by John Creasey
His eyes were glassy with excitement, and he spluttered as he spoke.
Then he said: ‘If I could only get some nitro-glycerine, or some TNT. If I could only get some ...’
He stopped abruptly.
He remembered the headquarters and storage yard of a quarrying firm in Lambeth, where he called once a fortnight to collect instalments from the thirty odd employees, and collected fresh orders, too. If he showed himself there he would be recognised, of course, but he had been going in and out of the place for years, he knew it almost as well as people who worked there knew it; he could find the back way in. In a locked cement storehouse, stacks of dynamite and smaller supplies of nitro-glycerine were kept, for quarry blasting jobs out in the country.
Biship began to recall everything he knew of this place.
That was the very instant when a telephone bell rang on Gideon’s desk, and he was told:
‘Clapper will be in the dock in about twenty minutes, sir.’
That was also the very minute when Harrison was saying to himself: ‘I can’t wait any longer. She’s got to go tonight.’
By some ironic twist of events, Pamela was sleeping rather better, and feeling better in herself, so she didn’t need hot toddy to get to sleep. Harrison couldn’t know that her calmer mood was due to her new-found confidence in the expensive make-up, and her new hairdresser. Nor did he dream that because he watched her so closely, wanting her to droop, she believed he was taking more notice of her.
She was very nearly happy.
16 SECOND HEARING
Gideon entered the Police Court a minute before Leonard Clapper was brought in through the door from the cells. The sergeant-in-charge came first, and two constables followed Clapper, who was big and still touched with flamboyance. But although he was clean and freshly-shaven, there was a different look about him; he gave Gideon the impression of being older. There was a noticeable swelling at his jaw; it had turned a muddy brown in colour with a few purplish marks. Lewisham, his solicitor, was already in court, a man with a mild manner and a turnip-shaped head. He had not yet seen Gideon. The small Press boxes with their wooden seats and wooden upright backs were crowded to overflowing, five men sitting, at least six standing. The slightly larger public gallery was crowded, too; Gideon heard whispering from the constable at the door.
‘No more, that’s the lot.’
He looked at the people in the gallery, wondering if any of them had had anything to do with the robberies or with the murder of Clapper’s wife.
There was a hush in the court, as always, and it was almost possible to forget the rush and tear, the ceaseless telephone calls, the constant to-ing and fro-ing, both outside and at the office. Yet it wasn’t a restful quiet. There was tension here already, and when the Press saw him there was a sudden flurry of movement, heads were turned, whispers made the magistrate, an elderly, silvery-haired man named Bennett, look towards the box with a frown, and made the magistrate’s clerk glare. The glare was almost a trick of the trade. Lewisham turned round quickly, and saw Gideon; at the same moment Clapper stared at him. Clapper was now in the dock, still guarded, and the clerk said waspishly:
‘Leonard Clapper, second hearing, remanded for eight days on a charge of complicity with others unknown in the robbery at Siddley Bank, Moorgate, on the ...’ He was brisk and to the point.
The magistrate leaned forward in the ornately carved arm-chair, which was set against carved oak panels darkened by the years. He clasped his hands on the dark oak bench in front of him.
‘Are the police ready?’ he asked.
Cornish, some distance away from Gideon, said: ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Is the defendant represented?’
Lewisham bobbed up.
‘Yes, your honour, and with the court’s permission I would like to make a statement on behalf of the defendant. The defendant while in custody was the subject of a brutal assault and . . .’
‘We are not here to try the police, Mr. Lewisham, we are here to find out whether the police have sufficient evidence against your client for a committal.’
‘I do understand, your honour.’ Lewisham was too smooth, to obsequious; no one would ever like him, but he was certainly shrewd - and, thought Gideon, he probably knew the name of Clapper’s accomplices, possibly knew the murderer of Clapper’s wife. ‘But with the court’s permission, your honour, I would like to draw attention to the painful bruise on my client’s face, a very painful bruise indeed, and in the circumstances I would like to ask your honour if he will order an independent doctor to examine my client and to state whether he is fit to plead. In my considered opinion my client has been so badly treated that...’
Mr. Bennett heard him out, and then said flatly: ‘Are you seriously suggesting that the police beat-up your client and that he is not fit to plead?’
‘Your Honour, I am only interested in establishing the facts and making sure that my client has the full protection of the law.’ Mr. Lewisham’s voice was softly insistent. He seemed to be saying: ‘The police have knocked him about, I’m going to make sure that he has a square deal from the court, but from the way you’re talking it doesn’t seem likely.’
‘It would only take a short while,’ he persisted, ‘and in the interests of justice . . .’
‘I will look after the interests of justice in this court, Mr. Lewisham.’ Bennett looked at Cornish. ‘Can the police inform me whether the defendant has been examined by a doctor?’
‘Yes, sir, by two doctors. They both . . .’
‘But both are police surgeons . . .’ Lewisham squeaked.
‘So the police, the medical profession and the bench are now on trial,’ said Bennett, caustically. ‘Have the goodness to let me finish. Superintendent, you were about to tell me what the medical report was, but in the circumstances I think it would be better for us to have one of the doctors present in order to give evidence. Can that be arranged?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cornish said. ‘But it may take two or even three hours.’
‘Then I shall defer this case until three o’clock this afternoon,’ declared Bennett, glancing at the clock. ‘I understand from Mr. Miriam that we shall have plenty to keep us occupied until then.’ He looked down at the clerk.
‘We will indeed, sir.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Cornish. ‘But I would like permission to make a statement on behalf of the police at this stage.’
‘Can’t it wait, Mr. Cornish?’
If it does, sir, it will not be reported in the evening newspapers, and the particular circumstances might give rise to some misunderstanding.’
‘Ah,’ said Bennett. ‘Yes. An interesting point.’ He glanced at Gideon. ‘You may proceed, Mr. Cornish.’
‘Thank you sir,’ said Cornish. ‘If there were more time I would ask Commander Gideon to . . .’
‘In the interests of justice the court always has plenty of time,’ said Bennett, and Gideon smothered a grin; the old boy was turning up trumps. ‘Since this is of such importance would you like to take the oath, Commander?’
‘I’d rather leave that until I’m charged with some breach of regulations, sir,’ Gideon said. ‘But I would like to state publicly that when I was questioning the defendant I showed him a picture of his wife, taken after death, and that it had such an effect on him that he collapsed, and in collapsing struck his chin heavily on the edge of my desk. I have since had the desk examined by a member of the laboratory staff, sir, and at the appropriate time can show that some fragments of skin, two or three hairs and a trace of blood are at the spot struck by the defendant’s chin. His collapse was quite understandable, sir, any man seeing a picture of his wife with her throat slashed like this’ - he took a photograph out of his pocket and held it forward - ’would surely . . .’
There was a gasping sound from the dock. Clapper’s eyes closed, and he grabbed the rail of the dock as if to save himself from falling. Gideon spared a grateful thought for the police surgeon who had confirmed that on
e shock reaction to blood or wounds made others likely.
‘Thank you, Mr. Gideon, that will do,’ interrupted the magistrate; ‘I really cannot have the court used as a public platform any more.’ Five of the newspapermen were trying to get out at the same moment. ‘The hearing is adjourned until three o’clock this afternoon.
Officers, give the defendant all the attention he needs, and arrange for a doctor ...’
‘Nice work, George,’ Cornish said, as they met in front of the entrance to the cells. ‘Anyone would think you laid it all on.’
‘There’s something we can lay on,’ Gideon said. He thrust the door open, and saw Clapper, a policewoman, Lewisham and the two constables all in a little group; only Clapper was sitting. He looked up as if in terror when Gideon went in.
‘Clapper,’ Gideon began.
‘I must protest . . .’ Lewisham began.
‘You shut up,’ Gideon rasped. ‘Clapper, why keep it up? Who did this job? You know that whoever did it killed your wife, and all Lewisham’s rigmarole won’t alter it. You’re a liar and he’s a liar, that’s just been demonstrated.’
‘Commander...’
‘Listen, Lewisham,’ Gideon growled, ‘you’re here by our courtesy. If you want to stay, you keep quiet until I’ve finished. Clapper . . .’
‘The . . . the man you want is Scarfe, Alan Scarfe,’ Clapper muttered in a quavering voice. ‘He . . he also goes under the name of Spender, he’s got a flat in Mayling Street leading into Berkeley Square. He was with me at the bank, he . . .’
‘Clapper, stop incriminating yourself!’ cried Lewisham.
‘All right, Corny, you can get all the rest of the dope,’ Gideon said, and he looked down at the turnip-shaped head of the lawyer with disgust. ‘If Lewisham is also Scarfe alias Spender’s lawyer we might have an interesting side issue. Clapper, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll make a full and complete statement. It’s the only sensible thing to do. If the jury has any sympathy for you, you might get yourself a square deal from now on.’ He didn’t wait, but turned to leave the court, knowing that outside there would be a crush of newspapermen and the public. He was right. They called out to him and two men congratulated him, but he simply said without smiling:
‘This one isn’t our real trouble. The big worry today is the lunatic who started those fires last night - yes, they were all arson. Anyone who gets a whiff of smoke they can’t explain ought to ring up the nearest Police Station right away. Remember to tell your editors that, will you?’
He strode to his waiting car.
Biship stepped inside the yard of the quarry company’s yard at Lambeth, seeing two lorries being loaded with paving stone, and Keen, the manager, directing a mechanical grab. Biship slipped behind some piles of sand and others of rockery stone, and approached Keen’s small office.
Biship had been in that office frequently, collecting the weekly payments from men who worked here, and he knew that there were stacks of dynamite in a shed leading from the office. Whenever Keen was away the door was locked, but it would be open now. Of greater importance in some ways were the detonators which Biship would need. Keen kept these in a cupboard behind his desk, and this was usually locked. However, Keen sometimes left his keys in the desk drawer, and Biship knew the cupboard key was a Yale.
He peeped out of the office window, saw Keen still working, turned away and picked up the dynamite without trouble, put the twelve sticks into a leather case, then went to the cupboard.
The door was locked, and Biship was trembling when he pulled out the desk drawer.
The keys were there.
Gideon spent twelve minutes exactly in the canteen for lunch that day, and when he got back to his desk he belched twice, stabbed the bell push and, as the messenger came in, said testily: ‘Go along to the first aid room and get me some bicarbonate of soda or anything they recommend for indigestion.’ He turned away from the man as the door closed, and then the telephone bell rang; he felt as if it were growing to his ear. ‘Gideon,’ he announced, and said a moment later: ‘Who - who?’ Bell, who had been to lunch first, looked across in surprise, because it was not often that Gideon sounded taken aback, but this time his expression was startled as well as his voice. ‘All right, Lem,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ll see them.’ He rang off. ‘Guess what?’ he asked, and then the absurdity of the question occurred to him, and he went on before Bell could answer: ‘That was Lemaitre. Mr. and Mrs. Ericson have called to see him. And me!’
‘Good God!’
‘And they had to choose today,’ Gideon said. ‘Oh, well. Anything in from Cornish?’
‘No,’ answered Bell. ‘Not since he called to say that he’s going round to the Mayling Street flat that Scarfe rented as Spender. There’s a call out for Scarfe - I told you that the description of the man seen with Mrs. Clapper squared with Scarfe’s, didn’t I?’
‘Yes. That old scar should be a help too. But if he was at Mayling Street, I’d have expected Cornish to have picked him up by now,’ Gideon said. He still felt uneasy about Scarfe alias Spender although he did not say so. He kept picturing Mrs. Clapper’s throat wound, and telling himself that a man who could do that could do anything. Before, when Cornish had been longer than expected without reporting, Gideon had felt uneasy. He told himself that there was no need this time; and in any case, Cornish wouldn’t go alone to see a killer.
Gideon’s telephone bell rang, and the door opened at a tap. He caught a glimpse of a woman and Lemaitre, with a man behind them. The woman was tall and nicely turned out; Gideon first noticed her slender body and almost too slim legs; she was beautifully dressed in something rather bottle green in colour, and she wore a mink stole. Ericson, who followed her in as Lemaitre stood rather awkwardly on one side, had a military air about him; he looked pale; the woman quite composed.
Gideon said: ‘Take a seat, Mrs. Ericson, won’t keep you a jiff.’ Into the telephone, he announced: ‘Gideon.’ His whole expression changed when he went on: ‘Are you sure?’ and it must have been obvious to the woman and the man as well as to Lemaitre and Bell that he had forgotten them, forgotten everything but what the man was saying. ‘Thank God for that. Have the street watched, make sure that he can’t be scared off. He’s probably got eyes like a hawk. Okay, Lucky!’ He rang off, and said to Bell: ‘Margetson says they’ve found where Biship is living - calls himself Brown, and has digs in a house in Blackheath.’ He could not keep the light out of his eyes when he looked up at Mrs. Ericson, who was sitting with her shoulders square, very upright in an arm-chair. Her husband was sitting on an upright chair. Lemaitre, intense and earnest until that moment, was shaken by the news from Gideon, and asked:
‘Haven’t picked him up though, have they?’
‘They will,’ said Gideon. ‘Well, what can I do for you?’
He glanced at Ericson, knowing already that he was in a highly nervous state; the woman probably was, too, but she had a quality it was hard to define unless it was born of self-confidence and breeding. She might have stepped out of an advertisement in Woman’s Home Journal, she was so polished and correct.
There was a tap at the door, and the messenger entered, carrying a medicine glass with liquid in it. Gideon almost gaped. Bell made a noise in his throat. Then Gideon said: ‘Thanks,’ took the glass, threw his head back, and tipped the bicarbonate of soda down.
‘Got a cold coming on,’ he said, casually. ‘Now, will you please . . .’
‘Mrs. Ericson says . . .’ Lemaitre interrupted. He caught Gideon’s eye and stopped in mid-sentence.
‘It is very good of you to see us, especially on a day when you must be so very busy.’ Mrs. Ericson took her opportunity swiftly and easily. ‘I am here with my husband because I am really responsible for what has happened.’
That came out so smoothly. ‘It concerned the issue of New Rand Iron Ore Company, of course - your Department has been making inquiries about the issue of fifty thousand one-pound shares at par.’
‘Mr. Lemaitre has
reported to me in detail,’ Gideon said, and he looked at the man, not at the woman. ‘I understand there is some doubt as to the accuracy of the surveyor’s reports.’
‘It wasn’t until Mr. Lemaitre began to make inquiries that we realised what might have happened,’ Mrs. Ericson declared, and already it seemed obvious to Gideon then that the Ericsons were going to turn on Roscoe. Had there been an arrangement? Was Roscoe going to take the rap for a pay-off later? That was the kind of theory that Lemaitre would advance but he himself shouldn’t, thought Gideon as Mrs. Ericson went on: ‘The absurd thing is that it is really my fault, Mr. Gideon.’
‘Oh.’ Gideon felt deflated.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Ericson, calmly. ‘I misread the report which came in from Mr. Roscoe while he was in Africa. I’m afraid it is a question of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. I studied it, misread the percentage of ore content, and made copies of it together with my recommendations. That was used in all negotiations, because I lost the original report.’
Gideon thought: Oh, did you, sceptically.
‘All of us were careless, Mr. Gideon,’ Mrs. Ericson went on, ‘but I can only hope that we weren’t criminally careless. The assumptions we made from the report were wrong. We issued the shares in good faith, but it might well look as if we were attempting to defraud the public. We are here to assure you that nothing of the kind was in our mind. In fact . . .’ She broke off, and glanced up, as if she wanted her husband to say something; and Ericson took his cue, for he followed on almost as if he were repeating a carefully learned lesson:
‘In fact we are desperately distressed by it, because of the reputation of our firm - it was established nearly seventy years ago,’ he declared, his voice very husky. ‘My grandfather started it, and my father inherited it from him. I came into it with rather too little training, I’m afraid.’
Lemaitre’s look was saying: ‘I don’t believe a word of this, don’t be fooled, George,’ and Gideon wondered what was coming next. He was in a strangely brittle mood, and anxious at the same time; he wanted word from Cornish, and prayed for news that Biship had been held. There was still a possibility that Biship wasn’t the man they wanted, but he did not think it likely.
