Gideon's risk

by J. J Marric

  He stopped.

  Borgman said sharply, "Samuel's the only one who was guilty."

  "Can you be sure, Mr. Borgman?"

  "Of course I'm sure."

  "Yours is a very big organization," Gideon said, as if he were picking his words with great care, "and this isn't the first occasion in which we have had to probe into the affairs of a large organization. Two years ago Superintendent Lee was investigating the affairs of a company after a trifling defalcation had been discovered. A clerk had stolen a little under a hundred pounds, as far as we knew at first. But it proved that he was simply a cat's-paw, and that frauds of over a hundred thousand pounds were involved."

  Borgman said, too sharply, "There is no reason to suspect anything of that kind in my organization."

  "Did you suspect Samuel?"

  "I discovered what he was doing."

  "I understand from Mr. Appleby that the frauds have been going on for many years. Is that true?"

  Borgman said offhandedly, "Yes. But it doesn't alter the fact that I discovered it."

  "And we're very grateful that you did," said Gideon. "Had Samuel lived, of course, the investigation would have centered on him and it would have been comparatively easy to find out if anyone else was involved. His death makes it necessary to trace all the defalcations carefully, and to make sure that no one else was working with him. It is one thing for a man to commit suicide because he had been caught out in a crime, Mr. Borgman, and quite another thing if a man has killed himself because he was driven to desperation by accomplices. We have to be absolutely sure what happened in this case, and that is why I asked you to come and discuss the matter with me. We want to be as helpful and unobtrusive as we can."

  "I certainly hope so," Borgman said, obviously liking this less and less. "I must say that I think you are making far too much of this incident."

  Gideon raised his head and thrust his chin forward. Bell glanced swiftly at Lee, recognizing the sign of Gideon suddenly switching to the attack. His voice became deeper, his right hand clenched on the desk.

  "This incident, Mr. Borgman? Incident? You call the death of two people an 'incident'? I am afraid I take a very different view of the sanctity of human life. If anyone else was even partly responsible for the death of Samuel and his wife, then I want to know who, and I want to see him punished. That is why I am here—to make sure that criminals are punished. I don't like to hear you dismiss death so lightly. There is even the possibility—"

  He broke off, creating a kind of menace in the way he left the word hovering. He came nearer to exulting than he ever allowed himself. His years of thinking about Borgman seemed to come to boiling point, and he was intent on scoring every point he could, piling innuendo upon innuendo.

  Perhaps the death of Samuel had gone deeper in Borgman than he knew; possibly his visit here had carried his mind back to his first wife's death, and touched him with foreboding. Perhaps he had sent that nurse and her fiancé away, and used the Samuel "incident" deliberately so as to try to find out whether he had any cause for fear.

  He knew, now.

  He was sitting very still, as if fighting to keep his composure; he would lose his temper very easily when opposed, perhaps when he was frightened. He could not hide the fact that his hands were tightly clenched. The bright daylight on his face showed that he had paled; and his mouth was compressed and his eyes were narrowed all the time. He glanced at Bell, who was staring at him openly; Bell looked away and began to write.

  "What other possibility is there?" Borgman demanded harshly.

  Gideon seemed to relax, and his voice lost the stern, accusing tone.

  "Perhaps I shouldn't have said that, Mr. Borgman, but there is no reason why you should not know the official view, provided you keep it entirely confidential. In a case of violent death there is always the possibility that it is a matter of foul play. Of murder." He made an infinitesimal pause, just long enough to give the word emphasis; and if this man were a murderer, the way the words came out must feel like hammer blows. "Samuel may have poisoned himself and his wife. That is what the circumstances indicate. But, even when it appears to be, poison is not always self-administered, Mr. Borgman. They may not have known what they were drinking. There was time for anyone else involved to have found out their danger, and to have gone to the Samuels' house and prepared the poison. I don't say that happened; simply that the possibility must be investigated. If there is one thing which must not go unpunished, it is murder."

  He seemed so heavy-handed and ponderous, but the feeling of excitement increased, even grew into one of triumph. The right word, the right implication, seemed to come naturally to his tongue. It was not really hot in here, but now there was a film of perspiration on Borgman's forehead and the short upper lip. Bell had noticed it; Bell also looked buoyant with suppressed excitement.

  Borgman spoke deep in his throat.

  "I don't believe that there is any question of foul play. I think you are making a great fuss over nothing."

  "Nothing?" Gideon echoed, as if shocked. "Nothing." He paused again, briefly, and then became brisk. "Mr. Borgman, if you are right I shall be the first to apologize, but, from what Mr. Appleby tells me, there is a distinct possibility that these frauds go deeper than you had realized. We must make sure. We can send a squad over to your offices for them to make a thorough and very quick investigation, taking no more than two or three days but causing a great deal of inconvenience, or we can arrange for Superintendent Lee and an assistant to come in as if they were accountants, checking thoroughly but taking longer to do so. Which do you prefer, sir?"

  Until then, Gideon felt a deep satisfaction with the success of his tactics, with the indication that Borgman had been forced into a corner, taken so much by surprise that he had not attempted to fight his way out; at best, he was keeping fear and uncertainty out of his expression. If only he dared to make a charge now, Gideon believed he might be able to force some kind of an admission, or hint of admission, out of Borgman.

  Almost on the instant that he thought so, Borgman's manner changed. He had absorbed the full weight of the attack, and no longer wilted. In fact he seemed to gain in stature. The metamorphosis showed in his manner, in the tautening of his expression and the glint in his eyes.

  "I think all of this is completely unnecessary," Borgman said bitingly. "I did not expect pompous nonsense from Scotland Yard. Is the Assistant Commissioner for Crime in his office?"

  Immediately Gideon closed up.

  "I can find out, sir."

  "Do so, at once," Borgman said. "I won't waste more time here."

  That was the moment when the battle was really joined; when Gideon decided to "forget" that the exhumation order had been canceled.

  He said, "Go and see if Mr. Rogerson is in, Superintendent, will you?" He waited for Fred Lee to go out, and noticed that Bell was writing more slowly; in fact, he was only pretending to write. Both he and Lee would have been quick to sense the change in Borgman and to know the weight of the opposition; but that breach had nearly been made.

  Borgman went to the window and stood looking over the plane trees, some leaves already turning color. Obviously he had determined not to talk to Gideon any more, as obviously he was hoping to establish his superiority. There was a supercilious expression in his eyes and at his lips when he turned round as the door opened and Rogerson came in, and he spoke before the door closed.

  "Are you the Assistant Commissioner for Crime?"

  "Yes." Rogerson could be cold and cutting, but he was a little gray, a little plump, a little fading.

  "This officer . . ." began Borgman, and summarized what Gideon had said about the need to investigate at the office briefly, briskly, and with complete accuracy. "I regard it as quite unnecessary," he went on. "The facts speak for themselves. A weak-willed and untrustworthy man robbed my company for years and, when faced with it, hadn't the courage to accept punishment. I see no need to take further action beyond the formalities necessary at the
inquests. This man committed the crimes, remember, of embezzlement and murder."

  He was used to getting his own way, to his word being law; and was prepared to try to make it law here.

  "A thorough investigation is absolutely necessary, Mr. Borgman," Rogerson said, still coldly.

  '"I've told Mr. Borgman that we can carry out the investigation with great discretion," Gideon put in.

  If Borgman fought any more, he would be a fool.

  He said curtly, "You may use which method you like. The sooner this farce is over, the sooner your men can concentrate on more necessary work."

  "Thank you, Mr. Borgman," Gideon said smoothly. "We are anxious not to make too much fuss, and I'll send Superintendent Lee and his assistant along. You will make sure that all the books are open to his inspection, won't you?"

  "I will make the necessary arrangements," Borgman promised, obviously finding it hard to be civil, and the atmosphere was frigid when he left, accompanied by Lee.

  "What do you make of that, George?" Rogerson asked heavily, when the door closed.

  "Want me to guess?" asked Gideon very slowly.

  "Yes."

  "All right," said Gideon. "He's been so used to riding roughshod over all opposition that he thinks he's a law to himself. Add his money and his friends, and he's next door to a megalomaniac. What Borgman wants, he'll take. I scared him for ten minutes, but that's all."

  "Still think you could make a charge stick without cast-iron evidence?" Rogerson demanded.

  "Sooner or later, we'll get him," Gideon said, "and the chances are we'll hate ourselves for not getting him earlier." There was a moment of tense silence, before Rogerson changed the subject abruptly.

  "Any news of that killer driver of Soho?"

  "No."

  "The thing that gets under my skin is that he can't be far away," Rogerson said, obviously ill at ease. "Anything else in of importance? I ought to get off soon."

  "Nothing that can't keep," Gideon said.

  Half an hour later, he drove out of the Yard onto the Embankment. There was little traffic, it was a pleasantly warm evening, and the only car that caught his attention was a black Morris, the same model as the killer car. He felt almost bitter toward Rogerson, who wasn't with him over Borgman; it was the first time he had really clashed with his chief. He was glad in a way that he had one other deep preoccupation. Every time he passed a garage, or even a petrol pump, he found himself wondering if the driver of the killer car had ever filled up there. The truism might be dull but it was inescapable: among the people whom Gideon passed on his drive home there were many criminals; some known, more unknown, and among them there might be men responsible for the organized car thefts.

  In actual fact, the driver of the car that had killed a man that day was in a garage which Gideon passed, not far from the district of southwest London known as World's End.

  His name was Larkin.

  There was a cut on his forehead, covered with a patch, and another cut on the back of his right hand, although this was not so deep or sharp, because he had been wearing cotton gloves. These gloves, bloodstained, were screwed up in a ball in the wastepaper basket in the little glass-partitioned office of the garage.

  Another man, very short and very broad, was sitting behind a littered desk. Two ash trays and the lid of a paint tin were filled with ash and cigarette ends, which were sometimes emptied into the wastepaper basket and sometimes left until they were full to overflowing. The office was not only dusty but dirty, and even the old-fashioned typewriter was thick with dust, except the keys and the roller.

  "You can talk till you're blue in the face," Larkin was saying. "I'm not going to do another job until the heat's off. That cop saw me, don't you get it? I ought to go away for a couple of weeks, and if anyone's earned a holiday I have."

  "Not with pay, Larky," retorted the broad-shouldered man. "You only get paid if you work. I've fixed the alibi for this afternoon's job, so you can forget it. When you've got your nerve back, come and see me."

  "Listen, Chas, I'm flat broke! I was relying on the pony for today's job—"

  "You didn't do the job, you made a muck of it," said the broad-shouldered man. He took out a battered wallet, counted out ten one-pound notes, and pushed them across the desk. "You can think yourself lucky to have ten. Every time you bring a car in you can count on fifty. So long." He pushed his chair back and picked up a telephone, which was gray with dust except where he handled it. He dialed a number with great deliberation while Larkin watched; and, after listening for a moment, he said into the mouthpiece, "Benjie? . . . I've got a vacancy for a driver, got anyone lined up yet? . . . How old? Sure, I'll give him a trial, try anything once. You know me." He tapped the ash off his cigarette. "What's his name? Reggie Cole, okay. He know the drill? . . . Sure, I'll leave it to you."

  The broad-shouldered man rang off, and Larkin went slowly out of the office, nursing his injured hand, forgetting the bloodstained gloves in the wastepaper basket.

  8. Birth of Two Criminals

  "Reggie," Mrs. Cole said.

  "Yes, Mum."

  "Where are you going tonight?"

  "Pictures, I suppose."

  "You're always going to the pictures. Anyone would think your own home wasn't good enough for you. Why don't you stay in and look at the television tonight for a change?"

  "It's not the same," Reggie Cole said smoothly. "Won't be late, Mum. Good night."

  He went out of the four-roomed flat in a big, brown block on a new estate in Chelsea, whistling under his breath and feeling the relief that always came when he was away from his home. It was a good enough home in many ways, but these days he simply did not like it. The truth was that his mother and father and his two younger sisters treated him as if he were still a boy, whereas he was eighteen, he had his driving license, and actually drove a van for his living. His life had changed completely from the moment he had obtained that job; at the wheel of the van or a car, he felt as if he were on top of the world.

  And there was Ethel.

  Whenever he thought of Ethel, his heart began to beat faster and he had a choky feeling. He had felt like that almost from the first moment he had seen her, a month ago, when he had called at a garage in Chiswick for some petrol. She had been standing near the garage watching him, a girl who was probably five or six years older than he—that was why he was astonished that she still took such an interest in him—and really something. He often pictured her on that warm day, wearing a sleeveless flowered dress cut low at the front, and with the kind of figure that made his mother shake her head and purse her lips, and at which his father glanced quickly and furtively. Ethel had—well, everything. The way her waist curved in and out was out of this world, and her angles and legs—phew!

  As he had stared at her, unable to make himself look away, she had sauntered over. She had a swaying walk, and he found himself wondering what she would be like from behind. He could recall the vivid red of her lips and the clear skin and beautiful blue eyes, and could almost hear her voice as she had said:

  "Going up the West End, by any chance?"

  "Why, I—yes, I am. Can I—can I give you a lift?"

  "That's exactly what I was hoping," Ethel had said, and when she was sitting next to him, her leg pressing against his, she had told him that she was broke, absolutely flat broke, but she did not like getting lifts from ordinary men: he looked so honest.

  Ethel . . .

  She had seemed so embarrassed when he had offered to lend her a pound or two, but had accepted, and insisted that they should meet the next evening, when she would be able to pay him back. They had met, she had paid him back, they had gone to the Hammersmith Palais, and Reggie had hardly thought it possible that anyone could dance so perfectly, so excitingly; it was as if she loved the pressure of his body against her.

  That had been six weeks ago.

  He knew everything about Ethel now. That she was an actress, waiting for her big chance—but how difficult it wa
s to get work without paying for it in a way no decent girl would consider! She had an invalid mother to look after. She hated accepting money from him, but as soon as she got the big chance she would pay it back tenfold. When that day came they would not have to drive round in a van, but would have a car of their own—their own—and who could tell, it might even be a Jaguar!

  Reggie did not recall exactly how much money Ethel had "borrowed" from him, but he did know that he was now heavily in debt; he himself had borrowed from everyone he could tap, and had even tried to borrow from home, although there was never any spare money there. His father was a ten-pounds-a-week house decorator, and that was hardly enough to feed and clothe everybody. So far, Reggie had managed to pay his mother the two pounds a week they had agreed out of his six pounds' salary, but he wouldn't be able to pay her this week.

  He had just enough silver to buy two coffees and a sandwich as well as pay for the tickets to the Palais. That was all Ethel really wanted, and if he couldn't do that for her, what would she think of him?

  She was usually at the Tropic Bar waiting for him, and his heart was pounding when he got off the bus near it. Already, a stream of youths was going into the dance hall, and outside a loud-speaker was playing the latest dance hit, while huge, lurid-looking posters were splashed about the drab, gray brick of the hall.

  There she was!

  He waved to her through the window, and she waved back but did not smile. That puzzled and perturbed him. Had he done anything wrong last night? He gulped as he went into the hot, steamy coffee bar. The seat next to Ethel was empty, and he slid onto it and pressed her hand.

  "Hallo, Ethel."

  "Hallo, Reg."

  "Eth, what's the matter?"

  "I—I've had a bit of a shock, that's all."

  "Nothing I've done, is it?"

  "Of course it isn't." She leaned against him, and the scent of her perfume seemed heady, while the yielding touch of her breast sent fire through him. Her hair brushed his cheek for a moment, and he had an idea that she did not want to look at him. "I'm in an awful jam, Reg."