by John Creasey
‘Hallo, Matthew, what’s startled you?’ asked Kate.
Gideon thought: Miall hasn’t been at him already this morning, has he?
Matthew said: ‘You’re not going to like this, Dad, and I’d like to strangle the swine.’
‘Now, what . . .’ began Kate, and Gideon got up and took the newspaper. There was the front page headline:
YARD CHIEF ACCUSED OF ASSAULTING PRISONER
‘Well I’m . . .’ began Gideon, explosively, and broke off.
‘What is it?’ demanded Kate.
‘Some little runt of a solicitor says that Dad hit a man when he was questioning him about a bank hold-up,’ Matthew said, but Gideon hardly heard him or Kate as he read the story. It was quite simple and straightforward. Clapper’s solicitor had twisted the office incident exactly as Gideon had realised was possible, and made a few elaborations, each adding to the speciousness of the accusation. There were photographs of Clapper, of his wife, and the tie-in with the murder at Whitechapel. It was glaringly obvious that the Sunday Globe had wanted a different angle on the Whitechapel murder.
Gideon tossed the paper aside. Kate leaned forward and picked it up.
‘Didn’t they check with you first?’ she demanded.
‘Might have called the back room inspector, but I doubt it,’ Gideon said. ‘They’ll say that they didn’t get the story until last night, and there was no one at the Yard who could help them. Probably say they couldn’t get any answer from us. It’s almost a pity,’ he added softly, ‘that it isn’t true.’
‘That’s an odd thing for you to say,’ Kate remarked.
Gideon said: ‘It is an odd case. Clapper’s covering up for the man who’s letting him take the rap for the bank job, and also for the man who killed his wife. See how low a man can get, Matt?’
Matthew said: ‘What . . .’ and then flushed a beetroot red.
‘No, George!’ Kate protested.
‘Eh?’ Gideon looked up at his son, startled, and then realised what they had inferred. ‘Oh, don’t be a chump, I wasn’t getting at you, I was just being factual - or fatuous,’ he added. ‘I’d better get a bath and then have a hearty breakfast, this is going to be quite a day.’
‘For a minute I thought you’d meant it for me,’ Matthew said ruefully. ‘Dad, can’t you sue this rag?’
‘I could sue it if it made cracks about my private life, but not for anything I do in the course of the job - unless I was accused of corrupt practices. If a copper could sue for libel or slander because of criticism of his job, we’d always be in the Civil Courts. If you’re serious about wanting to become a policeman one of these days, you’ll learn. Now, that bath!’
The Assistant Commissioner telephoned while he was at breakfast. Joe Bell, Lemaitre, and the Public Relations Officer at the Yard also telephoned - all in the same strain, all angry, all trying to suggest the best thing to do. Daily newspapers began to call soon after ten o’clock. Two television news units asked for statements and interviews. A day which should have included a little gardening, repairs to the landing window, another talk with Matthew, and a refresher on the files of pending cases, was ruined. Gideon was allowed to think of practically nothing but the assault charge. To all newspapers and news units he gave a flat denial without explaining what had happened; the explanation would sound too much like that of a man with a black eye who said that a door had banged into him. He was surprised that Cornish didn’t call, and by half past three that afternoon began to worry about him, for Cornish was usually very prompt. Two murders were already involved, and if a man would kill a woman to stop her from talking, what would he do to a policeman who came dangerously close? Gideon told himself that there was no need to worry, and yet he did worry.
At half past three there was another ring at the front door bell, and Matthew hurried to open it. Gideon had told him to tell any newspapermen that he was out, listened, and heard Cornish’s voice. He got up. Matthew called out to say who it was, and led Cornish into the living-room. The Yard man was unshaven, his clothes were rumpled, and he looked bleary-eyed.
‘Hallo, George,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a rough morning, I bet.’
‘What do you think you’ve had?’
‘Oh, I just stayed up all night,’ said Cornish, ‘I’ve been checking every one of the people who thought they saw Beatrice Clapper. I kept that going until midnight, had a meal, and then drove down to Bournemouth. I thought there might be something in the local files on the night-watchman job that would help. Drew a blank, though. All I got for the day and the night’s work was a vague description of the man who was seen with Mrs. C. near the docks about lunchtime on the day of the murder. Leaving out the lunatic fringe, the only report of a man seen leaving the cul-de-sac at the time of the murder makes the killer a man of the middle thirties, dressed like a docker or labourer. I only picked up one thing which struck me as odd.’
‘What was it?’
‘A boy leaving the yard saw a couple talking there and said that he thought the man spoke to the woman in a ‘posh’ voice.’
Gideon didn’t speak.
‘If that’s true, he was probably wearing a labourer’s clothes so as to look the part, and we need to look further afield than the East End,’ Cornish went on. ‘I wondered if that would be a good angle to tackle Clapper on.’
‘Seen Clapper?’
‘Thought I’d better wait and find out what the official reaction is to the Sunday Globe,’ Cornish said. ‘What are you going to do, George?’
‘Deny the story, and carry on normally,’ Gideon said. ‘The A.C. agrees with me, our attitude has to be that it isn’t worth answering in detail, it’s so transparently false.’
‘George,’ said Cornish, slowly.
‘Yes?’
‘Clapper did have and still has a bruise.’
Gideon said: ‘Yes, and when the time comes we’ll explain how he came by it. The best time will be when he’s up for his second hearing at the Magistrate’s Court. We can work it in then.’
‘All right,’ said Cornish. ‘Shall I tackle Clapper about his posh friend?’
Gideon hesitated. He would have liked to talk to the prisoner himself, but there was no real justification for intervening. One of the big dangers of his job was the inclination to feel that he alone could do everything best - Carson was the latest victim of that kind of thinking. This was Cornish’s job; probably he would have been wiser to leave the questioning to Cornish yesterday.
‘Yes, tackle him,’ Gideon decided at last.
‘Want me to see the solicitor?’
‘No,’ said Gideon. ‘If I’m right, Lewisham will let it all soak in, and then make a formal protest at Bow Street on Wednesday, during that second hearing. That’s when we’ll trot out the true version of what happened.’ Gideon frowned, pondering. ‘You know, we might be wiser to wait until then before we spring this “posh voice” story. You’ll have had time to dig a bit deeper, and we might even get a stronger lead. Follow all of Clapper’s recent movements, find out everywhere he’s been seen, check with all the Divisions, have a look round Mayfair.’ Gideon paused, and was oblivious of Matthew, standing to one side and listening intently. ‘Corny, I think that’s the right angle. Ask all Divisions to check with all their men, uniformed and C.I.D. branch, and make up a detailed report on Clapper’s movements. We’ve been working on anyone who saw him near the bank in Moorgate, and we’ve been concentrating on the East End because that’s where he lives; this could put us on the beam. Will you fix it?’
‘Glad to,’ said Cornish. ‘Then I’ll get some sleep. Not worried about this canard, are you, George?’
‘Wish it hadn’t happened,’ Gideon said, ‘but no, I’m not worried about it.’ Yet as soon as Cornish had gone, he telephoned the police surgeon then on duty at the Yard, and after a brisk exchange, asked as if casually: ‘Didn’t you once tell me that if a person’s affected by something unpleasant - an ugly wound, a lot of blood, that kind of thing, he’s likely t
o be affected whenever he comes up against it?’
‘Yes,’ said the police surgeon. ‘I could show you a man who faints every time he cuts his finger. Why?’
‘Just checking,’ said Gideon.
Then Kate came in and told him that she had arranged a family conference with the Mialls for next Wednesday evening. Why Wednesday, Gideon neither knew nor guessed. He thought that Kate made the announcement with a degree of satisfaction that was hardly justified, and which might mean that she and Mrs. Miall had worked out some way to help support two newly-weds while Matthew continued his studies. To Gideon, the idea was almost ludicrous, while there was a worrying factor, too. He and Kate were at last beginning to save a bit. If he had to start helping Matthew, Helen and a family, it would put a stop to savings. But he did not ask any questions, for he knew that Kate was trying to make sure that he did not have too much on his mind.
Because Monday was likely to be quite a day, too.
On Sunday night, Harrison watched his wife as she sat and watched television. Once or twice she yawned, and there were no indications that she would need a hot toddy or a capsule to make her sleep tonight. He had to be patient, but it was difficult - in fact it was almost impossible.
He kept picturing Chloe sitting where Pam was, now. The queer thing was that Chloe made up far more than Pamela, but too much lipstick and powder made Pam look like the tart. The silly bitch, nothing could make her look desirable; nothing in this world. The only desirable Pam was a dead one.
12 FIRE FACTS
In fact, Monday passed quietly for Gideon. The biggest ‘new’ job of the week-end was a cat burglar in Mayfair who raided three homes while the families were watching television, and got away with about nine thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery. These, the smaller burglaries, the hold-ups, the hit and runs, the drunks, the vice cases, were simple routine. The Monday newspapers played down the story of Lewisham’s accusation, and that was reassuring. Lewisham had been smart in selecting a Sunday newspaper which relied on sensation more than anything else; the move would almost certainly boomerang on him and on Clapper, and Gideon’s preoccupation was to find out how to use it against Clapper.
At one o’clock, he left for the Eltham Cemetery, where a crowd of nearly five hundred people stood about during the interment of the remains of the eight victims of the Lambeth fire. Television and movie cameras were in position, there were at least fifty reporters and some cameramen. A few of these took pictures of Gideon, but whenever he could he avoided them. He looked about the crowd, marvelling and feeling a little sick at the same time, for these were the gawpers. There were probably not more than a dozen mourners for the Miller family, no more than fifty or sixty for the Jarvises. The rest were the buzzards of a civilised city. He studied some of the faces, and among those he looked at was the pale, rather worried face of a small man, who was at the back of the crowd, and whose lips kept moving with the words of the Church of England parson who intoned at the graveside. Now and again, this man bowed his head. Gideon did not pay him serious attention, because he felt that the man was genuinely mourning, and that he might be a friend or a business acquaintance of the Millers. He gave Gideon the impression of being very humble, and after the ceremony he went slowly, perhaps sadly, towards the gates of the cemetery. Gideon saw him fasten cycle clips to his trousers, and then make off on a bicycle.
So did a dozen or so others.
Gideon saw Mrs. Jarvis and her eldest child, Hester, helped into a car by an elderly man, probably her father. This wasn’t the time for him to talk to her, but he must make sure that she had all the help she needed. She looked pale and yet attractive in navy blue; the child had on obviously ‘best’ clothes and a black armband.
Gideon drove back to the Yard, and to nothing more exciting than an indecent exposure charge, from Piccadilly.
It was on the Wednesday afternoon that Lucky Margetson tapped at the door of his office, and when he came in, Gideon thought that he was looking mildly excited. Margetson reminded Gideon of a chunkier, plumper, slightly less irrepressible Lemaitre, and thinking of Lemaitre, he realised that there had been no word that the Ericsons or Roscoe had tried to get out of the country.
‘What’ve you got, Lucky?’ he inquired.
‘Don’t know that it’s much,’ said Margetson, ‘but it’s something we all ought to have got on to before, I do know that.’
‘What?’
‘Every one of these five fires has taken place on a Wednesday night,’ Margetson announced, taking a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘The first Bethnal Green job was on Wednesday, December the 7th, the second . . .’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Gideon interrupted. ‘And it’s Wednesday today.’ He felt a deep stirring of disquiet, and was about to give Margetson instructions to have all slum areas alerted, but stopped himself; it was better to let Lucky ask for what he wanted. ‘What do you make of it?’ he demanded.
‘Might be just a coincidence,’ Margetson said cautiously, ‘and the fires haven’t been spaced out at regular intervals, either. But tonight might be the right time to have a special watch on all slum areas. Can’t get that fact out of my mind - the fires were all in slum areas. I can’t help feeling we might be looking for a looney.’
Gideon thought, swiftly, sharply, of Mrs. Manson, and then held the thought. The fate of her daughter had driven the little woman mad, and she had set out to kill Briggs. Madness took different forms, remember. Margetson had spent a long time trying to find a motive for the fires, and hadn’t succeeded, possibly because there wasn’t one. There was no motive for madness, either, but there had to be a cause.
‘Lucky,’ he said, ‘what would drive a man round the bend the way you think this man’s gone?’
‘Well, who knows?’ asked Margetson. He was cautious to a fault, and in that regard a complete contrast to Lemaitre. ‘Some people are just born with it in them, as I was saying the other day about my own kid. I’ve been checking, George. We’ve had twenty-seven fire-raisers through our hands in the past eighteen months - London and Home Counties I mean - and seven of them have been remanded for medical attention, five of them are in one of the mental hospitals. Taking those five - the ones even the law agrees are round the bend - three of them are naturals, a bit simple, and fire always excites them. Kind of primitive fetishism, I suppose. One of them always set fire to the home of someone who’d slighted him, a case of enmity suppressed too long before it burst out. The fifth one was badly burnt in his childhood, and the psychiatrists said that it was a way of getting his own back.’
‘Ah,’ said Gideon, softly.
‘You there, too, are you?’ asked Margetson, almost lugubriously. ‘I suppose I ought to have expected it. What we’ve got is a chap who starts a fire in some kind of slum on a Wednesday, and as far as I can find out this crop of fires started in Bethnal Green. But there wasn’t any telephone call reporting it. The man who raised the alarm was the husband of the woman who was burned to death, with their only child, a girl of eleven. You remember, you asked me about the burnt out car. It was this chap’s. He was a tallyman named Biship - IP, not OP - who had a lot of East London rounds, did a different round every day for two weeks in a row, then started all over again. He can ride a bike, and he measures up in size to the cyclist who rushed off from Miller’s place, after Jarvis shouted at him.’
‘Checked him?’ demanded Gideon.
‘He walked out of his job ten days after the fire,’ said Margetson. ‘He’d been away for a week, on compassionate leave, went back for three days, then threw his hand in. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going or what he was going to do. He’d been out on the night of the fire - he had a round out at Bromley which always kept him late, and this was the day of that round. His firm hasn’t heard from him since. There’s no funny business, no shortage in his accounts, in fact a few quid commission is due to him. Practically everything he possessed except the suit he had on and the oddments in his case were destroyed in the fire, but
he was well insured. Collected a cool five thou’.’
‘Photograph?’ asked Gideon.
‘There’s one of him in a group at a company outing, but I don’t think it will help much. I’m checking everyone who knew him, trying to get a photo, but he had no close relations and no friends. The Biships were a cut above the other people living in the neighbourhood, and didn’t mix with them much. He hadn’t taken his car that day because of a flat tyre, so he got back very late, walked the last two miles to his home, and the fire was blazing when he got there.’
‘We want him,’ Gideon declared. ‘Do everything necessary, and I’ll sign any chits you need, or Joe will. Get busy, Lucky.’
‘I couldn’t be any busier,’ Margetson said, and hurried out of the office. Before the door closed, Gideon called:
‘Just a minute!’
The door clicked, Lucky disappeared, and a moment later reappeared with his hand on the door.
‘As it’s Wednesday, tell Information to send a message round to all East End - no, all Divisions - asking the men on night beat duty to keep a special watch on all slum areas on their beat,’ Gideon said. ‘You know what to tell them to look for. Better advise them to pick up any cyclist they don’t know, or who can’t explain what he’s doing.’
‘Right!’ Margetson hurried off again, and his footsteps faded.
He had hardly gone before the telephone bell rang; this time it was Cornish.
‘Got a few minutes for me to go over tomorrow’s case against Clapper?’ he asked.
‘Yes, come round right away,’ said Gideon.
But the second hearing of the charge against Leonard Clapper, he knew, would be important chiefly because of the attitude of the solicitor, Lewisham. Cornish had made no more progress with the man with the ‘posh’ voice, and it might take weeks to find him. The inquest on Mrs. Clapper had been adjourned for a week pending police inquiries; there was no further progress on the case. Gideon discussed every angle with Cornish, and the big superintendent was about to leave when a telephone bell rang on Bell’s desk. Bell picked it up, and after a moment, said:
