch.”
Bligh’s eyes glinted. “That would really be something, sir!”
He did not ask ‘how?’. He was behaving in copy-book fashion and there was no doubt at all that he was exerting every effort to ensure that his behaviour was impeccable.
“It would indeed. Now – today’s Test Match with South Africa. What have you in mind?”
“Well, sir, I’ve had a long talk with Mr. Henry and another with Detective Constable Conception. I asked questions, she wrote the answers. I’ve talked to five of the Action Committee, but they’re a stubborn lot: won’t say a thing. However, Miss Conception is convinced that the action will be today – she says she saw a lot of the tickets which were distributed, and they were all first day reservations. I’ve seen over forty, myself, that were in the prisoners’ possession – and they were all for today. It seems a safe bet that all the rest are.”
“A thousand altogether, weren’t there?” Gideon remarked.
“Yes, sir. And if there’s going to be a big demonstration like that, you can be sure they’ll wait until the crowd’s at its biggest.”
“After the tea interval,” Gideon murmured.
“That’s right, sir. The fans leave their offices and works early and get in around four or four-thirty for the last two hours’ play. So I would guess the trouble will start somewhere around half-past four. We ought to be ready an hour earlier, at least.”
“Yes. Are there any indications of what the demonstration will be like?”
After a pause, Bligh said slowly: “Only one, sir. The tickets were all in ones and twos. I mean, they weren’t in long sequences – weren’t all bunched together. Miss Conception says those she saw were dotted pretty widely about the ground. Mostly in the popular stands, sir – the unreserved seats: the ten shillings and seven-and-sixes. If that’s true of the whole thousand, then it looks as if it could be a general attack from a thousand different places.”
“Have you any indication of what kind of attack or demonstration?” Gideon asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
“What?�
��
“Fireworks and smoke-bombs – presumably mostly among the crowd, sir. Although there are certain to be some on the pitch.”
“Steady on! Why do you think this?”
“Because among the papers found at Kenneth Noble’s, sir, was a receipt from a manufacturer of pyrotechnics for squibs, crackers and smoke and stink-bombs. We haven’t found many, but there were some at the homes of each member of the Action Committee. I deduced that—”
“All right, I’ll buy that,” interrupted Gideon. “What do you propose to do?”
Bligh cleared his throat, nervous for the first time since he had come in. It was almost painful to see how intense he was; how anxious not to put a foot wrong.
“I’d welcome your suggestions, sir. I—er—that is, bearing in mind that there isn’t very long to work in.”
“Let’s know what you’ve got up your sleeve,” Gideon told him.
Bligh’s eyes were shining – almost, thought Gideon, the eyes of a fanatic – and his lips quivered a little. He was so anxious not to sound too vehement, to show that he was completely objective.
“Well, sir, if we had a thousand men in the ground, stationed on the gangways at the end of each row – I had a word with the M.C.C. Secretary, sir, and a thousand would just about cover it. If our chaps squatted on the gangway steps, the moment the demonstration started they could each just take one man. Or woman. I mean – sir, I know it probably wouldn’t work like clockwork, but when you come to think, the demonstrators are bound to want to invade the pitch, so they’re likely to move towards the gangways, so as to reach the pitch, anyway – you see?”
He almost blushed at that remark, but collected himself again and rushed on: “Truly, sir, it shouldn’t be too difficult. And if we had a Black Maria at each of the exits – well, we could have the whole mob under lock and key within an hour, and the game would hardly have been interrupted!”
Gideon could see the picture as Bligh unfolded his plan; and the more clearly he saw it, the more he applauded. Bligh himself, having stopped, could hardly now contain his eagerness or his anxiety. And it came to Gideon that not only was this man good and thorough: he was absolutely dedicated. He had never known a man who deserved encouragement more.
Slowly, he nodded, and relief passed like sunlight over Bligh’s face.
“It could work like clockwork, if all your deductions are right,” Gideon told him. “We’ll give it a go.” He wondered how Bligh managed to keep his elation under control, but he did. “You’ll need to have all the men there by three-thirty, mostly in plainclothes. Better have some earlier, in fact, in case we’ve guessed wrong about the timing. You can have the gates cordoned off by uniformed men. I’ll send instructions to the divisions and we’ll use everyone we can from here. And thanks, Bligh – it could be a major success.”
“My God, I hope it is!” Bligh exploded, at last. “Thank you, sir!”
Gideon nodded dismissal, and Bligh went to the door as if he were sailing on a cloud. Then he turned, his expression completely altered.
“I only wish I’d been there to save the American, Rudge, from being hurt – they say he’ll have to scratch. But P.C. Donaldson did a very good best in the car park, sir.”
“Yes,” Gideon nodded. “Yes.” And then sat back and waited for Hobbs to bring Jacobus in.
That was the moment when the committee at the All England Tennis Club, sitting in the secretary’s office at Wimbledon, had gathered to discuss a special problem. For the first time in years, there had been no stoppages because of rain and all the competitions were well ahead of schedule. The record crowd of last year looked like being beaten comfortably, and there was still a week and two days to go. No one had expected a call to the secretary’s office and all were anxious to go and watch the games.
“There is just the one matter, gentlemen,” the secretary, Major Cartwright informed them. “It is in the form of a letter from one of the competitors – Mr. Barnaby Rudge, from Alabama.”
The sixteen men sitting round the table all showed a sudden interest. Two, collecting papers from the table, stopped and went still. The chairman said: “The man who had trouble in Number 3 Court?”
“That’s the kind of thing we really don’t want,” remarked a committee man.
“Wasn’t he hurt?” someone else asked. “Attacked, or something? These colour prejudices—”
“Perhaps you will read the letter, Major,” invited the chairman.
“It’s very short,” Cartwright stated, and held it up so that all could see the very large, black, schoolboyish handwriting. “It says: I respectfully request the Committee to enable me to play my next round on Monday next, when my injuries will be recovered.”
There was silence as Cartwright sat down. The chairman took the letter and read it aloud again; then murmured thoughtfully: “I wonder what rearrangement of matches it would mean?”
“Not too many, I think,” said Cartwright, at once.
“No more than if we’d had three days of rain,” offered another man.
“But we really must leave it to the Referee and his committee.” Cartwright looked towards a big, powerful-looking man: the Referee or Manager of the Tournament. “He has all the rearranging to do.”
“And think of the effect on the other competitors,” warned a small, bald-headed man.
“It would affect only Cyril Wallers, who’s due to play Rudge tomorrow,” stated the Referee, obviously fully briefed.
“Wallers has a doubles and a mixed doubles,” remarked the first objector.
“He might be able to get them played off first – might be glad to,” put in a man who hadn’t spoken. “I think we should try.” He looked at the Referee. “Can we, Ben?”
“If we make it clear that the match must be played on Monday,” the Referee said, judiciously, “I think we can do it quite comfortably. I’m sure Cyril Wallers would suggest that, if he knew it would help. There is a great deal of sympathy for Rudge among players and spectators alike and I feel this is most certainly a case where we should try. I’d like your approval, though, gentlemen?”
There was a pause, as the chairman looked first in one direction and then in the other, before saying: “I think we can make that unanimous, then. Thank you. You’ll let him know, Ben? Good. Now, with a little luck, we’ll have time to see the Lavis-Collis match on the Centre Court!”
Barnaby Rudge had an aura of radiance as he read the letter, delivered to him by hand only half an hour later. And Willison could hardly speak, he was so relieved. Half an hour later still, Barnaby was with the young doctor, who was examining the wrenched shoulder. It was so painful that it was almost ludicrous to think it might be better in time.
“But the X-ray shows there’s nothing broken,” Dr. Miller pointed out. “We’ll see what my magic can do.” He glanced down at Barnaby’s leg, without adding that he was still more worried about the shin injury than the shoulder.
Very slowly, very tremblingly, Sebastian Jacobus looked at Gideon across Gideon’s desk, and said: “I’d have done it for nothing. I’d be glad to do it again. I didn’t need paying for putting that black bastard off the court! They shouldn’t be allowed—”
“That’s enough,” Gideon interrupted coldly. “You were paid to attack Rudge. The money is a clear indication of that. We know you didn’t place any bets that day and we know you have heavy gambling debts at the Gotham Casino and others. Who paid you, Jacobus? Don’t waste any more time.”
There was silence, before Hobbs said: “That Spratt crew wouldn’t keep so quiet. They’re not worth anyone’s protection.”
Jacobus swung round, his eyes blazing, and cried: “How did you know it was Spratt? Wlio the hell told—?” And then broke off, realising how completely he had been tricked.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clean Sweep
At twe
nty minutes to five that afternoon, the South African captain turned a fast yorker from England’s most consistent bowler to the leg side, and two English fieldsmen raced for the red ball to try to cut it off from the boundary, and so save one, if not two, runs.
Until that moment, the scene was typical of Lord’s and as near idyllic as it could be. Here were the best cricketers England had, playing in the game which had been born not fifty miles from this spot; eleven men, bronzed from the bright summer, clad in white which showed stark against the emerald-green of the pitch and outfield – a green maintained by a miracle of groundsmen’s skill and patience. And there were two of their opponents from South Africa, a country which had inherited the game so long ago, and now could field a team on equal terms with England’s own.
Nearly thirty thousand people watched – as many as the ground would hold.
Every seat was filled. Every patch of grass between the front seats and the wooden boundary was filled, too; mostly with young boys. It was hot. Sellers of score-cards moved among the crowd in their constant quest for business. Around by the newly built Tavern, hundreds stood elbow to elbow, beer-glasses in their hands.
The stands had all been painted for this season, and despite the multitude, everything looked spick and span. Women in their gayest dresses, old and young men in their shirt-sleeves, watched the little red ball and the two men racing towards it and the other two running between the wickets – adding to a total already ominous for England: 163 runs for two men out. Every eye, save those upturned in drinking or down-turned while scraping the last taste of ice-cream from a carton, was directed towards the ball. So much energy, so much effort; almost as if life depended on it.
One of the fieldsmen stopped the ball with his foot. The other dived and picked it up, turned and threw it back towards the centre of the field, and there was a burst of eager applause.
