by J. J Marric
"Smith here."
"Smithy, haven't we sent you down more inquiries about factory jobs than usual?"
"Could be," said Chief Inspector Smith.
"Check, will you?" asked Gideon. "There's another small tools job out on the Great West Road, not big, but enough to worry about if it's being organized."
"Can't find a market for small tools like you can for furs or jewels," Smith argued.
"So far as we know," Gideon said, and rang off, thinking about how often men said the obvious, and wondering how often he did. He made notes about several factory thefts which had been reported lately; then Bell came in.
"Greeted each other like long-lost brothers," he said, and he sounded a little uneasy. "I never liked the smooth type, and Cuthbertson's smoother than most." He went to his chair. "Anything new in?"
"No. Take all the calls for the next hour, will you? I want another go at these car thefts, and I want to check the build-up against the Carters."
"You've got them as tight as a glove," said Bell, and gave Gideon the impression that he had been going to add, "Wish you had Borgman as tight." Gideon pushed the thought aside, but it kept coming back. He wished he knew what was going on between the man and his solicitor, and it was not even a consolation to know that the case against Red and Syd Carter was foolproof. He rang Plumley, who said brightly:
"Nice job you've done about the Carters, George. Wish all cases were as easy as that."
"You call it easy?" Gideon said gruffly. "About tomorrow morning—I've got Lee to give evidence of arrest, and Carmichael and Appleby to support. Do you want to give any other evidence?"
Plumley hesitated.
"Cuthbertson will probably put up a show of outraged innocence," Gideon went on, "but I don't think we ought to show even a glimpse of our cards."
"Right, George. We'll just give formal evidence and let them snarl."
"Good," said Gideon.
Waiting seldom worried Gideon, for he had learned patience the hard way. Sometimes weeks, often months, occasionally years, passed before he got what evidence he needed, and he had a sense of timelessness most of the time he was at the Yard. He could act as swiftly as any man, but the slow accretion of evidence satisfied him best. At the moment there were a dozen, perhaps twice as many, men out, patiently acquiring evidence: about the car thefts, for instance; about the factory thefts; about the Carters; about the old lecher; about Carslake and Mrs. Robson. Remorselessly, cases built up. But waiting that night was more trying than he had known it for a long time. He took the robbery files home, as well as notes about the factory jobs and the file on the man Larkin who had been battered to death in a small room of a house where he had lived with his mother and father. It began to look very much as if Larkin had driven that killer car—and been killed so that he could not talk.
Usually, the telephone bell would ring two or three times in an evening, especially when O'Leary was on duty. Tonight, it did not ring once. Kate had to go out, sitting in for a neighbor. The television palled. It was useless to tell himself that he was fussing like a hen; this was how he felt.
At ten o'clock, the children began to come in. Malcolm was full of a film he had just seen, Matthew was in a lively mood, Penelope and Priscilla had a fit of the giggles. After ten minutes, Gideon said, "I'm going out for a stroll," and went off, wishing Kate were with him, wishing that he was more sure of himself, looking up at the stars without thinking about them. He heard footsteps coming round the corner, and recognized Kate's. There was more spring in his step as he went to meet her. The light of a street lamp fell on her face, and he saw her smile as she recognized him.
"Hallo, Kate. You're early."
"I wanted to be," Kate said, as they touched hands. "Is Malcolm home?"
"They're all in. It's a bear garden," Gideon said. "Care for a stroll?"
"Love it."
"Let's go to the river," Gideon suggested. "Bus there and walk back."
"That's a good idea," agreed Kate.
She was aware of his mood, of course, even though she did not speak of it, and there was the quietness of true companionship between them as they walked to New King's Road, caught a bus after only a minute's wait, went to the Middlesex side of Putney Bridge, and walked briskly over it. The stars were reflected brightly on a surface so calm that there seemed to be hardly any movement. No craft was on it, only a few lights showed near the water, but the lights of the bridge shimmered just inside. A police car swung toward them, traveling very fast. They walked with long, well-matched strides, down to the towpath, along it for half a mile, and then back, gradually quickening their pace; and when they reached the house again Gideon was feeling practically normal. Malcolm and the girls had gone to bed, Matthew was studying at a corner of the kitchen table, with the radio on. A supper tray with tea and sandwiches was waiting for them, and Kate said:
"Going to be long, Matt?"
"Only half an hour. I can go up to my room, if you like." "You stay here, we'll go up to our room," Kate said.
That was just right, thought Gideon, just what he wanted.
Next morning, when he kissed her lightly, Kate squeezed his hand and said:
"Good luck, dear."
Gideon stood in the magistrate's court at Marlborough Street, the biggest man present. A court that was often almost deserted was bursting at the seams. Newspapermen squeezed together so that three sat where there was comfortable room for one, for they regarded this as the biggest sensation of the year. The morning's papers had headlined the arrest, even The Times had given it prominence. Lee and Sergeant Carmichael were waiting, Carmichael rather like Cuthbertson to look at, with a distinguished profile and graying hair, Lee impervious to everything but his notes; he was undoubtedly feeling very much on edge.
Gideon looked round at the public gallery, and saw Mrs. Borgman at the end of one row with Foyle, the junior partner of the solicitors. She was a striking woman, probably in the early forties, and obviously she had been a real beauty, but now she was a little too fat and heavy-breasted. But her complexion was superb, and as she looked about the court he saw that she had the most beautiful dark eyes. At the other end of the same bench was a slim blonde, a real beauty, and there was no reasonable doubt that this was Clare Selby. Gideon wondered whether Borgman's wife knew that her husband had spent the week end in Paris with the girl, who could only be in the middle twenties. She had an air of competence and poise, looking more like a model than a secretary.
The clerk to the court came in, a wisp of a man, gray, dark-clad, harassed looking, wearing pince-nez; off duty, he was one of the best raconteurs Gideon knew, with a store of court lore that wasn't bettered in all London. Then a police sergeant banged his gavel, intoned words which were indistinguishable, and everyone stood up; Gideon saw how easily the Selby girl rose, and noticed that Borgman's wife made quite an effort of it, like many heavy women. She was surprisingly short, when standing, and looked almost dumpy, as many Italian and Jewish women did after the first years of their womanhood.
The magistrate came in: Calahan, a newly appointed one with a brisk air, and, so far as the police were concerned, an unknown quantity.
Then Borgman was called.
Gideon sensed the tension in the public and the press gallery, but the rest was so matter-of-fact that it was almost boring. Yet when Borgman came in, immaculate in navy blue, brisk-moving, touched with dignity, Gideon felt that old familiar feeling of edginess. There was no further news of the nurse, and he was keenly disappointed. Then he saw Borgman look across at his wife and smile; the smile softened his expression remarkably, and made an immediate appeal to the people in the court. His wife raised both hands, as if she longed to cross to him and take him in her arms.
Lee was called.
"Do I understand that it is your intention only to submit evidence of arrest?" the magistrate asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Please proceed." The formality was absurd, and yet it bristled with drama, because of the a
ccused man and the way he was looking at his wife. Gideon watched the blonde, and could not say that she took any more notice of Borgman than anyone else did. Her lips were parted a fraction, as if she was touched by the prevailing excitement.
". . . and we ask for time in which to prepare the evidence against the accused," said Lee.
"I understand," said Calahan.
Was he going to be a prosy fool?
"Is the accused represented?"
"Yes, Your Worship," Cuthbertson said, and stood up.
"Thank you. Does the accused wish to say anything?"
"I am not guilty, sir," Borgman said.
"My client will have a complete answer to the charge laid against him," said Cuthbertson, "and in view of his great responsibilities in public life, and the fact that the charge refers to a matter nearly five years old, I respectfully submit that bail on any recognizances which you see fit to impose would be far more just than a remand in custody."
"Hmm-hmm-mm," said Calahan, and Gideon watched him with increasing tension; was there any possible risk that he would agree? It could happen; Borgman could put up a huge bond.
"Hmm-mmm-mm," Calahan said again. "In view of the gravity of the charge, I do not think it advisable to order a remand on bail. Eight days in custody—where every facility will be given to the defense, of course, every facility—is that what you require, Superintendent?"
"That will be satisfactory, Your Worship."
"Very well," said Calahan. "The accused will appear again in this court on Wednesday next." He paused, Cuthbertson touched Borgman's arm, Mrs. Borgman pushed her way toward the box and no one stopped her from greeting her husband, while Clare Selby looked on as if dispassionately.
Outside, Lee said, "Calahan had me scared for a minute."
"Now I'm going to scare you," Gideon said. "You've got more work to do in the next week than you've ever done in your life. We mustn't miss a trick, and if we can prove Borgman obtained that morphine himself, or even had the opportunity to, we'll clinch it even tighter. I'll spend the afternoon with you on the job. Okay?"
"I won't miss any tricks," Lee said fervently, and his mouth was set thinly. "I want to win this case even more than you do, George."
There were times when it would have been an advantage to be back as a superintendent, Gideon reflected, as he was driven to the Yard by a plain-clothes sergeant who thought it was advisable not to talk. He could then tackle one job at a time, as Lee did. The moment he got back he would find a dozen jobs waiting for him, and, good though Joe Bell was, there was a limit to how much he could take on himself. He hurried to the office, and found Bell on the telephone. Gideon glanced through the notes on his desk, and one of them read:
I've told D.I. Wills to be here at twelve — he's got something on the killer car job.
It was now half-past eleven.
Bell rang off, made a note, and asked, "Everything as you wanted it?" He hardly waited for an answer, but went on, "Nasty job in this morning."
"What?"
"Six-year-old girl who was missing last night found strangled near the spot where the seven-year-older was three nights ago."
Gideon said, "But that old man—"
"It wasn't him, George. Sammy rang down to say those hairs weren't his, anyhow."
Gideon said, "Damn," and lifted the telephone. "Give me the laboratory; I'll hold on." He waited for ten seconds, and then said, "Sammy there? . . . Sammy, the pubic hairs in that seven-year-old's knickers, were they the same as the specimens you had this morning? . . . Oh. Sure? . . . Right . . . Yes, carry on . . . Really?" His tone brightened. "Looks as if we're really all right there, anyhow." He rang off. "As it wasn't the old man they arrested in B.1, we'd better make sure he's released with full apologies." He lifted the telephone again. "Get me Mr. Summerley of B.1, quick." He rang off. "But Sammy says that they've found strands from that cotton glove in the pocket of the man Larkin, he did that job all right. Did we pick up the manager of that garage where we found the glove?"
"That's what Wills wants to see you about."
"Right." A telephone bell rang, and Gideon picked it up. "Thanks . . . that you, Summerley? . . . That old man for the seven-year-old child job—oh, you have—good. Hope to God they catch the swine who really did it, soon. Good-by."
He picked up a memo, with Bell's initials appended, and read:
Mrs. Jane Hoorn traveled by P. & O. Line to Bombay, India, on the R.M.S. Himla, March 5. She had a short sight-seeing trip in Bombay and Southern India. The P. & O. Line is trying to trace her beyond that. I have cabled Bombay Police Department.
Gideon said very softly:
"Nice work, Joe. We'll get her before long." Before he could go on, his telephone bell rang again.
"It won't give me a minute's peace this morning," he said irritably, and picked up the receiver, prepared to switch his thoughts right away from Borgman. "Gideon. . . . Who? . . . Yes, put him through." He raised a hand to Bell, who immediately picked up an extension of the same telephone and a pencil. "It's Limpy Dale," he called, a hand covering the mouthpiece. "Might be a squeal on the Carters. . . . Hallo, Dale, yes—Gideon speaking. Will you—"
"Mr. Gideon, I've only got a sec," a man began, but abruptly his voice broke off, there was a sound which might have been a stifled cry, and then silence; until the line at the other end went dead, creating an awful stillness.
That was one of the bad moments for Gideon; a moment when the men against whom he was working seemed to stretch out to hit him where he sat.
The Carters were in a prison cell; but someone working for them must have stopped Limpy, and there seemed only one possible explanation of that stifled cry.
12. Bad day
"He was going to squeal all right," Joe Bell said, "and they stopped him, George." He watched as Gideon rattled the platform of the telephone, and as Gideon said into it, "Get me Mr. Christy, in a hurry." Gideon didn't replace his receiver, but called to Bell, "Get Information, Joe. We want a general call out for Limpy Dale as fast as we can get it." Bell snatched up a telephone, and there was a few moments' delay. During them he felt the same kind of shock as Gideon had, and wished he could take a few minutes off, to absorb the news; but Gideon seemed like perpetual motion when there was any kind of emergency such as this.
"Ask the riverside Divisions to concentrate on this, and have the Thames Division watch the river; there's a chance that they'll throw him in," he said to Bell. "Hallo, Hugh, here's an emergency. Limpy Dale was going to squeal but I think someone stopped him. We want to pick him up as fast as we can. I've a general call out, but will you . . . Good man." Christy had told him that he was already ringing for a sergeant to arrange calls at places where Limpy Dale might be found. "Call me in person," Gideon urged. "No, I don't know what he was going to squeal about, he didn't have time to say. They must have been right on his heels. Thanks, Hugh."
He rang off, listened to Bell talking to Information, and then looked up as there was a tap at the door. "Come in." The door opened and Detective Inspector Wills came in, a youngish man with a lean, powerful figure; Wills was thirty-eight, and would go a long way. "Sit down a minute, Wills," Gideon said as Bell finished talking. "Joe, there are two things to concentrate on with Limpy Dale. Either he was going to turn queen's evidence, and so try to save his own skin, or he was going to tell us something we don't know. If it had been queen's evidence, he would have written to us, I should think, or said something to Christy's boys when he was questioned. So it looks as if there's something brewing."
"Can't think what, as we've got both Red and Syd."
"That's what worries me," Gideon said. "There's one obvious possibility." He glanced round at Wills, gave a thin-lipped smile, and said, "Care to guess what it is, Wills?"
Wills had a deep voice and a friendly smile.
"Couldn't be a plan to get Red and Syd Carter out of Brixton, could it?"
"Gawd!" exclaimed Bell.
Gideon smiled broadly. "It's the kind of thing
I think we ought to watch for, anyhow." It was good to know that Wills was on the ball so quickly, to have confirmation that here was a man with a real future. "Well, what's worrying you about Bennett, the manager of that garage? Picked him up?"
"No," answered Wills, and where another man might have seemed diffident, he was confident without being in any way overbold. "That's what I wanted a word with you about, sir. The glove was in his wastepaper basket, and we've got grounds for picking him up, but I shouldn't think he's a talker. I'd prefer to let him think we accept his explanation that he didn't know the glove was there, and hadn't seen Larkin."
"What do you know about Larkin?"
"Just been talking to the lab, sir," Wills replied. "I had seen a report about his murder, of course, and he had a bandaged right hand, so I wondered if there could be a connection."
"Hm. How would you handle the situation?"
"I'd let Bennett have reason to believe we're going to ask him about Larkin, so that he can prepare himself against the question," Wills said, "and I'd let him get away with a denial that he saw Larkin yesterday. That will encourage Bennett to think he's safe, and he might do something he wouldn't risk if he was on his guard all the time."
"Why not come straight out with it, and try to make him break down?"
"As I say, he doesn't strike me as a man who'll break easily, sir, and there are no signs of Bennett's prints at Larkin's place," answered Wills. "I've discovered something else about Bennett, sir.
"What?"
"He nearly went broke a year ago, and then got some new capital in his business. Since then he's been spending pretty freely. I had a look at his takings books, and I shouldn't think he's doing much business, though. I've also discovered that several garages which were a bit rocky last year are doing all right now—these little one-man garages, run by the boss and a boy. There are at least five of that kind of garage in the Southwest London area, and they've all taken on a new lease of life."
