by J. J Marric
"Hairs," Gideon said, knowing that was exactly what Sammy wanted him to say.
Sammy stopped poking at the curly hairs, looked up at him, and echoed:
"Hairs. How can you stand there and say it, I don't know. What kind of hair? Human? Dog's? Horse's? Pig's? If human, what sex? If male, from what part? Head? Nape of neck? Ears? Nostrils? Armpits? Arms, hands, legs—"
"Masculine pubic hairs," Gideon said, straight-faced.
"Glad you haven't lost all sense of observation," said Sammy, and gave a smirk of a grin. "You're right for once. Not that it's funny, though. Male pubic hairs which we're trying to match up with that assault on Mary Cunliffe."
Mary Cunliffe was a seven-year-old child.
Gideon said, "Oh, God. Why do they?"
"Got the man?"
"It's only a matter of an hour or two, I should say," Gideon said. For a few moments thought of Borgman was driven from his mind, and he saw the picture which lay behind this slip of white paper and these few graying hairs. A family in despair; wife, mother, father, and three older children. A seven-year-old, assaulted and strangled. The wife of an old man prostrate with horror lest it be proved that her husband had committed this hideous crime.
Sammy said, "You always did take these things badly, George, didn't you? What have you come for?"
"That Japanese cotton glove."
"Over here," said Sammy, and moved toward another spot on the long bench beneath a wide window. There were the gloves, each in a separate plastic container, and the strands which had led to their discovery. Attached to them all was a typewritten report, which was the evidence that Sammy, or one of his assistants, would give in court when the time came, proving beyond doubt that these particular strands had come from that particular glove. The blood group—A—was the same, and there was a magnified photograph showing how strands of cotton had been cut by the glass and the jagged edge; multiplied a hundred times, it showed the fracture clearly.
"Satisfied?" Sammy asked.
"Nearly. Did you have Larkin's clothes up here?"
"Yes."
"Nail scraping?"
"Yes."
"Photographs?"
"Yes," said Sammy, and pulled open a drawer, in which were a man's clothes, all neatly folded, each one with a ticket attached and a report typewritten inside a plastic envelope. There was a pair of rubber-soled brown shoes, a pair of red and blue socks, a handkerchief. "Haven't finished the analysis of the dust taken from the clothes yet—no hurry with this one, is there?"
Gideon was studying the photograph.
"I should think so. Bandaged right hand—and we've a bloodstained right-hand cotton glove."
"Well, I'm damned," said Sammy, and took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "You seen this before?"
"Read a report from QR Division that this chap had been found battered to death, and that he had a bandaged right hand," said Gideon, "and I just wanted to make sure."
Sammy called across to one of the white-clad assistants, "Walter! Got the dust analysis on the new corpus yet?"
"Coming up."
"Done the shoes?" asked Gideon.
"Yes, sir. Traces of heavy grease of the kind used for greasing nipples and chassis parts of motorcars, particles of oily dust likely to have come from a garage. Fingernails normal."
"Where's the body?" asked Gideon.
"In the morgue at QR."
"Will you send someone over to check that hand wound? You might find a strand of this Japanese cotton in it," Gideon said. "If this is the chap who stole that car and ran down those two men, we're really up against something."
"I never did like the kill-to-keep-'em-quiet cases," Sammy remarked, and rubbed his eyes again, looking troubled. "Walter, you can go over to QR, can't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, don't hang about." Sammy looked up at Gideon and asked, "Think you've really got Borgman?"
"Wouldn't pull him in if I didn't," Gideon answered, and he was aware that all the assistants were glancing at him, and that Sammy was more intent than usual. Borgman had this effect. Gideon had seldom said anything about it, but practically everyone at the Yard knew what he thought about Borgman, and knew how much he wanted to make the murder charge stick. They were not yet convinced that the charge would stick. Here in the laboratory everything had to be checked and double-checked; they dare not risk being confuted by experts, and chemical facts were chemical facts. Gideon had little unassailable evidence. The whole Yard knew what he had got, and while there was a sense of jubilation in many, there was also an edge of doubt. Borgman was big; Borgman would fight back; there would be another battle royal with Percy Richmond.
Gideon felt almost as if he himself were to be put on trial.
He sensed it as he walked down the stairs, preferring to do that rather than take the lift. He had been in the laboratory for half an hour, so Borgman would be at his office, and might by now be under arrest; might be on his way here. Gideon reached his own floor level, and went slowly and deliberately to the door; but for once he hesitated before he opened it. One ugly question was in his mind: could he really be sure about Borgman? Not that he had murdered his wife, but that the crime could be proved against him. Had Fred Lee's memory teased him because of subconscious doubt? Was there any way to prove that Borgman had obtained that morphine himself? Why couldn't they trace that nurse?
As he went in, two telephone bells rang at once. He strode to his desk for one while Bell lifted the other. He heard Bell say, "Commander Gideon's office," and then heard the operator say:
"Mr. Appleby on the line, sir."
"Put him on."
There was a longer pause than he had expected; the kind of pause which might come if Appleby had bad news. What could have gone wrong? Why hadn't he cut red tape and gone over himself?
"George?"
"How'd it go?"
"Easy as kiss your hand," Appleby said. "Ever heard the old story of the man who went white to the lips?" Appleby's chuckle had an almost cruel note. "Green and white, Borgman went. Fred's bringing him over now, he'll be with you in twenty minutes."
"Find the morphine?" Gideon fought against being too jubilant.
"You'd never believe, it was hidden in a secret compartment in his desk! Mr. Borgman says that he'd never seen it before, isn't that a funny story? Okay, George, thought I'd put you out of your misery."
"Thanks," said Gideon.
Well, he had got his way. He felt a little hot as he rounded his desk and sat down. He had been after Borgman for so long and it was hard to believe that he had him. He had a swift mental preview of the next few weeks, perhaps the next few months. The magistrate's court tomorrow, and the formal charge and request for a remand; that would be almost automatic. The court would be jammed with newspapermen, and half of social Mayfair would want to get into the tiny public gallery. Outside there would be hundreds of people, all gawpers, waiting to gloat over the mighty fallen. Then there would be the eight furious days while Borgman was in Brixton, spending most of the time with his solicitors and Richmond—he was bound to brief Richmond, wasn't he?—while Gideon, Fred Lee, and Carmichael were getting a cast-iron case ready for the second hearing.
"I want him sent for trial by then," Gideon said to himself. "If we miss, we might wait until after Christmas."
The door opened, and Rogerson looked in.
"Got him?"
"Yes."
"Keep your fingers crossed," Rogerson said.
The truth was that no one really felt really confident, in spite of the weight of the evidence; there would be that edge of doubt until the jury had returned their verdict. There was just one witness who might take away that doubt. Gideon flipped over the file on the Borgman case, and saw a new report, put there since he had last opened it. He could hardly believe the terse teleprinted message.
Nurse Jane Kennett married Piet Hoorn Fremantle Western Australia February 16th 1957 stop Hoorn died December 1959, natural causes stop Widow known to have
flown London January 7th this year Qantas Airways stop Delaney, Criminal Investigation Bureau, Perth, Western Australia.
"My God!" Gideon breathed, and snatched at a telephone, then saw a penciled slip which had fallen from the file. Joe Bell had written: Am checking Qantas passenger list Jan. 7th. It's all under way.
Gideon said, "Well, well, well. She's been in England. . . ."
Then he wondered if she had seen Borgman, but before he could develop that train of thought a telephone bell rang. It was Colby, of AB Division.
"Hallo, George. You asked me to tell you who it was found those gloves at Bennett's Garage."
"Yes."
"It was Detective Sergeant Willerby."
"I'd like a word with him some time—when's he going to be in?" Gideon asked, knowing that Colby hadn't called up about this.
"All afternoon," said Colby. "Come and have a cuppa." Then he added in the same breath, "I hear you're picking up Borgman at last."
"We've got him, Ken."
"Hope so," said Colby. "I—oh, hell, the blasted telephone never keeps quiet. See you." He rang off, and Gideon found himself momentarily on the edge of doubt again. He made a note to be at Colby's headquarters just after four o'clock, then telephoned the Guildford Police, where the sergeant who had caught Carslake was stationed. He had to keep busy. A word with the man's C.O. might do a lot of good, a pat on the back for the sergeant even more.
"Gideon here," he said. "How's that chap Miles, who got Carslake? Didn't he hurt his hand?"
"Only a scratch," said the Guildford man. "Nice of you to ring, Mr. Gideon."
"Damned plucky job, from all accounts, and we wanted Carslake badly. Ask Miles to look in here any time he's in town, I'd like to go over one or two things in his report."
"Be sure I will."
"Good," said Gideon, and then saw the door open and half expected Borgman; but instead it was Appleby. Of course he would be warned in good time; no one would bring Borgman here unannounced; the whole case was putting him off balance.
Appleby looked on top of the world, bright, eager, like an excited turkey.
"Ready for him, George? He's downstairs."
"Bring him up," said Gideon.
11. First Hearing
Gideon had a telephone at his ear, but no one at the end of it, when the door opened and Borgman stepped in. Gideon glanced up at him, and his first impression was disappointing; whatever Borgman had felt like at the moment of the charge, he was composed now; except that he was tight-lipped, he looked no different from his last visit. Gideon kept him there while first Appleby and then Lee came in, Lee carrying a small case. In that case would be the morphine and the hypodermic needles found in the desk.
"All right, call me as soon as you've got the date for the trial," Gideon said, then put down the receiver and looked up. He made no attempt to stand, stared for what must have seemed a long time to Borgman, and then said, "Well, Mr. Borgman?"
Borgman said, without heat or emotion, "I have already told your men that this charge is ludicrous. I have nothing more to say until I have been able to consult my lawyers."
"You're at liberty to consult them whenever you like," Gideon said. "But we don't waste our time, Mr. Borgman, and we don't make serious charges unless we can support them."
"There are not the slightest grounds for this charge," Borgman insisted. His voice was still flat, but the anger was in his eyes. It was obvious that he had got himself under strict control; that he was making sure that he did not say a word that might increase his danger. But his eyes seemed to burn.
"I see," said Gideon. "What did you find in Mr. Borgman's office, Superintendent?"
Lee was already opening his case, and without a word he took out two hypodermic syringes and a small bottle of morphine solution or what looked like morphine and was marked morphine; but there was always the outside possibility that it was a harmless liquid. Lee had tasted it, but could he be really positive?
"I have never seen those things before," Borgman said, gratingly now.
Gideon raised his eyebrows. "Really, Mr. Borgman?"
"I've told you—" Borgman stopped, moistened his lips, and then said, "I have nothing more to say."
"Very well, Mr. Borgman. You will be lodged in a cell at Cannon Row Police Station, close by here, for the night, and the formal first hearing will be heard in the morning. If there is anything you want we will provide it, within reason. You may have special food brought in if you wish it, although no alcohol. You may have cigarettes." Gideon glanced at Appleby. "Will you take him away, Mr. Appleby, please?"
Borgman burst out, "You must be mad."
"I don't feel particularly abnormal," Gideon retorted mildly, and Appleby took Borgman's arm and led him to the door. They went out. As the door closed, Bell was smiling and Lee grinning.
"Fred, take this stuff up to Sammy," Gideon said urgently. "Stand over him while he analyzes it; we want to be a hundred per cent certain that it's what we think it is. Any prints on it?"
"Haven't checked yet," Lee said. "They might have been wiped off; anyhow, it's nothing to worry about."
"That's the trouble, the vision of getting Borgman is making us careless," Gideon said. "It's almost as if the case has got a blight. No, I'm only joking, Fred. You remembered what was puzzling you about the bottles?"
"No." Lee was already putting the tiny bottles and the hypodermic needles back in his case, and the startled look was still in his eyes. "But I will." He went out, and Gideon said:
"Any news of that nurse?"
"She arrived on January 12th after a couple of stopovers, then went on a European coach tour organized by Thomas Cook's," Bell said. "I've just had word. But that's as far as we go. She ended the tour in Paris, six weeks ago. I'm checking all airlines and all shipping lines to try to find out if she left the country, and I've sent a call out to all British Police forces, asking them to check hotels."
"Fine," said Gideon.
"I want him just as badly as you do," Bell said. "I'm beginning—"
He broke off as one of Gideon's telephones rang. It might be from any one of a thousand people and about any one of a thousand cases, but Gideon did not think it was, and he was almost relieved when he heard Rogerson's voice. Rogerson was quite back to normal, and in his way seemed as excited as anyone.
"George, I'm told he's here."
"I've sent him across the road."
"Be careful with him," Rogerson urged. "If we even gave him an accidental shove, it would be built up by his counsel into criminal assault. Cuthbertson has been on to me already, and he'll be here in twenty minutes. I think you'd better handle him; don't leave it to one of the others."
"I'll handle him," Gideon promised. "We've got a line on that nurse," he added. He was grinning.
"George," said Rogerson, "I take back all I said."
"Ta," said Gideon.
But it was not a thing to grin about; it would be tough. Cuthbertson, of Cuthbertson, Foyle, and Cuthbertson, was one of the most astute lawyers in London, and he had prepared a dozen cases for Percy Richmond. The shape of things to come was already clear, and it was developing rapidly. There had been little time, but someone was already working hard for Borgman, knowing who to send for and what to do. It wasn't likely to be his wife, for it was doubtful whether she had heard of the arrest yet. When she did, it would be a bad shock, but—he could forget Borgman's present wife, he had to remember only that he had started the chain of events, and had to see it through to the end.
What the hell was it that Lee couldn't remember?
When would that woman be traced?
Cuthbertson was a man of medium height, silvery-haired, gentle-voiced. He was not yet sixty, although his strangely pink and white skin and his gentleness sometimes suggested that he was a much older man. He knew Gideon well. He had briefed Percy Richmond when the Yard had lost that first big case. He knew exactly what kind of struggle lay ahead, yet was as pleasant and charming as if he had come in to pass the t
ime of day.
"I know you will give Mr. Borgman all the customary facilities," he said, "and I know you'll be the first to apologize when you realize what a grotesque mistake has been made." He smiled. "I would like to see Mr. Borgman alone as soon as possible, of course."
"I'll fix it," Gideon said, and then asked gruffly, "Did his secretary send for you?"
"Yes."
"From London, or from Paris?"
"I don't quite understand you," Cuthbertson said, quite amiably. "She telephoned me from the London office, of course—very properly, too. Clare Selby is a most efficient young woman."
"Take Mr. Cuthbertson across to the prisoner," Gideon said stonily.
When he was alone in the office, he got up and stood by the window, looking onto the sunlit Thames, seeing the fast-moving traffic, seeing the slender dignity of the Tower of Big Ben. He would be uneasy until the verdict had been given, and that was a long way ahead. Why didn't Lee come back with the analyst's report? Surely Sammy could make a rough test to make sure—
A telephone bell rang.
"Gideon."
"You're safe so far, George," said Sammy. "This stuff is morphine all right, and there's powdered morphia in the little box, too. Anyone with access to that stuff could have killed a whole family. But there's one thing you'd prefer to have different."
"What's that?"
"Not a fingerprint of any kind on needle, syringe, bottle, or box," Sammy said. "Lee's gone down to Fingerprints to check, but you can take it from me that you won't be able to prove that Borgman handled that bottle. You'll have to rely on circumstantial evidence for that."
Gideon grunted. "Hm." He was thinking, and Sammy was thinking, that Richmond would almost certainly deny that Borgman had put the poisons and the instruments in that desk. But that shouldn't be hard to establish, and in any case the amount of the poison in the remains of the body should clinch the issue. He said, "Thanks, Sam," and rang off. Two calls came in about new jobs, just reported: a factory robbery of expensive machine tools, and the theft of a truckload of cigarettes. That was going to hit the headlines. He wrenched his mind off Borgman, telephoned Records, and was answered by a man with a perky voice.
