Gideon's Fire

by John Creasey

  ‘What’s the secrecy about, dear?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ answered Gideon. ‘I wondered if young Matt had said anything to you about his troubles.’

  Kate looked startled.

  ‘Troubles?’

  ‘So he hasn’t?’

  ‘George, what has he been telling you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gideon, ‘but I thought he was on the verge of a confidence downstairs. How long has he been sleeping badly?’

  ‘Ever since that examination,’ Kate answered slowly. ‘It didn’t seem to worry him when he was swotting for it, but at the exam time and afterwards he seemed to be worried too much, he thought he was going to fail. He hasn’t been really himself since, and I’ve an idea that it’s worry about how he’ll get on at Cambridge. He thinks he’ll feel a little out of his depth, mixing with the sons of belted earls and . . .’

  ‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Gideon flatly. ‘He might have a bit of an inferiority complex when he gets there, but it wouldn’t get him down now. See if you can get something out of him, will you?’

  ‘George, what do you suspect?’

  ‘Dunno that I suspect anything,’ Gideon replied. ‘I’ve just got a feeling that he wanted to talk but couldn’t bring himself to. Now don’t you start worrying!’

  ‘It can’t be anything serious,’ Kate said hopefully.

  When Gideon left, at a quarter to nine, and determined to be punctual at the office this morning, nothing else had been said about Matthew. They had all breakfasted together, Gideon felt replete, there had been no difficulty with the car, and Matthew had seen him out of the garage. He did not give a great deal of thought to the boy, but let his mind roam over the cases he knew would be up for briefing this morning, and speculation on what else had happened during the night. Please God there hadn’t been another fire. Joe Bell had been in for some time, and the morning’s reports were on the desk. Gideon glanced through them, relieved that Bell had not greeted him with bad news.

  ‘Quiet night,’ Gideon remarked.

  ‘We can do with one,’ said Bell. ‘Certainly there’s nothing to write home about.’

  ‘Any messages?’

  ‘No one’s properly awake yet,’ Bell answered. ‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a thin morning.’

  By a quarter to ten, he was proved right. Lemaitre, Cornish, Margetson and Riddell all reported ‘no progress’. There was a ticklish little problem resulting from a raid on a Mayfair house where gaming had long been suspected; among the thirty detainees coming up for hearing this morning at Marlborough Street were three gentlemen who claimed diplomatic privilege; already the fact that they had been in a police cell for several hours was causing indignation and threats of reprisals.

  ‘I’ll check with the A.C.,’ Gideon said to the detective inspector who had led the raid. ‘If I have my way they’ll claim their privilege from the dock. Okay, Pete.’ The C.I. went out, and Gideon spent ten minutes reading the rest of the reports. Even the telephone was more quiet than usual, and he stood up suddenly.

  ‘I’m going to have a quick tour this morning,’ he said. ‘If I’m urgently wanted and don’t answer the radio, try KL and QR.’

  ‘Right, George,’ Bell said. ‘Not much of a morning for a joy-ride, though.’

  ‘Could be worse,’ said Gideon.

  Whenever he wanted a quick look round the Divisions, as now, he drove himself. The rain was still coming down in squalls and with the wind was whipping the surface of the Thames to hissing fury. Traffic was noticeably thinner than usual, which meant that the day-time motorists were staying at home. Gideon drove over Westminster Bridge, and within fifteen minutes was sliding to a standstill outside the QR Divisional Headquarters. When he looked at the old early Victorian building, he reflected that it could almost rate for demolition, there were far too many fire traps among the police stations. How right was Carmichael? He went in, finding policemen eager to salute, and doors opening as if at the wave of a wand. Manning was in his office. It wasn’t surprising to find this scrupulously tidy, and looking as if the cleaners had only just left. Manning, big, plump, bald and smooth-shaven, held out his hand.

  ‘Glad to see you, George. Sit down, and what about a cuppa?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind that after I’ve had a look at Hilton Terrace, and this telephone kiosk,’ Gideon said. ‘Any news about Mrs. Jarvis yet?’

  A neighbour says she’s getting on top of the situation already,’ Manning reported. ‘I’m going to see her myself today to make sure there’s nothing she needs.’

  ‘Good,’ approved Gideon. ‘Mind if I go along to the scene of the Hilton Terrace fire?’

  ‘Like me for a guide?’

  ‘Can you spare the time?’

  ‘Spare anything for the Big White Chief,’ said Manning. ‘As a matter of fact I was going to have another look round myself today some time. Margetson’s over there with a couple of our chaps and a man from the Fire Service.’

  Except for the blackened, gutted buildings, a few barricades to make sure that no one could get too close to the wreckage, things were back to normal in Hilton Terrace. On the outside landings of the tenements which remained were lines of washing, and more washing hung from windows. Only a small, listless crowd watched the police and the fire assessors among the ruins. Gideon spent five minutes with them, finding out that Margetson still had nothing to report, and then went to the telephone kiosk. It was easy to see how right Margetson had been.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Manning.

  ‘Always like to see for myself. Thanks,’ Gideon said. ‘Pity we haven’t got some kind of a line on the man yet.’

  ‘We will, soon,’ Manning said.

  As it happened the man whom Mrs. Tennison knew as Mr. Brown was within fifteen minutes’ walk of the two police chiefs at that moment. Sleeping. He had been out on night work at a big hotel again.

  Gideon drove from Lambeth across the river at London Bridge to Bethnal Green, the scene of the first and fourth fires. There were practically no traces of either, for the other slum houses in the street were being pulled down. A few blackened rafters and, unexpectedly, the wreck of a burnt-out car in a plot of land opposite the scene of the first one were the only signs. He went from there to Canning Town, where the burnt-out tenements survived. They made a gaping blot on the district of row upon row of four-storey tenements, all of them fire traps, and each almost criminally overcrowded. Next, he drove to Whitechapel, and pulled up and looked at a new building going up near the burned hovels. Carmichael was right about one thing: the districts were all very much the same. They gave a sense of overcrowding, of squalor, of shameful slum conditions, in spite of the television antennae at practically every roof, in spite of the bright new furniture in the nearby shops, the gown and dress stores, the crammed food shops. There was a lot of money about, and comparatively little poverty in the old sense, but the trappings of poverty remained. A family with an income of thirty or forty pounds a week might still live in two rooms, sleeping three and four in a room, sexes mixed up far into the early teens. Here, crime spawned, sex knowledge came very early, life was vastly different from life in Hurlingham. Yet the women looked healthy, well made-up and well-dressed. Gideon saw a lad about Matthew’s age cycling along and whistling, a small skull cap on the back of his head, school satchel flopping up and down on his back. Had Kate talked to Matthew yet? Gideon hardly gave that a thought, but drove back towards the City, and then cut across towards North London. When he reached the Angel, Islington, he pulled up alongside a policeman, and asked:

  ‘How do I get to Littleton Street, please?’

  ‘Straight along here, sir, first on the left, and then second on the right,’ the constable answered. ‘You can’t miss it, there’s a big warehouse on the corner - Debben’s - general wholesaler’s place. Turn sharp right there. You want to be careful turning the corner, the lorries and vans come out a bit fast sometimes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gideon, and then saw recogniti
on dawn in the man’s eyes, followed by a look of astonishment. He drove on, pleased as always at the evidence of courteousness and helpfulness among the Force. These chaps today had a hell of a job, far worse than when he had been on the beat. For one thing, if he’d given a young idiot a clout, in his day, no one had complained. He saw the big ugly concrete building of Debben’s, Wholesale Merchants, and as he turned the corner, a lorry swung out of the loading yard, and the driver jammed on his brakes. What made people behave as if saving seconds justified risking life?

  Another van came out, more slowly. It was a big one. The driver was a burly man, in his shirtsleeves in spite of the coolness and the rain. He had thick hair which grew low on his forehead, and eyes buried beneath a matt of black eyebrows. Gideon thought: Not a customer I’d like the girls to meet in the dark, and then rebuked himself; the theory of Lombroso died hard even in the minds of men who had never really believed it. This chap was probably a model father and husband. He waved Gideon on, and Gideon did not see the way he looked towards the house where Ivy Manson had been attacked.

  John Stewart Briggs did not know that the car he waved to was driven by a man from Scotland Yard. He was simply on his best behaviour, because he did not want the slightest trouble with the police. There was one good thing: no one had questioned him, and no one seemed to suspect that he had sometimes given the Manson kid a ride.

  Carson of KL was waiting for Gideon. He was a short, dapper man, with a pale face, well-dressed, well-groomed, somehow giving an impression of being cold-blooded. No one at the Yard knew him well. He was a good, painstaking and conscientious policeman, and a better detective than most - and he was the most formal man on the Force.

  ‘Good morning, Commander,’ he greeted.

  ‘ ‘Morning, Carson.’

  ‘I regret to inform you that we have as yet obtained no useful information,’ announced Carson.

  ‘Pity. How’re the parents?’

  ‘There appears to be a real possibility that the mother will have to go into hospital,’ Carson deposed. ‘She is showing signs of shock and acute mental distress, and I understand that her husband, relations and a neighbour have not been able to make her utter a word for the past eighteen hours. The child came very late, the woman was forty-five at the time of birth, and both parents idolised her.’ The way Carson reported this made the facts seem even more hideous; his very coldness made them speak for themselves. ‘A doctor is with her now, and at my suggestion is arranging for a consultation shortly with a specialist.’

  ‘Hmm,’ grunted Gideon. ‘And you haven’t picked up a thing?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Carson. ‘There is one approach which I have not yet made, because it seemed to me that we might be wise to hold our hand for a short while.’

  Gideon forebore to say: ‘Supposing the killer does it again?’

  ‘It would be most unusual if the man were to make another attack so quickly upon the first,’ went on Carson, ‘and I do not believe there is any danger in delay.’ Gideon smothered a grin at himself. ‘The place I have in mind is Debben’s Warehouse,’ went on Carson unemotionally. ‘I am told that it is the custom of some of the drivers to give the children of the district a ride from time to time. That does not often happen, and is expressly forbidden by the company, but on wet days and out of the kindness of their hearts the drivers occasionally ignore this company by-law. I propose to wait until this evening, and then to have every driver questioned in his own home. If I were to go to the warehouse and accost each man as he returns from a journey, I think it might alarm anyone who is guilty, and give him a chance to cover up. As it is, one of the men may have seen the dead child with a man, even if none of them is involved.’

  ‘Good thought,’ Gideon approved. ‘How many drivers are there?’

  ‘Eleven. And they know the district thoroughly.’

  ‘Need any more help?’ asked Gideon.

  ‘I think the Division now has sufficient men,’ Carson said. ‘Thank you, all the same.’ He glanced along the mean little street, and saw a black Rover car turn the corner. ‘I think this will be the medical consultant, Dr. Forbeson.’

  ‘Let me know what he says,’ Gideon said. ‘I’ll get going.’ He didn’t add: ‘There’s obviously no need for me here,’ but he felt very warm towards Carson. Passing the warehouse, he glanced in at several vans at the loading platform. If the killer were there, then he had been driving in and out of this yard for a long time with lust and desire and evil in his mind. In some ways, this emphasised the worst feature in Gideon’s life: the knowledge that as he drove about London, as he walked, as he sat in his office, as he talked with Kate, whatever he was doing and whenever he was doing it, people were living their everyday lives, most of them with no thought of evil, but others planning every kind of crime and beastliness.

  Another firebug, perhaps; another killer of policemen; another company fraud. He often reminded himself that it was all going on at this very moment. Crimes were being born, hopes were being raised, people had the mark of Cain on them, others had the drab mark of prison uniforms. It was an inescapable fact that this London through which he was driving, and of which he was part, was a spawning ground of crime, and people yet unborn would one day kill or maim or steal or cheat. Occasionally this realisation gave Gideon a sense of gloomy hopelessness, born out of the vast homogeneous mass of people and the impossibility of seeing into their minds. But there was another side, the good side.

  Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would no more think of crime than of beating their own wives or children. And these van drivers, for instance, noticed a great deal that went on - there was nearly always a witness to be found if the police probed deeply enough.

  On the other side of London, Clapper’s wife slipped the policeman who was following her, and went to meet the man who had worked with her husband on the bank job. She met him where they had met before, in a quiet cul-de-sac not far from the docks, with a high blank wall on one side, a lower wall of an old disused timber yard on the other. He was waiting, a man of medium height, thin, with dark, rather shadowy eyes.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Bee?’ he asked at once.

  Beatrice Clapper said clearly:

  ‘You told me you would see that Lenny didn’t get into any trouble. Remember that?’

  ‘Now be sensible, Bee,’ the man protested. ‘I didn’t put Lenny away, you know that as well as I do. He’ll only get a couple of years, even if he’s found guilty, and I’ll hire a good lawyer who may get him off altogether. He’ll be looked after, anyhow, and so will you. There’s no need to get worked up.’

  Almost before he had finished, the woman said flatly:

  ‘You’re not going to talk your way out of this one. Either you get Lenny out quick, or I’ll tell the police you were with him. And it’s no use trying to hide out in Brighton, either.’

  ‘Who told you I had a place at Brighton?’ the man demanded. ‘I never told Lenny.’

  ‘You’ve never told Lenny enough,’ Bee Clapper retorted, and gave a satisfied laugh. ‘As a matter of fact Lenny doesn’t know I know. I was down in Brighton for a day’s outing this spring, and I saw you all dolled up to the nines. Mr. Simpson, isn’t it?’

  Obviously she felt quite sure she had the man cornered, as she went on: ‘Lenny’s not going to stand the rap for you or anyone. I’m not joking, either.’

  ‘No,’ said the man, slowly. ‘I can see you’re not.’ He stared at her for a moment, then seemed to explode into movement. He shot out his left hand, slapped it over Beatrice Clapper’s mouth and thrust her head back. Her teeth slid over the palm of his hand.

  She did not even see the knife as it flashed towards her throat.

  Gideon reached the Yard a little after one o’clock. He had a quick but substantial meal in the canteen, and went up to his office, where Bell was relieved by a younger man during his lunch hour.

  ‘Anything in, Parsons?’ Gideon asked.

  ‘Nothing much, sir.’

 
; ‘What happened over at Marlborough Street?’

  ‘I’m told that those chaps didn’t claim diplomatic immunity after all, sir - they were each fined fifty pounds. The owner of the house was remanded on bail of a thousand pounds for a week, sir.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ said Gideon. ‘All right, you carry on.’ He picked up reports, and began to make notes recommending courses of action, and he read everything that had come in since he had last been in the office, so that when the time came to discuss the particular job he would know what he was talking about. He read with intensive concentration for half an hour, barely nodding to Bell when he came in, but glad that Bell was here to answer the telephone. It was three o’clock when one of his own phones rang.

  ‘Gideon,’ Gideon said, dropping his pencil, stretching himself, and not troubling to stifle a yawn.

  ‘Mr. Cornish would like a word . . .’

  ‘Put him through.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was hardly a pause before Cornish came on the line, and on the instant Gideon could tell that he was excited. ‘George, Clapper’s wife had her throat cut,’ Cornish blurted out.

  Even to Gideon, so used to the unexpected, this was a shock out of the blue. It took him several seconds to adjust himself, to picture that brassy-mannered, hard-voiced woman with the flamboyant make-up and the brazen manner - and, he recalled with horrid vividness, a slender, smooth white throat.

  ‘You there, George?’ Cornish asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Gideon said at last. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘We were watching her, had a D.O. on her tail, but she shook him off at Aldgate Station,’ Cornish answered. ‘That was just before lunch. Two kids found her body in a yard they play in, in Whitechapel. I’ve just seen her. As far as I can tell she was killed in a cul-de-sac and her body was lifted up to the wall and dropped over. I’ve got the Division alerted, and if you’ll fix a general request for information about her . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Gideon said. ‘I’ll get Clapper in from Brixton, too. Had photographs taken?’