by J. J Marric
Gideon was almost purring.
"All right, lay off Bennett for the time being. Anything else?"
"I'd suggest having a man at one of the other garages, possibly one each at a couple of them," Wills said. "We could get a couple of young-looking chaps with good mechanical knowledge, and they might pick up a lot. I don't think you'll get much luck at Bennett's, but there's no reason why the others shouldn't bite."
"Got the men in mind?"
"There's a chap named Arthurson in the Mechanics School, sir," Wills said. "Apart from that I'm pretty blank."
"I'll talk to the Mechanics Superintendent, and tell him you'll be getting in touch," said Gideon. "Think you can handle this yourself, or would you rather have a superintendent with you?"
Wills just grinned.
Gideon chuckled. "See what you can do." He nodded dismissal, and, when Wills was opening the door, said, "Oh, Wills."
Wills turned. "Yes, sir?"
"Don't take chances. These chaps are killers. And don't make mistakes. If you're in doubt, come to me or Mr. Bell. There's a lot of things you haven't had time to learn yet. A bad mistake now could keep you back from promotion for years."
"I'll watch my step, sir."
"Good luck," said Gideon. He waited until the door had closed, and then grinned across at Bell. "Watch him, Joe. He might want taking down a peg or two soon, we'll have to judge the moment right. He may be onto the very thing we're after, too, if these garages are being financed by the same man it's as good as a ring." He paused only for a moment before changing the subject briskly: "Have a word with Brixton, will you, and talk to NE. There's just a chance that pals of the Carters are going to stage a rescue attempt—it's the kind of thing Red would probably revel in, being the flamboyant type. Friday morning's the most likely time, when they're being brought up for the second hearing. Tell you what," Gideon added, "we'll warn the court to expect them late, twelve o'clock, say, and then get them out early. That way we should fool anyone who's got a rescue in mind."
"They wouldn't have the nerve," Bell said.
"You might be right," Gideon conceded, and caught himself out in a yawn. "What's the matter with me? I can't be tired."
"You've been working like an express train ever since you left the court," Bell said.
Gideon looked surprised.
It was the middle of the afternoon when a police launch of the Thames Division, dawdling along near the Pool of London, pulled near a little backwater, and the man on lookout called, "Easy now, there's something over there. Looks like an old coat, but it might have something in it." The launch swung slowly toward the backwater, little more than a big pool, the surface covered with green scum, orange skin, pieces of wood and old cartons floating near it, and the lookout man picked up his coat hook, leaned forward, and prodded. "There's something in it all right," he said, and another man joined him and together they hooked the "thing" and drew it toward the side of the launch.
Expertly, they hoisted the body aboard, and turned it over. "That's Limpy Dale," said the lookout man. "Flash the Yard, Bill."
"So they killed him," Bell said, heavily. "And I think I'm with you now, George. They wouldn't have killed him because he was going to turn queen's evidence; they know we've got enough to put them down for ten years at least. There's something in the wind, and an escape from Brixton is more likely than anything."
"Briefed everyone?"
"Yes. You laid it on with the court?"
"Yes," Gideon answered. "But I think we ought to send someone over to Brixton to have a look round. If Brixton thinks we're really serious, they'll be careful. Jim got much on?"
"No."
"Send him, then."
Just before Gideon left the office at half-past six that evening, Appleby rang up to say that if any attempt were made to release the Carter brothers next morning, there wasn't a ghost of a chance of it succeeding.
"Better not be," said Gideon dryly. He left the office, walked down to his car, sat in it for a moment or two reviewing the day again, and felt more satisfied than he had been for some time. The fact that Borgman was in Brixton and they were getting nearer to the nurse was easing his fears that the case would go sour.
Gideon had three evening newspapers under his arm, and each front page screamed news of the arrest; there were photographs of Borgman's wife, his £40,000 home with its swimming pool and its private cinema, his yacht, even a picture of him getting out of his Rolls-Bentley continental. So far, no one had made any comment, but two newspapers put a lot of emphasis on the good works which Borgman did; his gifts to charity, his generosity to employees. These were the first whispers in a campaign to whitewash him, and, no matter what any psychologist said, it was the kind of thing which could seep into the mind of a jury.
"But we're all right even if we don't find the nurse," Gideon told Kate, when they were in the back garden, trimming the privet hedge while she trimmed the lawn. "She's flashing her money about, and might have been blackmailing him though. Or he might have bribed her to get out of England quick."
He went on clipping, and drawing at his empty pipe, until it was nearly dark, and was actually putting on his coat when he heard the telephone bell inside the house. Kate was already indoors. He went slowly and deliberately, as always, with the scent of new-mown grass pleasant on the air, and the perfume of night-scented stock wafted to him from a flower bed beneath the window.
"It's O'Leary," Kate said.
"Thanks, dear. . . . Hallo, Mike, can't you sleep?"
"George, a cable's just come in from Perth," O'Leary announced.
"Well?"
"The Colombo's due in tomorrow, at Fremantle," O'Leary said, "and a woman named Jane Hoorn is on board. She joined the ship at Colombo just over a week ago."
"Well, well," said Gideon. "So we'll soon be able to talk to her." As if speaking to himself, he went on, "I'll telephone Delaney at Perth in the morning."
Twelve thousand miles from London, walking over the springy buffalo grass which was thicker than usual after the spring rains, Superintendent Delaney of the Perth Criminal Investigation Bureau approached his small yacht on the Swan River and was about to step into it when a car drew up and a tall man came hurrying.
"Tell them no, I'm out sailing," Delaney called.
"It's a call coming from Gideon of the Yard," the man called back. "It's due in half an hour's time, you're just in time to make it."
"Dunno that I want to," Delaney grumbled, but he turned away from the little boat with its furled white sail, looked wistfully at other small craft already moving swiftly before the wind, then went to the car. Five years ago, he had visited London and talked to Gideon, gone to his home, and been shown some of the sights by him. In half an hour exactly, he heard Gideon's voice.
"Hallo, George."
"How are you, Eric?" Gideon sounded as clear as if he were only a few miles away. "Is the Colombo in yet?"
"Due this afternoon," Delaney answered. "They ran into some bad weather."
"Will you go and see this Nurse Kennett—now Mrs. Hoorn?" Gideon asked. "Ask her where she's got her money from, who—"
"Won't help you," Delaney interrupted promptly. "Her late husband struck it rich in gold, George, left her nearly a hundred thousand pounds."
Gideon said, "Oh," in a voice which sounded shocked.
"But I'll talk to her, I know what you're after," Delaney said. "Shall I ask her if she saw Borgman this trip?"
"Yes, do that," said Gideon.
At the time when the two policemen were talking over twelve thousand miles, Jane Hoorn—nee Kennett—was standing near the stern of the great ship, watching the white wake, and the strange channel of smooth water in the middle of heavy seas. It never failed to fascinate her. She was alone, as she often was these days. Borgman was not even in her mind.
Gideon put down the receiver slowly, and sat back with his hands spread on the desk in front of him. Bell had been sitting with his ear fast to the extension, and knew eve
rything that had been said. It was nearly nine o'clock, and Gideon had been in for half an hour. "Pity she's in the money legally," Gideon said. "It cuts out any likelihood that she's been getting money from Borgman." He was silent for a minute, then went on, "Did we get the official Fingerprints report on that stuff we found in Borgman's desk?"
"Absolutely clean of prints, Sammy said," Bell answered.
"Hmm. Oh, well. Let's look on the bright side," Gideon made himself say. "The Carters come up this morning. Nothing could go wrong there, could it?"
"Not a chance," said Bell heartily. "And there was a message from Hoppy just before you came in. They've found the swine who did in those girls. Uncle of one of them, who's been acting as sitter-in for a lot of children lately. No doubt about it this time—the night men at the lab checked everything. So that one's in the bag. Going over to the East End Court yourself?"
"I'll leave it to Hugh," Gideon said.
The removal of the two Carters from Brixton Jail to the East End Police Court went off without any hint of trouble. The brothers looked depressed and miserable. There was no one outside to watch them. The police on duty at all approaches to the prison were tensed up for two minutes, but that was all. Two police cars followed the Black Maria, and the approach to the East End Court was guarded just as well as the prison gates themselves.
The second hearing did not take long.
The Division presented the evidence—that Red had been seen attacking Tiny Bray, that Syd had been stopped in the act of throwing Rachel Gully into Duck's Pool. Rachel gave her evidence in a subdued voice, and was obviously very nervous. Detective Officer Moss was in court, and took much more notice of Rachel than of the magistrate. The two men were committed for trial at the next sessions, after a dull hearing. Everyone had been keyed up until that moment, now there was a general air of relaxation, for the doors of the Black Maria opened, and the Carters, each handcuffed to a plain-clothes man, stepped inside obediently. The doors were closed and locked behind them, and as the big black van started off the two police cars which were on escort duty followed. The van turned a corner into the Whitechapel Road, and the first car followed. Until that moment, there was no hint of trouble, but suddenly there came a new, harsh note. A car started up, its engine roaring. As suddenly, two motorcycles roared on the other side of the road, then swung across the stream of traffic.
The noisy car raced toward the first escort car, as if it were going to ram it. The police driver swung his wheel desperately, and mounted the pavement; and the second police car turned out to avoid it—and found the one with the roaring engine blocking the road. A dozen police were in sight, all behind the police cars; and they came running, two men blowing whistles furiously. Passers-by stopped to gape. The two motorcyclists drew alongside the Black Maria, one on each side of the driving cabin, and clung onto the doors. One of them flung the contents of a bottle into the faces of the driver and his companion, and there was a stench of ammonia, while the two men snatched at their eyes. One of the motorcyclists grabbed the wheel of the Black Maria and held it steady until his companion could climb in. The motorcycles themselves had gone spinning and staggering onto the crowded pavement, where people were screaming with fear. Smoke bombs burst among the crowd and in the road, and for a moment the Black Maria was cut off from view.
When it appeared again, a man was seen falling from it; and as he hit the ground, another was pushed out of the driving cabin. The door slammed. Two men lay in crumpled heaps in the middle of the road, and the Black Maria screeched on.
Inside the van, the Carter brothers had slumped down on their seats, without dragging at their handcuffs and the men to whom they were secured, while the third guard sat at the back of the van, all thought of danger past. Then a shrill whistle sounded, giving a hint of alarm, and as it came Syd smashed his clenched left fist into the face of the man to whom he was fastened, and Red butted his captor viciously in the nose. As the third man jumped up, Red kicked out and cracked him on the knee.
"Hold his neck," Syd said urgently, and Red thrust his free arm round the man handcuffed to his brother, forcing the biceps against the man's neck, and nearly choking him. Syd thrust his free hand into the detective's pocket and found the keys. Red let his victim go, and the man slumped down, half conscious. There was a sharp click as the key turned, and Syd exclaimed triumphantly:
"Got it. Okay!" He pushed past his brother and went for the third guard as if he wanted to smash the life out of him.
"And it got clear away," Bell growled. He was much more affected by this news than he had been by the message from Australia. "It makes me sick."
"They can't take a Black Maria far," Rogerson reasoned, as if he found it hard to believe that a Black Maria had actually been stolen.
"How badly were the driver and his escort hurt?" asked Gideon. He had just come in from the map room, where he had been studying the car theft figures, noting the places where the one-man one-boy garages were sited, to hear about this disaster.
"Driver's got concussion and a broken arm, the other chap a fractured skull and bruises—both hurt as they hit the ground while the van was moving."
"What've you done?" Gideon demanded.
"The general call was out within minutes," Bell said, and Rogerson repeated, "They can't take it far. Good God!"
"Got to admire their nerve," Gideon made himself say, but there was only bleakness in his expression and in his heart. "And we've got to face the fact that the Carters were much better organized than we realized. They must have had a dozen men involved in this, if not twice as many. Who's making a report on exactly what happened?"
"Christy," Bell answered.
"Was that young chap Moss there?"
"Yes."
"He might have noticed something everyone else missed," Gideon said. "I'm going over there right away. Telephone Christy, ask him to have a sketch of the scene of the holdup, and to try to get every point of distraction marked—where the smoke bombs fell, where they were thrown from, where the motorcycles came from, all the usual stuff. I'll be there within half an hour."
"Sorry, George," Rogerson said. "The Old Man wants you to go along and see him."
Gideon said, "All right, I'll be there within an hour, then." He nodded and went out, and the two men left in his office, and who knew him well, had never seen Gideon looking so bleak and so nearly vicious.
Gideon went striding along the corridor toward the first flight of stairs, and strode up them to the Commissioner's room. Colonel Scott-Marie, the "Old Man" at the Yard, seldom sent for him unless it was a matter of exceptional importance, and then usually liked to have the Assistant Commissioner for Crime with him. But Gideon hardly gave a thought to the reason for this summons. If the Carters got free it would give not only their gang but every professional crook in London a tremendous lift. There was bound to be a sudden eruption of activity.
Gideon reached the outer office, and went in. Scott-Marie's secretary, a prim woman in her middle fifties, greeted him politely:
"Good morning, Mr. Gideon. The Commissioner would like you to go straight in."
"Thanks," said Gideon.
As he tapped on the plain oak door which led to the Commissioner's office, Gideon paused for the first time to wonder what lay behind this summons. He did not know Scott-Marie well, and only once had he really been in close contact with him over a Yard problem; then it had been an administrative one. He heard a quiet "Come in," and went through. Scott-Marie was tall, very lean, rather aloof looking, but that no longer put Gideon off; he knew that this man genuinely had the interests of the Yard and the work of the C.I.D. at heart. Scott-Marie gave a rather thin-lipped smile and, unexpectedly, shook hands.
"Sit down, Gideon. Cigarette?"
"Still don't use them, sir."
"Of course not." Scott-Marie did not sit down, and so put Gideon at a slight disadvantage. His hair was gray, crinkly, and cut close to the side of his head, and he had a very clearly marked part. "I wanted an inf
ormal word with you about the Borgman case," he went on, "although after the Carter incident you probably aren't giving Borgman much thought. Is there any news of those two escapees?"
"No, sir."
"It would help a lot if we could catch them quickly, but that won't be easy." Scott-Marie's expression suggested that this was just the luck of the game. "How confident are you about Borgman now?"
Gideon said, "I think there would be greater risk if we withdrew the charge than if we go ahead with it."
"Does that mean you now think it was a mistake to start?"
"No, sir."
"What really persuaded you to fight for it?" Scott-Marie demanded.
Gideon said very quietly:
"The deciding factor was Borgman's relationship with his second wife and his present mistress. I've studied the personality of this man for a long time, Commissioner. He is going to great lengths to avoid an open scandal, and I don't think he would do that to consider his wife's feelings. I believe that he got away with one wife murder, and a second was on the cards. If it had been known that he was estranged or on bad terms with his wife, anything which happened to her would immediately arouse suspicion. As things were before the arrest, an accident to her or death cleverly camouflaged as natural causes would have aroused sympathy and not much else."
Scott-Marie nodded, and was silent for a long time. Was that order coming? It would be a bitter failure, but perhaps less harmful than if evidence was offered, and Percy Richmond tore it to pieces.
"George," said Scott-Marie unexpectedly, "I can see the quandary and sympathize with it, but it's no use blinking at facts. You pushed this charge through, even at the length of ignoring a Home Office instruction. If it goes wrong, they'll be after your blood. A year ago you ran into trouble with the Home Office over the economy drive they wanted you to make. This is your second clash with officials who could influence your future. If you win, there'll be nothing to worry about, but if the Borgman case is dismissed, you'll be the scapegoat."
