by J. J Marric
There was a long pause before Gideon said quietly, "I feel just as I did last year, sir. I believe we ought to go ahead, and my personal position shouldn't interfere with that. If we don't get Borgman now, we never will."
13. Risk
Gideon put his hand to his pocket and took out the big pipe, and smoothed it in his hands. Scott-Marie was standing by the window, looking at him, putting him at a disadvantage in exactly the same way that Gideon had Borgman, only two days ago. Scott-Marie was giving him plenty of time to think. Scott-Marie, he reminded himself, was completely loyal to his staff, and reliable; this was no kind of ultimatum from him. He was simply assessing a situation as he saw it. And it was seeping very deeply into Gideon's mind. It was not good to be forced to realize that what he did over one case could affect his whole future. He had earned that future, and was almost sure of what it should be.
"You do see the full implications, don't you?" Scott-Marie said.
"Yes," Gideon answered briskly. "If I ever go higher, it would be to take over the Assistant Commissioner's job, when Mr. Rogerson retires."
"In three or four years at most, remember," Scott-Marie pointed out.
"That would need the seal of the Minister's approval," said Gideon, "and whoever is Minister isn't likely to sign and seal it unless the permanent officials make the recommendation."
"That's right," Scott-Marie agreed.
"Has anyone put this into so many words, sir?" Gideon asked, and realized that he was beginning to boil.
"No, no one has put it into actual words, George, but many hints have been dropped," answered Scott-Marie. "I put it bluntly to the Permanent Secretary that Borgman's position and influence might be a contributory cause of the reluctance to go ahead. The answer was as blunt: if a prosecution against a man in Borgman's position fails, the repercussions will be unpleasant and far-reaching. They won't do the Yard any good at all. He's right, of course. And he's afraid—like Plomley—that there will be a very big effort to get the case dismissed at the second hearing. If it is, there will be a lot of ridicule, a lot of talk about wasting public money. In other words, the Home Office wanted a certainty before we acted against Borgman, and they know we haven't got it. Well! You once told me that you couldn't make up your mind whether you wanted to become an A.C—when you were locum it tied you to the desk too much. How do you feel now?"
Unexpectedly, Gideon found that he could smile.
"In the last five minutes I've decided that I want to become the A.C. very badly indeed," he said, and went on, his smile broadening. "Had a talk with my wife about it only a few weeks ago—you remember Kate?"
Scott-Marie said, "Of course."
"We decided that we would like the job," went on Gideon, and added rather ruefully, "I suppose the truth is that I'd taken it for granted that it would be available for me once Rogerson retired, and—but that's by the way, sir. I'm sorry I can't tell the Home Office people what I think about the suggestion that we should back down on Borgman, but, if it's all right with you, I would like to be the chief police witness at the second hearing. There's all the old stuff about the accident and the brakes which had been tampered with; we're not entirely dependent on the killing by poison."
Scott-Marie began to smile quite freely. He moved away from the window, went to a cupboard in a corner, opened it, and took out whisky, a siphon, and two glasses.
"Let's drink to his committal for trial," he said. "It's not too early for you, is it?"
Gideon said, "I'd much rather shake hands on it, sir. I've got to go over and talk to some of the Divisional chaps at NE about the Carter escape, and it wouldn't be wise to have whisky on my breath at this hour of the morning. They might think I was drinking to try to keep my spirits up!"
"What an awkward man you are for being right," said Scott-Marie. "Tell you what," he went on as he shook hands, "the first free Sunday, you and your wife must come and have lunch with us again. We did that last time we faced an emergency."
"We'd like to very much," Gideon said, and was greatly cheered.
In the East End, there was a crowd of at least five hundred near the spot where the Black Maria had been held up. Traffic had been diverted to another main road, and only a thin trickle went through here, serving the local streets. The two motorcycles were still on the ground, marked out with chalk; so were the spots where the driver and escort had fallen, and there were a few dark brown marks there; the blood of the man who had been worst injured. Uniformed police by the dozen stood at different points, and Gideon saw that three of them were standing by upturned boxes. Tall, military-looking Hugh Christy came hurrying toward him, and a battery of photographers followed, while Gideon heard his own name on a dozen lips.
"Hallo, Hugh," he greeted.
"Glad you made it, George." Christy had the air and bearing of a Guards officer, and the voice of one, too; it was always a little surprising to discover that he was mellow and human. In fact he had never been in the army, and his voice was acquired, but it had often been said that, because of it, he was the wrong man for this rough East End Division. Yet he thrived on it. "Can't wave a wand and catch the devils, can you?" he asked.
"Do my best," said Gideon. "What are the boxes for?"
"Covering places where we found smoke-bomb fragments, firecrackers, and broken bottles. We've got a few footprints, but I don't think they'll help. Both motorcycles were stolen earlier this morning from outside a factory in Bethnal Green—they've been identified. The owners were at work all the morning and had the keys in their pockets. They—you suddenly thought of something, George?"
Gideon's head had jerked up, and there was a glint in his eyes.
"Eh?"
"You looked as if you'd found a fortune."
"Just had a notion," Gideon explained. "How do these motorcycles start? Key in the ignition, the same as a car, of course." He was talking almost to himself. "The thieves must have had keys or they couldn't have risked taking the motorcycles away—they might have been spotted if they'd fiddled with a piece of wire. There's a master key for most of these things."
"All pretty obvious, George," Christy said.
Gideon grinned. "Yes. Remember that memo asking for details of car thefts? The car thieves always have a master key so that they can start off without taking too many chances. We know the Carters have a lot of hangers-on, and we know the car thieves have a lot of men available, too. This was all laid on so slickly that—"
"You think they might be connected?"
"I just had a wonderful dream that they might be," said Gideon, almost wistfully. "Forget it."
"Not on your life!"
"All right," said Gideon. "Did you get that sketch plan made for me?"
"I put Moss onto it," answered Christy. "He's a useful man with a pencil, and deserves a chance. He's in an empty shop over there, doing it now."
"Was he around when the raid came?"
"Yes."
"Let's go and see what he's done," Gideon said. He had to thrust his way through the crowd which was jostling for a closer sight of him, and Christy followed, looking rather like a sergeant major. Gideon found himself wondering, as always when he was in the East End, how many of the people here were really well disposed, and how many sympathized with the Carters. Ten per cent were against the police probably; certainly ten per cent would get a kick out of it if the police were discomfited. There was another fact that mustn't be lost sight of, either: by the daring of their escape the Carters would become heroes in the eyes of a great number of people whose attitude toward the police was no better than neutral. Many who read of the exploit in the evening newspapers would say offhandedly, "You have to admire their guts." Unless the Carters were found quickly, there was a good chance that they would win enough sympathy to be helped against the police long enough for them to get safely away.
Gideon stepped onto the pavement by the shop, and between a huge red FOR SALE sign and another which said BARGAINS—MUST CLOSE, he saw Moss at a counter, another
policeman with him; Moss was standing back and studying what he had drawn.
Then a stone smacked against the window, making it boom; and, as Gideon and Christy swung round, another stone flew at head height toward them. Gideon ducked. The stone smacked him on the forehead, just above the eye. He caught a glimpse of a man with his arm drawn back holding another stone ready to throw. Then a bigger stone came from one side and struck the top of Christy's hat and sent it flying. A man laughed; a girl giggled. Any moment the crowd would really start laughing, and the fact that blood was trickling down Gideon's forehead and into his eyes would make no difference. This had been laid on to make the police look silly, of course; and so to strengthen feeling for the Carters among the many people who seldom paused to think.
Christy's face began to go red.
Gideon said, "Hold it, Hugh," and thrust himself into the crowd, carrying several people back by sheer weight, and making others sway out of the way. He could see the man who had been about to hurl the next stone, turning away from him now and trying to mix with the crowd. There was a hush, as everyone watched Gideon. He swung his left arm and brushed two youths out of his path, then reached a clear spot and ran ten yards, putting on a surprising burst of speed, rather like a charging rhino. The man he was after glanced over his shoulder, and missed a step. Before he could recover his balance Gideon had him by the shoulder. He spun the man round, saw a little, narrow, frightened face, then shifted his grip to the man's big ear.
"We'll go and have a little talk," Gideon said, and he held the man by his ear, thrusting him forward toward the shop. The giggling started again, but it was no longer at him and Christy, and there was a different note about it. Gideon reached the pavement again as young Moss came out, pencil in hand.
"Here's the chap who threw the stones," Gideon said, and brushed blood off his forehead. "Know him, by any chance?"
"I don't know him but I recognize him," answered Moss, with complete certainty. "He threw one of the smoke bombs at the Black Maria."
Gideon barked, "So he did." He let the man go, pushed him into the shop, spun him round, and said, "Where are the Carters? If you tell us now, you might get away with it. If you don't, you'll get seven years for helping to hold up that van. Where are they?"
"I—I don't know," the little man muttered. "It's no use asking me, I don't know. I was given a fiver to throw that smoke bomb, I didn't know what it was all about." It would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove that he was lying, and Gideon sensed that he was up against a brick wall. "I was given an extra quid to throw stones at you coppers, too, but I never meant to hurt anyone. I was only trying to put the wind up you."
"Who paid you?" Gideon demanded.
"I dunno who it was," the man said mechanically, in his whining voice. "I'd never seen 'im before, I swear I hadn't."
Gideon said, "We'll see about that." He turned to Christy, and said, "Will you fix him?"
"I'm longing for the chance," Christy said, and called a plainclothes man from the doorway. "Take this chap along and charge him with causing serious bodily harm to a police officer."
"I only just nicked him, look," the man protested, but there was little spirit in his voice, and he did not try to struggle when the police took him away.
Gideon was already studying the sketch plan which Moss had prepared of the district, and, as he did so, he kept dabbing a handkerchief on the cut on his forehead. It was bleeding quite freely, but there was hardly any pain. Moss was certainly good; another Wills in the making. The diagram showed all the points of incident, and there were captions explaining exactly what had happened, routes to and from the spot, all details which would enable the police to cover the whole area thoroughly. But the best item of all was a note on a separate sheet of paper, naming all the known criminals who had been in the vicinity. Moss had seen some himself; and others had been named by different policemen. In that comparatively small area, eleven ex-convicts had been gathered; someone had made sure that feeling against the police would be worked up.
Christy came back.
"What do you think, George?" he asked. "Have all of these chaps been pulled in for questioning?"
"Yes," Gideon said. "They'll probably all say they were paid to be there by someone they didn't know, but they knew all right, and one of them might crack. Who'll you put in charge?"
Moss stood quite straight-faced, but his eyes were pleading, and Christy said, with a plum in his cheek, "I'm a bit short of men, George—Moss might as well carry on with it. Eh?" That was a parade-ground bark.
"Should think so," said Gideon, and saw the glow of satisfaction in Moss's eyes. "The quicker each one of these chaps is questioned the better I'll like it." He turned to the door. "How's that Gully girl?"
"Much better, sir, thank you," Moss answered. "As a matter of fact she's staying at my place in Clapham. We've a big house with plenty of room, and my mother likes a paying guest or so. I'd like to prevent her from coming back to this part of London if I can."
"Good idea," Gideon said. "Get those jobs done quickly." He went out, with Christy on his heels, and as the door closed behind them Christy said, "He's your slave for life, I see how you do it now. Catch 'em young. Anything else on your mind, George?"
"I'm going to step up the pace on the inquiries about the car thefts," Gideon said. "You'd call it a hunch, but it's worth playing." He paused for a moment to look at the crowd. It was bigger than ever, and at the back men and women were jostling and pushing forward. What a sweaty, sticky, ill-dressed, ill-featured mob a crowd could look on a warm day. Most of the police work was finished and traffic would be able to start flowing soon, but the stone-throwing incident had brought more people here. Gideon recognized at least eight men who had been inside.
A lot had been going on under his nose, a lot more under Christy's nose, more still under the nose of Superintendent Hopkinson of the AB Division, which covered Fulham and neighboring districts. Hopkinson, with his touchiness, might not be so good as he ought to be. Getting the right men in the Divisions was one of the Force's grave problems, and the time was probably coming when he should lay on a check of all Divisional C.I.D. branches. Slackness or inefficiency would do inestimable damage in a few weeks.
As he drove back to the Yard through the crowded, narrow streets of the City, where Borgman had operated for so long, he wondered what agitation the Borgman arrest had caused. The City, so eminently respectable, so correct, so reliable, contained as many if not more criminals per head of population as the East End, but they were criminals in a different way. How many tax frauds were being planned at this moment? How many company directors were chiseling on accounts? How many little thefts were there, like that old man's, Borgman's cashier? Most of these were thefts which would be found out and dealt with without referring to the police, some might start another Samuel on the downward slide. Good out of evil? If it hadn't been for Samuel, the impetus to go ahead with the charge against Borgman might not have been so strong.
Gideon was held up in a traffic block opposite a narrow street where a sign reading secure safe deposit swung gently in the wind. A few years ago there had been a raid on that very place, a night watchman had been killed, Gideon himself had been injured. A few doors along was an office building with a dozen brass plates in the entrance; and in a second-floor office one of the cleverest company frauds in his time had been carried out; he had actually made the arrest there, ten years ago. The trial had lasted for seven weeks. They were the days! He realized that he had enjoyed being out in Christy's manor, but when he became Assistant Commissioner—if ever he did!—that kind of sortie would be denied him.
He needn't worry about that yet.
He was passing Guildhall when he saw a Rolls-Royce draw up, a man in livery open the door, and, a moment later, the top-hatted figure of the Home Secretary get out and go toward the main doors; there was a Lord Mayor's Banquet for some special civic occasion today, and the Home Secretary was the chief speaker. He would not have the slig
htest idea of what was happening at the Yard, but he could make or mar Gideon's future.
Gideon drove on.
He got caught between two monster red buses, and the noisy engine of one of them was getting on his nerves; the fumes from the exhaust were worse than on most, too. But there was no way to edge himself out. He saw three people go up to cars parked in a side street and open the driving door without using a key; two go up and turn the key before the door opened. When were people going to realize the extent of their own culpability and their own responsibility?
"Never, I suppose," Gideon said to himself, and then the traffic moved off. There was a gap on the other side of the road, giving him just room and time to nip past the bus that was nearly suffocating him with its fumes. He pulled out, and roared past; and two taxis, coming toward him, had to pull over sharply. As he passed one, the driver leaned out and bellowed, "Ought to be in dock, that's where you ought to be!" The second driver simply called, "Bloody fool."
"Right, too," Gideon admitted, aloud. Then he saw a City policeman watching him, saw the man's expression change on recognition, and knew that all thought of a charge of dangerous driving had flown from the policeman's mind. Then a man rather like Moss passed; with that prominent Adam's apple and looking a little simple. Moss would soon overcome that physiognomic disadvantage. It looked as if it were a case between him and the Gully girl. Good out of evil?
He mustn't fool himself.
"I think I'll go out for a walk, Mrs. Moss," said Rachel Gully, about the time that Gideon was turning into the Yard that day. "Is there anything I can get for you while I'm out?"
"You could pop into the grocer's for a packet of custard powder," said Mrs. Moss. "Cyril does like a lot of thick custard, and I've run short. Don't be back later than four, will you?"
