An Uncivilised Election

by John Creasey

  “Shouldn’t have to cut the grass much more this year,” Gideon said as they went in. “What kind of a day have you had?”

  Kate laughed.

  “Interruption after interruption. Canvassers from three parties have been, and we’re getting littered up with circulars.” There were several on the small hallstand. “But the real thrill is—”

  “That you, dad?” Malcolm came tearing out of the kitchen, in one hand an apple with a huge piece bitten out of it. His dark hair was plastered down and for once he seemed to have washed with enthusiasm. He was the most studious of the Gideon family, and read a great deal; that might explain the fact that at fifteen he needed glasses. “What do you think – I’m the Liberal candidate!”

  “You’re the what?”

  “In the school election, I mean. We’re all going to have an election just before the real one comes off. We’re going to do it in style too – everything exactly the same as they do in the real thing, only the time limit’s a bit different as we weren’t prepared for it, you see. There are three candidates and a freak, and I’m the Liberal.”

  “Not the freak?”

  “No,” said Malcolm scornfully. “That’s the Fight for Peace chap. Dad, aren’t you a Liberal?”

  “I am non-political.”

  “Oh, cut out that official stuff. Aren’t you?”

  “I like a little of what I see in all of them,” said Gideon. “You won’t be able to draw me, so you might as well give up. How are you going to run your campaign?”

  “Well, that’s why I hoped you’d be a Liberal. I thought you could give me some good arguments.”

  “I can do better,” said Gideon. “I can give you two pamphlets on the party’s policy, free, and—”

  “Oh, all the parties are supplying us with literature and policy statements, and I believe that there’s going to be a big meeting – after school hours of course – when all three candidates are going to be on the same platform.”

  “Four,” corrected Gideon.

  “What?”

  “Four candidates, you said.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the F.F.P., but he doesn’t count.”

  “A lot of people might be making the same mistake,” said Gideon.

  At least Parsons wasn’t.

  Gideon was sitting back after supper, looking at the news and the flashes of photographs of nomination day, saw the tail end of the Quatrain march, noticed the way Malcolm’s eyes kindled at the sight of Quatrain, and knew that he would get much more publicity than anyone else. It might be easy to make the mistake of underrating him, too.

  Quatrain, fully satisfied with the way the day had gone and with the space he had obtained in the evening newspapers and on television, spent the evening with David Smith, working out details of his own campaign as well as those of the other four Q Men candidates. He had planned this campaign to be as near a national one as he could, hence the selection of the constituencies – one in Williton, one near Manchester, one near Birmingham, one near Edinburgh, and one in East Anglia. Each constituency had the same strata of electors, including some wealthy ones, and he did not think that any of his men would poll badly.

  He wanted a “sign” from this election – a sign that he was what he had always believed himself to be: destined to lead this nation out of a state of economic and political muddle and confusion into the bright uplands of a benevolent dictatorship.

  At half past twelve Smith, a man in his middle twenties, short, stocky, red-haired, with tremendous vigour and vitality, leaned back in his chair, yawned, and said: “I think I’ll have an early night, Q.”

  Quatrain smiled. “Why don’t you? Then you can get off to an early start in the morning.”

  Good-humouredly Smith agreed. He slipped on his shiny jacket, and Quatrain saw him to the door of the apartment, one of a large block that overlooked Hyde Park. As they went toward the door, Smith was thinking a little uneasily that he might have annoyed Quatrain; he was never really at ease with his leader, although with other people present he always appeared to be. There was an aura almost of mysticism about Quatrain; physically he was nearly perfect and mentally he was far better equipped than most. Certainly he had a kind of personal magnetism which drew men and women to him.

  Quatrain opened the door.

  “Good night, David.”

  Smith gave the flick of his hand that was the Q Men’s salute and stepped outside.

  There was a flash, a sharp explosion, and a blast. Quatrain snatched his hand from the door, and dodged back. Smith went stumbling along the passage, arms waving, making funny little choking noises.

  8: Plastic Bomb

  Parsons was yawning.

  He was in the office with two sergeants, both on night duty, who had been briefed by Gideon earlier in the day. They were youngish men who would probably have to do a lot of legwork in the next three weeks. Tonight they would spend their time studying the maps and going through records, for they knew that when they came on duty tomorrow night, Parsons would put them through their paces.

  “I’ll call it a day,” Parsons announced suddenly.

  “Having an early night, sir?” asked the darker of the two sergeants, a man named Petrie.

  “You’ll know all about early nights before I’ve finished with you,” said Parsons. He yawned again, and peered at himself in an oval mirror over the fireplace. He was looking tired, his eyes were red-rimmed, and for once his mind wasn’t working clearly. He took his hat off the peg, and jammed it on. Its round pork-pie shape and rather wide brim made him look more than ever like a priest. “And don’t think, because it’s been quiet today, it will be like this all the way along.”

  He went out.

  “If you ask me,” said the fair-haired sergeant, whose name was Whittle, “he’s looking on the gloomy side. When it comes to the point there won’t be any trouble. He’s got a bee in his bonnet.”

  As he said “bonnet” the telephone nearest him began to ring. He got up and lifted it.

  “Mr. Parsons’ office.” He held on. Then suddenly his eyes rounded, he snapped. “Hold it!” and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Get Parsons back – Quatrain’s been hurt.”

  Parsons turned into the driveway of Park Towers, one of the tallest and most modern blocks of flats in London. He knew he was ahead of the divisional police, but a man was getting out of a Jaguar, the door of which was being held open by a uniformed doorman. Parsons climbed out of his car, and the Yard chauffeur with him asked:

  “Shall I come with you, sir?”

  “No. Wait until the divisional chaps get here and see they come straight up.” Parsons hurried after the man from the Jaguar, and the doorman turned to him impatiently.

  “Mr. Quatrain’s apartment, please,” Parsons said.

  “Mr. Quatrain can’t see—”

  “I am Superintendent Parsons of New Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, sir. There are two policemen upstairs now, and this is Dr. Hibberd. It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it, sir?”

  “How is Mr. Quatrain?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. It’s his friend, Mr. Smith, who’s hurt so badly. You should see his face …”

  Quatrain came out of a bedroom as Parsons and the doctor, a sharp-featured, dark-haired man, entered the apartment. There was one uniformed policeman in the passage and one inside the flat; this man appeared at the bedroom door, helmet off, coat off. Quatrain was looking completely self-possessed.

  “Ah, Howard. Thank you for coming so quickly.” So he was on Christian name terms with the doctor. “He’s in the bedroom.”

  “How is he?”

  “I don’t know. The policeman has been rendering first aid.” Quatrain looked at Parsons. “Good evening, Superintendent; I’m sorry you had to be dragged out at this time of night. Thank you for coming so promptly.”

  “Glad I was still working,” said Parsons. “How is he?”

  “His face is badly cut about, but the greate
st danger appears to be to his eyes.”

  Parsons said, “Hell of a thing to happen.”

  “I hope that you find the perpetrator very quickly,” said Quatrain. “I shall do everything within my power to help and everything possible to make sure of quick results. Do you wish to see him?”

  “For a moment, sir, yes. And then if you will answer some questions …”

  Smith lay on his back, his face cut and scorched, his eyebrows and front hair burned off. The police constable had washed him and placed pads over his eyes. He was in his underclothes, hands clenching and unclenching, lips working, as if he were trying to keep back moans of pain.

  “An ambulance is on the way,” the doctor said. He was already pushing the needle of a hypodermic syringe into an ampule of morphine, and the constable was rolling up the injured man’s sleeve. “Here’s the spirit, if you’ll clean the arm.” He lifted the syringe up to the light, the ampule stuck on the end of it, and the colourless liquid was drawn slowly from one container to the other. “It’s all right, David. You’ll feel a sharp prick, hardly anything at all, and then you’ll go to sleep. From what I can see of you, you’ll be all right.” He waited until the policeman drew back from the injured man, and then stretched the skin of the arm just above the elbow and pushed the needle in; he seemed to hold it there a long time. “Now just forget all your troubles,” he said as he drew the needle out.

  Parsons turned away, and Quatrain followed him. Quatrain looked pale, and there was about his lips a tightness which took away something of his looks.

  “This is a dastardly political outrage,” he declared. “I hope that the full significance of it will not be misunderstood.’’

  “A political outrage, sir?”

  “Of course,” Quatrain said coldly. “Do you doubt it?”

  “I don’t take that or anything else for granted,” Parsons said. “There could be other motives.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “No doubt, sir. Now, if you’ll be good enough to tell me exactly what happened?”

  While Quatrain talked, the policeman in the passage was reinforced by two plain clothes men from the division. They marked off a large area outside the door, and also indicated a narrow path along which callers could come and go. The policeman put down a sheet covering the doorway, as if to make sure that footprints and other marks could not be damaged or destroyed; there was a quiet and calm efficiency about it which pleased Parsons, for these two uniformed men could not have had any training for C.I.D. work.

  A very big, very grey man came walking along the passage; White, of KL Division, which covered London’s West End.

  “Hallo, Parsons. What’s on?”

  “These chaps will tell you,” Parsons said. “Get your men working and then come and have a word with us, will you?” Parsons could be almost abrupt in his manner. He turned to Quatrain again. “We needn’t worry too much about the routine, sir. I would like you to tell me again exactly what happened.”

  “Didn’t you listen to me the first time?” demanded Quatrain.

  “Yes, sir,” said Parsons, “and I have an almost photographic memory. I want to make sure that you have all the details clear in your mind. After a shock like that the mind plays queer tricks.”

  “Mine plays no tricks, Superintendent.”

  “Shall we see, sir?”

  Quatrain’s expression became haughty, and for a moment it seemed likely that he would refuse. Then suddenly he relaxed, smiled, turned toward a small book-lined room, and motioned to a chair.

  “Yes, we shall indeed find out if my mind plays tricks. Will you have a drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir. But don’t let me stop you.”

  “I don’t think I will let you stop me from doing anything,” said Quatrain. “On the other hand, I am anxious to have this criminal traced as quickly as possible. It was two minutes after twelve-thirty …”

  It was two minutes to four o’clock when Gideon’s telephone bell rang. He stirred in heavy sleep. Kate woke but did not move, although the bell sounded very loud. Gideon grunted. Kate began to struggle up, but suddenly Gideon said, “All right.” He hitched himself up, screwed up his eyes, and took off the receiver. “Gideon.”

  “Parsons,” said Parsons. “I thought you ought to know that Quatrain …”

  Gideon listened with growing attentiveness, and when Parsons had finished he said: “We’ll have Quatrain watched wherever he goes, night and day. There mustn’t be the slightest suggestion that we aren’t bursting at the sides to catch this chap. Do you know what kind of bomb it was?”

  Behind him, drowsy, Kate caught her breath.

  “A small plastic one – we’ve collected a lot of the pieces.”

  “Bomb,” Kate whispered.

  “Where are you speaking from?”

  “Quatrain’s place,” replied Parsons. “Park Towers, in Park Lane.”

  “I’ll come over,” said Gideon.

  Only now and again was he justified in taking any active part in an investigation, and this was one of his few regrets. There remained a sense of compulsion to be on the spot, a satisfaction in working directly in an investigation which work at the desk never equalled. No matter when he had to go out on a job, it pleased him. Now he was concerned and anxious about what had happened, but that satisfaction remained, and there was no reluctance in his manner as he dressed. Kate was already out of bed. She came in as he was fastening his collar, carrying a tea tray.

  “Shouldn’t have worried,” Gideon said, “but a cup of char will really wake me up. Did I tell you what’s happened?”

  “You just said bomb, and you mentioned Quatrain.”

  “That’s all you need to know,” Gideon said.

  “Is he hurt, George?”

  “Quatrain?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Who was, then?”

  Gideon, sipping tea and breaking a biscuit in his big fingers, said shrewdly:

  “Quatrain interest you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “As a—what?”

  “He’s so devastatingly good-looking.”

  “He could be devastating in a lot of other ways if he were given the chance. His first lieutenant has been badly cut about the face, and possibly blinded.”

  “No!”

  “Parsons thinks the bomb was meant for Quatrain. As far as he can judge it was fastened about head height outside the door of the flat, where it was bound to go off in his face.”

  “How—wicked.”

  “Wicked’s the word,” agreed Gideon. “Better the lieutenant than Quatrain, eh?”

  Kate said, “It would be dreadful if he was blinded or disfigured, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would be—” Gideon began, and was about to add “dreadful whoever gets blinded or disfigured,” but stopped himself. “You get back to bed, dear. I’ll phone sometime during the morning.” He finished the tea and knotted his tie.

  It was not until he was driving along King’s Road toward Westminster that the real significance of this crime began to impress him. Until then he had been thinking only with the surface of his mind, the shallow, automatic kind of mental reaction which came from first waking. He had felt almost smart when questioning Kate about Quatrain and her reaction to him; as if that really mattered. A shadow darkened his mind, and a weight of physical depression settled on his chest. A plastic bomb, used politically, was something revolutionary in England, something almost unbelievable. He remembered how Parsons had talked about the OAS in Algiers and all their savagery, and the weight of depression increased. Had this been political? Was there any reason, any hope at all, for believing that it hadn’t? If it had been, what effect would it have on the people, even on the world? England, home of democracy, home of bitter political antagonism in an atmosphere of complete political freedom, freedom from fears and pressures and restraints except those necessary to ensure full rights for the individual – one little plastic bomb, one f
ascist-type reactionary politician blinded. How far would the effect of such a crime spread?

  Was it the first of many? The beginning of a planned campaign?

  “Don’t be a blurry fool,” Gideon rebuked himself.

  “Blurry” for “bloody” was a legacy from the days when his children had been young, and one of them had called a teacher at kindergarten a bloody fool. The only way Gideon had taught himself not to swear in front of the children had been to cut the habit to a minimum everywhere; “blurry” had been a compromise which had helped him out of many an awkward moment. Now, the explosive use of the word helped him again. He swung past a horse-drawn cart laden with empty boxes for Covent Garden, was passed by a huge lorry overladen with vegetables, bursting their net bags, coming from the market, and then reached Sloane Square. He drove along an almost deserted Sloane Street, past the Carlton Tower Hotel, a block not dissimilar to Park Towers, where Quatrain lived. As he waited on the red light at Knightsbridge, where a surprisingly thick stream of traffic passed, he thought, No need to get into a panic over it.

  But he was deeply worried.

  The divisional police were coming away when he reached the building, and he recognized the spindly figure of Ben White, the divisional man who had been working with Parsons.

  “Hallo, Ben.”

  “Nasty business. Parsons is still up there with the great Q. Want me for anything?”

  “Make the report as detailed as possible, and get it over to me fast, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gideon strode into the building, now fully awake and alert, feeling as if he had the situation clear in his mind. His first reaction had been that he must see Quatrain himself; and nothing could have been more right. A uniformed constable at the door recognized him; the doorman took him upstairs. All the evidence of the routine work showed, but the door of the apartment was closed. A policeman outside it rang the bell as soon as Gideon appeared.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning.”