by John Creasey
‘You sure?’ Margetson said into the telephone. ‘Eh? ... Yes, okay ... Yes, absolute priority, Commander Gideon . . . right, thanks.’ He rang off. Unlike Gideon, he hadn’t shaved, his chunky face with its deep grooves gave the impression that he was trying to grow a beard. One of his eyes was very bloodshot, and there was a little angry burn scar near it, red and sore. His hair was singed on one side. ‘’Morning, George,’ he said.
‘Hallo, Lucky. Who was that?’
‘I’ve been on to the superintendent of seven of the Divisions, all those on the north-east, north-west, north and central,’ Margetson said, ‘and I’ve laid on the door-to-door search for Biship. Had one bit of luck already.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A photograph’s turned up, and not a bad one either. We dug up some relations of Biship’s yesterday, out at Penge, and they’ve sent the photo. It was on my desk when I got in. I’ve sent it through to Photographs, and they’re sending a print over to the Repro. Agency. I’ve ordered five thousand.’
‘When for?’
‘Midday today.’
A smile began to ease the tension at Gideon’s mouth, and he looked at Bell.
‘This chap will make quite a copper when he’s learned to get a move on, won’t he?’ he said. ‘What happened during the night, Joe?’
‘Guess,’ said Bell, and there was an edge of disgust in his voice.
‘The rats were out.’
‘The rats were out,’ Bell agreed. ‘There were twenty-seven cases of burglary in the Wandsworth area, fifteen in Chelsea, every damned place where we had a fire the rats came out like a plague. We’ve picked up about half of them. Nine cases of looting were reported from shops and burned houses, and we caught two of the looters. Funny thing, there weren’t any big jobs.’
‘Thanks be for small mercies,’ Gideon said, and jerked his tie loose as he dropped into his chair. ‘Got all the fires down on the reports, Lucky?’
‘Yes. The desk tells me you’ve got a call in to Carmichael at nine o’clock, so I thought I’d better wait.’
‘Why don’t you go and . . .’
‘I’ve had all the breakfast I want,’ said Margetson, ‘but what I would like is to go round to all the Divisions and make sure they’re lined up for the door-to-door hunt for Biship.’ There was the fervour of dedication in Margetson’s voice, and he got up and studied the map of the Metropolitan Police District, hanging on a wall at one side of Gideon’s desk. Gideon got up, too, and Bell joined them. ‘Could be wrong, but this chap must have gone round to all six places sometime yesterday evening, laying the fires on somehow. The fires were in AB, ST, QR, NE and KL. That’s a hell of a wide area. He could have come into the area from one of the outer Divisions, but remember he’s been seen using a bicycle, and you don’t usually cycle a long distance especially if you’re in a hurry. We can be sure this chap always knew he might be in a hurry. So I’ve been on to all the central Divisions, but . . .’
Gideon said: ‘You go and get a car and a driver, you don’t want to have to drive yourself. See all the central Divisional chaps yourself, say I’ve sent you, say I’m flaming mad. I’ll telephone each one of them and tell ‘em you’re on the way. I’ll get Joe to telephone the outer Divisions, too, and in case we can’t fix that right away, we’ll send out a teleprint message to them. We’ll ask for . . .’ he paused, and frowned as he went on: ‘We’ll tell them to draft half of their available men, uniformed and C.I.D. to help in the neighbouring central Divisions. You get the Divisions to carve their manors up so that we can get as many houses called as possible before the day’s out. Don’t wait for photographs but start pushing them out as soon as some are available - everyone’s got a copy of Biship’s description by now, that’ll be good enough to start on. I’ll keep you posted with anything Carmichael says or anything that turns up.’
Margetson was already by the door.
‘Thanks, George,’ he said almost humbly.
‘And get yourself a square meal,’ Gideon said roughly. ‘Won’t help if you starve yourself. There’s one other thing, Lucky.’
‘Yes.’
‘We might not get him,’ Gideon reasoned, grimly. ‘He might decide that last night was such a success that he’ll have another go tonight. He might also decide that as the Wandsworth petrol dump was his real winner, petrol dumps and places where fire will spread quickly are what he wants. So as you go round, make sure that all danger spots of that kind have special protection. I’ll send a teleprint message out on it, you rub it in.’
‘I’ll rub it in,’ Margetson assured him.
‘And keep plugging at one other thing,’ Gideon went on, without adding that this was the one which haunted him. ‘Try to think how he’ll strike next. If we can out-think him, we might stop him next time. If he out-thinks us, I wouldn’t like to say what will happen.’
‘George, he can’t get away now,’ Joe Bell was stung to say.
‘If this chap was sane, I’d agree with you,’ Gideon said. ‘If he’s not, he’s only got to go round tonight with a dozen little billets doux containing a core of nitro-glycerine or even TNT, and in a couple of hours he could start a hell of a lot.’
‘I get it,’ Margetson commented, with the door half open. ‘We’ll out-think him.’ He went out, while Bell sat at his desk, obviously badly shaken.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said uneasily.
‘If I’m only half right it’ll be bad enough,’ Gideon said. ‘Where’s that letter he sent to . . .’
A telephone rang on his desk. He stared at it, and then said: ‘I’ll take this one, but remind the exchange to get all the calls vetted this morning before they’re put through to us. Then send for Lemaitre, he went back to his office to check some figures.’ He lifted the receiver. ‘Gideon . . . Who? . . . Oh, all right.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his great hand. ‘Riddell, I might switch him over to you.’ Obviously he was not going to have any time wasted by Riddell. ‘Yes, Rid, but keep it short, I . . .’
‘I won’t keep you long, I can read the newspapers,’ Riddell interrupted, and there was a note of real satisfaction in his voice. ‘Just thought you’d like your mind relieved on one case, George.’
‘You got Harrison?’
‘Near as dammit, I’ve got Harrison,’ Riddell crowed. ‘The hammer toe did it. There were five similar operations in Brighton about the time this dead woman had hers - they reckon she’s twenty-four or-five, and was about ten when she had the operation. Four of the women are married and all alive-o, the fifth disappeared two years ago. She was supposed to be emigrating to Australia. Want to know something, George?’
‘She knew Harrison.’
‘She and Harrison had quite an affaire,’ answered Riddell, with that same crowing note in his voice. ‘And that’s not all, I think we’ve identified the second girl, from a dental job. The chap who did it retired and went to live in Devon, but the dental mechanic who worked for him still works for his successor, and recognised some bridge work. The retired dentist came up from Devon yesterday afternoon, and tells me it’s certainly work he did on a Maggie Mason’s mouth, three years ago. He remembers Maggie Mason, she was quite a floosie. And Maggie and Harrison had themselves quite a time, too. She disappeared - went to London to get married, it was said. We’ve got him, George. Shall I bring him in?’
Gideon said: ‘Get all the evidence checked, get the depositions ready, make sure that Harrison can’t leave Brighton and make sure that he doesn’t have a chance of taking this Chloe Duval where he can do away with her quietly. Then if you’re satisfied, send for Harrison and talk to him.’
‘That’s my baby!’ Riddell said. ‘Thanks, George.’ He had never ‘Georged’ Gideon before. ‘I won’t worry you unless I have to.’
A telephone was ringing on Bell’s desk while Bell was talking to someone else on the house phone.
‘Thanks,’ said Gideon. ‘Be a nice clean job, Rid.’ He rang off, paused only for a moment, felt relieved tha
t action would soon be taken against Harrison; it would be hellish if this Duval woman was killed before the police acted.
Well, he needn’t worry about it now.
He saw Bell put one receiver down and pick up the other. He listened, and looked at Gideon. ‘Carmichael,’ he mouthed. ‘I’ll take it,’ said Gideon, and picked up his receiver and then pressed a bell push on his desk, for a messenger. He gave no more thought to Brighton, not even a fragmentary one to Harrison’s wife. ‘Hullo, Carmichael, sorry to worry you so early, but I’m wondering if you’ve any reports on the causes of the fires yet?’
Carmichael answered quietly and promptly: ‘Yes, on four of them. The ash of petrol soaked rags was found in hiding places difficult to get at, and so placed that in three cases the whole ball of ash remained in shape, in the other it had fallen to pieces. Other ash near the rag-ash shows that wood, cardboard or paper and some unidentified material burned close to the rags, suggesting that material which would catch fire quickly was stacked round the rags. In each case there was a trail of slow burning fuse . . .’
‘Can you say what kind?’
‘I would say that it was a home-made fuse made of tallow soaked string,’ said Carmichael, ‘but it may be some time before we can be sure. We can be positive that it was arson in each of the four cases. In two others, the indications are that the cause was the same but we may never be able to say for certain, there was too much damage at the seat of the fire.’
‘Hmm. Anything else?’
‘I’ve no more information,’ Carmichael said, in his rather aloof voice. ‘But I am badly worried.’
‘About his next move?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can imagine,’ Gideon said. ‘I’ve been telling Margetson, we’ve got to out-think . . .’
‘How can you out-think a madman?’ demanded Carmichael, and for once there was some heat and feeling in his voice. When Gideon didn’t answer, he went on more quietly: ‘I am quite aware that we have to try, but I feel the best chance we have is finding out who it is and stopping him before he can try again. The success of last night’s fire at Wandsworth might possibly give him more ambitious ideas.’
‘Yes, we’d got round to that,’ said Gideon, heavily. ‘We’ll give it all we’ve got. I’ve arranged . . .’ He told Carmichael what he proposed to do, and was still talking to the Chief Fire Officer when the door opened and Lemaitre came in, followed by a messenger. ‘Yes, we’ll tell you the moment we get any news,’ Gideon promised, and rang off. He sat back in his chair, looked at the messenger with a frown, and lifted a finger at Lemaitre, enjoining silence. ‘Now why did I send - oh, I know. Telephone the North London Hospital, ask how Mr. Carson is, and put a written message about it on my desk. Also, telephone Mr. Manning of QR, apologise that I can’t call myself, ask if he’ll be good enough to find out if there is anything we can do for Mrs. Jarvis.’
‘The widow of Police Constable Jarvis, sir?’ The messenger was an old policeman with a subdued manner.
‘Yes.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The man went out, and as the door closed, Gideon looked at Lemaitre, and asked with hardly a moment’s pause: ‘Lem, apart from the Ericson job, what’ve you got on hand?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
‘Stand in for Joe and me with the briefing, then, will you? I don’t want to cancel the session, and you’ll know what’s what in most cases. Use Rogerson’s outer office, he won’t be in until twelve.’ He touched a note on his desk. ‘He was at the Lots Road fire last night, didn’t get home until seven o’clock’
‘Poor old lad,’ scoffed Lemaitre. ‘I’ll fix it, George.’
‘The Ericsons flown yet?’
‘Can’t make them out at all,’ said Lemaitre, as if annoyed as well as puzzled. ‘Roscoe is still staying at their place out at Esher, they don’t show any signs of packing up and leaving. But I’ll get them somehow or other, don’t you worry. Shall I send to you if I can’t cope with a job?’
‘Yes. Warn anyone who comes I may have to keep ‘em waiting.’
‘Right,’ said Lemaitre. ‘I’ll keep ‘em away if I can, but I did hear that Cornish wanted to have a word.’
Gideon nodded as a telephone bell rang, and was poised ready to answer. He had never felt more conscious of his responsibility and the danger of not being able to meet it.
This was the call to MX Division, and he talked immediately to the Chief Superintendent in charge, laid everything on, added that Margetson would soon be at the Divisional Headquarters, and rang off. He talked to five other Divisional chiefs, all in the space of fifteen minutes, wasting hardly a word with any of them; only one man started to talk about other problems than the fire. Then Gideon spoke to NE Division, the toughest Division in the area; the brisk Chief Superintendent Hopkinson, the recently appointed Divisional Superintendent, had a laugh in his voice when he said:
‘I thought you’d soon be on, George. Margetson’s sitting opposite me now. The answers are yes, yes, yes, it’s all laid on.’
‘Good,’ said Gideon. ‘Make a real job of it, Hoppy. No slap-stick.’
Hopkinson chuckled.
‘I’ve got one bit for you, George. Spare a minute?’
‘Half a minute,’ conceded Gideon.
‘Remember Tiny Repp?’ asked Hopkinson, and Gideon wished that he wouldn’t choose this moment to tell what was obviously going to be one of his anecdotes about the remarkable behaviour of old lags in his manor. Tiny Repp was a man no one was ever likely to forget, for he was perhaps the biggest burglar and breaking-and-entering specialist known to the Yard. Most burglars were on the small side; Tiny Repp was even bigger than Gideon, but had a remarkable facility for getting through small spaces, because he was double-jointed. He had been inside on four different occasions, but Gideon did not think he had been up for trial for several years; it was always a pity when an old lag who had made an effort to go straight fell down again.
‘Yes, I know, but . . .’
‘We caught him red-handed in a shop near the Wapping fire,’ Hopkinson said. ‘Know what he wanted us to believe?’
‘Try me.’
‘Says that he thought the old girl who runs the shop was upstairs, and as the roof was on fire he went in to try to save her.’
‘Was she there?’
‘She’s been sleeping next door for days! He knew it all right, too.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Gideon, doubtfully.
‘Now, listen, George . . .’
‘Tiny’s been out of trouble for so long I don’t want to think he’s back into it,’ said Gideon. ‘Have you charged him?’
‘Not formally. There’s a lot doing this morning, I was holding him until later and going to charge him so that he comes up tomorrow.’
‘Give him a break,’ Gideon urged. ‘Let him go home, and tell him you’re looking for evidence. Then see how he reacts when you bring him in again.’
‘Soft-hearted, aren’t you?’ Hopkinson jeered, but he laughed. ‘All right, George, one thing’s certain. He won’t run away.’
Gideon said: ‘Thanks, Hoppy.’ He rang off, and sat back for a few seconds, and while he was sitting there, thought about Tiny Repp, keeping the bigger issues away, as small things often did. He wondered if he had been wise to interfere in what was really the trivia of the Division’s work, and he was telling himself that it didn’t really matter when there was a tap at the door. The messenger he had sent out earlier came in, carrying several photographs.
‘What is it?’ Gideon asked.
‘I’ve come to report as instructed, sir,’ the man said in a slow, witness-box voice. His expression did not change. ‘Mr. Carson’s leaving hospital this afternoon, sir, his condition is much improved. Mrs. Jarvis does not require anything at the moment, a sister from the country is staying with her, and will be in attendance for several weeks. Mr. Manning is of the opinion that everything will work out all right with the widow. In addition, sir, these photographic prints have ju
st come in.’ He handed the photographs to Gideon, six of the same one - of little Walter Biship, showing him as rather shy-looking, the quiet type, not outstanding in any way, the kind of face which seemed to belong to a lot of different people. Gideon had a feeling that he had seen the man before.
‘All right, thanks,’ he said, and as the constable marched out he flicked one of the photographs over to Bell. Neither of them spoke, but each man had a mental picture, of hundreds upon hundreds of policemen and detectives going systematically through the streets of London, the narrow streets and the wide ones, the streets with hovels and the streets with tall buildings, the block of flats and the better residential areas, the tenement blocks in the poor ones. Men would be going into the little shops, the pubs, the barbers, the little hotels and the doss-houses, and all the time Biship was somewhere in hiding, or at least unknown - somewhere thinking up his next move with the tortuous cunning of the man whose mind was unhinged.
Gideon seemed to hear the tramp of feet, to hear the banging on knockers, to hear the ringing of bells, to see the countless surprised glances, the people staring at the photographs, the shaking heads.
‘No, no, no, no.’
But Biship must be somewhere in London.
Biship was in his bed-sitting-room at Mrs. Tennison’s, listening to the half past ten news headlines. His eyes were glittering. His lips were working. He kept nodding his head vigorously. He winced when the announcer said:
‘Scotland Yard is organising a door-to-door search for Walter Biship who it is believed can give the information which may help in identifying the man who started last night’s widespread fires.’
On the small table in ‘Mr. Brown’s’ room was a little Olivetti typewriter, and covering this were three newspapers, bought at different shops so that he should not arouse any comment for buying more than his usual number. Each of these had headlines about his letter; two of them had reproduced it, in the same size of the actual type.
‘It’s going to work,’ Biship breathed. ‘They’re going to have to do something now. I want just one more big demonstration - one big fire, one really big fire.’
