Gideon's risk

by J. J Marric

  "Just going to have another word with a girl who might have seen something," Moss said eagerly. "I can't be sure, but this used to be my beat, sir, and I got to know everyone pretty well."

  "I remember that testimony you gave on the Ericson case," Gideon said.

  Moss's eyes lit up.

  "Very good of you to say so, sir." The testimony had won him his transfer from the uniformed branch. "Well, this girl said she saw nothing, but I think she was scared, and her mother's an old bitch who would rather lie herself black than help us at all. The daughter's a nice kid, though. If I'm right, the old woman's sleeping off the booze at the moment, and I hope the daughter will be on her own." He colored suddenly, and his Adam's apple began to work wildly. "I've come on my own with permission, sir; it was thought that if there were two of us then Rachel Gully, that's the girl's name, would be too frightened to talk."

  "Carry on," said Gideon. "I'll be round the corner—let me know what happens."

  "Yes, sir."

  Gideon drove on, smiling to himself, and pulled up round the corner. Here was part of the pattern unfolding again. According to the lately retired Superintendent of NE Division, Moss had an extensive and exceptional knowledge of the people on his beat, and could soak up anything he noticed like a sponge. But he had not yet learned to extract the juice of evidence from reports or formal written statements; he had to see before facts registered, and the old Chief had said that, given ten years, there wouldn't be a better man in the Force.

  Moss was likely to find promotion difficult because of his scraggy figure and that Adam's apple, though; noticeable Adam's apples and authority seldom went together. Gideon took out his big, rough-bowled pipe and began to fill it; and took a long time pressing the tobacco down, and was finicky with the little strands which hung over the bowl of the pipe. He saw an elderly man with silvery hair come out of one of the tiny houses: that was Freddy Wayne, who had spent twenty of his sixty years in prison and was almost certainly getting ready to go back again; he was a forger, and sometimes seemed to forge for the love of it.

  Funnily enough, Freddy's only son was a leading light in the Salvation Army, who was ready to bend over backward in order to try to undo the harm his father had done. Gideon was thinking of that, and wondering whether Borgman would have been different had he had a son, when he saw Moss hurrying round the corner. Even from the movement of Moss's legs and feet, which Gideon saw first, there was a hint of alarm.

  Moss came up, breathing hard.

  "I'm a bit worried, sir. Would you mind putting a call out for Rachel Gully?"

  Gideon moved forward in his seat almost before the request was made, and flicked on his radio; immediately the teeming ether woke to life. He recognized the voices of three men on the air, picked up reports on some of the night's crimes, then pushed the switch over again, and said, "Gideon calling Information, urgent, please." He pushed open his door. "Get in, and tell me what it's all about."

  Moss bent almost double to get in.

  "The girl's not at home, sir. The old woman's sleeping it off, as I thought, but the daughter's gone. A chap next door said that he saw a strange man come for her, and she went off with him. Rachel Gully isn't one for the men, and, from the description of this chap, he could have been Syd Carter."

  "Red's brother?"

  "Yes."

  "Information, sir."

  "I want a general London call out for a girl named Rachel Gully, and a special watch kept on Red Carter and everyone associated with him," Gideon said. "Stand by for a description of the girl." He handed the microphone to Moss, listened while Moss gave a brief and precise description, and then said, "Have Red Carter taken to the Divisional Headquarters for questioning."

  "All noted, sir."

  "I'm switching off," Gideon said, and flicked again. With almost the same movement he started the engine, and they began to move. "You'd better get to the station as soon as you can," he said, "and I'll have a word with Mr. Christy." It would have been superfluous to ask if Moss really thought that the girl had seen the attack on Bray; as superfluous to wonder whether Moss had any personal interest in the Gully girl; obviously he had. "Anything else you think we could do to help?"

  "Can't think of anything, sir," Moss answered. "But I hope that girl's all right."

  "The worst they'll do is scare the wits out of her," Gideon said reassuringly.

  Moss's tone altered, and he said politely, "I hope you're right, sir."

  He was not reassured, but was genuinely frightened of what might happen to the girl if she had seen the attack. There was no certainty, but probably he had cause to be frightened; no one had yet proved that Red Carter's mob had killed anyone, but there had been two deaths—both officially accidental—which had never been fully explained. The trouble with Red's mob was that it had run for nearly two years without a serious setback. Criminals with the gangster mentality always became overconfident, always began to think that they could get away with murder.

  Gideon pulled up outside the ugly red brick building which housed the NE Division's headquarters, found himself wondering when they would get round to building a new station here, and nodded good-by to Moss, who got out and ran up the stone steps. Moss was really alarmed, and somehow managed to pass on his disquiet.

  But the Gully girl couldn't be far away; she was almost certainly within half a mile of this spot, now.

  "I hope to God she's all right," Gideon said to himself, then got out to go and have a word with Christy. As he reached the top step, a car turned the corner and, moving too fast, approached the station. The driver jammed on his brakes, two doors opened almost simultaneously, and Gideon had a sense of foreboding that this was bad news.

  Instead, he saw that the first man to get out was handcuffed to another; the first man was a Divisional detective sergeant, named Willis, and the man handcuffed to him was small, round-faced, and bald-headed.

  "Baldy!" Gideon found himself exclaiming.

  The sergeant was grinning, obviously on top of the world; the other man who got out of the police car raised his hands together like a boxer acknowledging the crowd. The policeman on duty at the foot of the steps was making a desperate attempt in dumbshow to tell the newcomers that Gideon was here, but they did not take the hint; and Gideon could not blame them, for Baldy Lock had been on the wanted list for nine months. He had got away with fifteen thousand pounds in a pay snatch, and no one on the Force had seen him since.

  Then all three men coming up the steps saw Gideon. Willis missed a step, Baldy Lock looked downward, as if he did not want to meet Gideon's eye, and a plain-clothes man with them announced :

  "We've caught Baldy Lock, sir," and then flushed as he realized the inanity of the comment.

  "We'll have to mention you two in dispatches," Gideon said. "Where'd you get him?"

  "Followed his wife, sir—she led the way to an old barge in Duck's Pool. He's just back from Holland, judging from some money in his pocket and some papers."

  "Fine. Didn't see Syd or Red Carter on the way, did you?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact," Willis said, quite casually, "I did see Syd Carter. He had a girl with him. Going toward Duck's Pool for a bit of you-know-what, I should think. Don't want him for anything, do we?"

  4. Duck's Pool

  Duck's Pool was nearly half a mile from the river, a disused unloading point for barges which, years ago, had weaved their way through the small canals and the backwaters which led off the Thames. Now, with mechanical loading and unloading taking far less time, unloading stations nearer the main docks were used, and Duck's Pool, like dozens of others in the vicinity, had been left to become foul and noisome. Moored alongside were five old barges, two of them little more than rotting hulls, one of them towed here only a few months after having her bows staved in. Occasionally, tramps used the barges as doss houses; more often, the lovers of the night came out, to use the hard boards as divans. By day, especially when it was hot, children played, tossed stones at old tin c
ans or at sections of the barges that were not yet broken. Here, the neighborhood's cats were drowned. Here, the occasional drunk fell in and was drowned also. And here one of the people whose "accidental" death had never really been accounted for had fallen to his death; he had been known to quarrel with Red Carter only a few days before his end.

  It was nearly dark.

  One approach to Duck's Pool, from the south, was protected by a high warehouse wall. No one coming from that direction could be seen, and it was along here that Rachel Gully came with Syd Carter's right arm entwined in hers in such a way that she could not free herself.

  He was pushing her along.

  It seemed an age since she had opened the front door and seen him standing there, tall, dark-haired, strong; a bigger man than his brother, whom he seemed to worship. He had piercing dark eyes and shaggy eyebrows, and he talked very little; no one expected Syd to say much.

  "Want to talk to you," he had said.

  "I—I can't come out now. My mum—"

  "Come on," he had insisted.

  Rachel had been doing what she was told nearly all her life, and she had always been frightened of men like the Carters because her mother had thrust such fear deep into her. She had heard her mother snoring in her chair, her arms hanging by its sides. She had tried to resist when Syd had taken her arm and drawn her forward.

  "Won't hurt you," he had said.

  It was a warm evening, and she had left without a hat or coat, heart thumping painfully. She had heard Carter slam the door. He had let her go for a moment, and she had felt an awful urge to run, had been about to when he had caught her again; since then he had not let her go. She had not realized where they were heading until she had seen the warehouse wall, with its empty windows gaping against the darkening sky; she knew the reputation of Duck's Pool as well as anyone in the East End.

  In panic she had tried to draw back.

  "Come on," he had growled, and twisted her arm a little, thrusting her forward so that she walked a step ahead of him. She was finding it hard to breathe now; her asthma made the air wheeze through her lungs. She saw the oily, slimy water of the pool, sinister in the fading light. She saw the old barges. She knew that people had drowned here. She knew that Syd had not come here with her simply because she was a girl to take.

  "Syd—" she began chokily.

  "Shut up."

  "I don't want to go along there!"

  "Want to talk to you," Syd said. "Don't want anyone to hear, neither." They neared the pool itself, and the uneven cobbles surrounding it were slippery. Once Rachel slipped. "Step lively," Syd ordered, and thrust her toward two planks which stretched over a yard of water between the side of a boat and the cobbles.

  She wanted to scream, but could not.

  She stepped onto the planks, and there was an awful fear in her lest he should push her into the water; but he held her steady. They stepped onto the creaking boards of the barge, and then stopped at the entrance to the living quarters. It was like the opening of a dark hole.

  "Get down there," Syd ordered.

  "Syd, no, I—"

  He gave her a shove, and she fell forward, snatched at a hand rail, and jolted it out of its socket. She nearly pitched into the hole, but somehow steadied herself, and then began to climb down the upright ladder, the only means of getting in or out. There was a stench of foul water, making her feel sick. Syd filled the entrance now, and it was pitch dark in here. She heard him scramble down.

  "Syd—"

  "You see Tiny Bray tonight?"

  "No! No, Syd, I—"

  "You're lying."

  "I didn't see him!"

  "You see who set on him?"

  "No!"

  "You're lying," Syd said, and his hand touched hers, his fingers gripped her wrist and twisted. "You tell the cops anything?"

  "No!"

  "If you told the cops—"

  "I tell you I didn't."

  "What didn't you tell them?"

  "Syd, I—"

  "What didn't you tell them?" he demanded, and the pressure of his fingers became more painful.

  "They wanted to know if I'd seen anyone in the Cut, but they didn't make me say anything. I didn't say a word, Syd, I swear it."

  "Did you see Tiny in the Cut?"

  "I—yes, I did, but I didn't tell the police."

  "See anyone else?"

  "No!"

  "Why don't you tell the truth?" Syd demanded roughly. Every question he asked came tautly, as if he disliked the need for saying so much; and with every question there was a little extra pressure and pain. "Who did you see set on Bray?"

  "I—I didn't mean to see anyone, Syd. I didn't stay, I just went round the long way."

  "See Red?" Syd demanded, and shook her roughly.

  "Yes, I did see him, I happened to see him," Rachel almost sobbed, "but I didn't say anything to the police, and I never will; I swear I never will."

  "That's right, you won't," Syd said. "Okay, you can get out, now. I'll give you a hand up."

  The change in his mood was almost as frightening as if he had struck her, or kept calling her a liar. He hauled himself out of this stinking little hutch, and then stretched down for her. He took her wrists, tightened his grip, and hauled her up bodily. Her knees scraped against the boards. Then, in the darkness which now seemed complete, he held her with his left arm round her waist, and they went toward the side.

  She knew what he was going to do.

  She kicked out at him, and the sharp toe of her shoe caught his ankle. He gasped. She pulled herself free, and tried to run toward the boards which spanned the gap between the barge and the bank. In a moment he was after her. She heard him swear. She was still free and could just make out the bank; but she was too far from the boards, and her only hope was to jump. She ran three paces, and then leaped—but before she actually left the ground her feet were hooked from under her; so, instead of jumping clear, she pitched forward. She saw stars and the pale light reflected on the water as it seemed to come up to meet her.

  She screamed.

  She heard sounds, not knowing what they were, except that there seemed to be a great roaring in her ears as she met the water.

  It was a uniformed man, whose beat included Duck's Pool and who picked up the alarm from a police call box, who reached the pool and saw Rachel plunge into the water. He saw the man, too, and knew that the man had pushed her in, but he decided quickly to try to save the girl and to let the man go. He stripped off his tunic and helmet and dived in. As he did so, lights shone from the two lanes which led to the pool, and he knew that the first carload of police had arrived. He went under the noisome water, came up, saw lights flashing on the surface, and one beam falling on the hair of the girl. He was near enough to grab her, and to keep her afloat until ropes were flung for him to grip. He heard shouting and thought he heard running footsteps, but his only worry was to keep the girl's head above water.

  "She all right?" asked Gideon.

  "She will be. Frightened stiff at the moment."

  "Get a doctor for her."

  "One's on the way."

  "Good. Got the man?"

  "Yes. It was Syd Carter," answered the detective inspector who had arrived with the first police car. "He won't say much, but we can pick up Red and the rest of the bunch now. Bit of luck, that was. If Willis hadn't noticed Syd Carter and the girl, we wouldn't have found her until we'd dragged half the pools in the district. She can call herself lucky."

  Lucky? wondered Gideon.

  It was part of that untidy pattern of London life; Baldy Lock, out of the country for nearly a year, had been caught when everyone had thought that he had got away for good. Baldy had come to see his wife—and because of his love for her this girl had been saved and Syd Carter caught almost before the hunt had started. The girl owed her life to young Moss, of course, and Moss's powers of observation weren't luck.

  Gideon waited until the local police surgeon had come, confirmed that all the girl need
ed was rest, made sure that Christy would have her looked after, and then drove homeward. He called the Yard on the radio; nothing outstanding had happened, there was no need for him to go there. He drove home along the Embankment, feeling relaxed and relieved. It was always good when a hunt ended so quickly, and it was easy to forget how many did.

  But the Borgman hunt was not likely to end quickly, even if it really began.

  Was Kate right after all? Was he really wise to stick his neck out? Would he ever be able to find out why Nurse Kennett had left the country, and whom she had married—whether she had married at all. It might mean giving work to a dozen police forces, in England and abroad, all of them already heavily overworked. Even if a lot of morphine was found in the first Mrs. Borgman's grave, could he stand up in court on the evidence so far available, and be cross-examined by Percy Richmond? Could he even be sure that Borgman was guilty?

  He reached home, took the car to the garage just round the corner—it was a small garage, too narrow for backing in; even backing out in the mornings had its problems—and strolled in the pleasant evening to the house. No lights were on. It wasn't yet ten o'clock, Kate wouldn't be back until nearly eleven, and the youngsters might be even later. It was hard to realize that they were all sufficiently grown up to be their own judges of the right time to get home. None of them overstepped the freedom which he and Kate gave them. Now there was luck: in their children.

  He and Kate had six in all, although they had lost one, very young. Tom was twenty-eight, married, and an electrical research worker in the north. Prudence, at twenty-three, was married, too, but her Peter was proud that she was still a violinist with the B.B.C. Symphony Orchestra. Plump, pretty Penelope was nearly seventeen, a promising pianist who would probably soon have to choose between marriage and a career. And there was Priscilla, the quiet one, soon to be twenty-one, without a boy friend or any special bent, but in an almost guilty way Gideon had a particularly soft spot for her.

  There was Matthew, determined to be a policeman yet studying hard for his university scholarship, and young Malcolm, the "baby," a boisterous fifteen, who gave no thought to anything but cricket, swimming, football, and food.