by John Creasey
Jane knew.
“Very tired, dear?” Jane asked.
He opened his eyes. “Tired? I can’t afford to be tired for the next two weeks!” He took the coffee, dropped in a saccharin, and stirred vigorously.
Soon he was driving off again, the children waving goodbye, to the committee rooms in an empty newspaper shop, where a dozen people were sitting and writing out the envelopes in which the election addresses were to be sent out. They would be delivered free, each candidate was allowed one delivery gratis to every house in the constituency, but each had to be addressed, and that meant over sixty thousand envelopes typed or written – and no more than twenty people to do it, together with all the other office work, the canvassing records, the day-by-day organization of the election.
Candidates all over the country were facing the same kind of problem.
In constituencies where the party organization was good, such as in “safe” Conservative and “safe” Labour seats, it was not really a problem, however. Helpers were available by the hundred, and part-time paid help could be used. In the fringe constituencies like Libby’s and for candidates with little chance of success, it was a hand-to-mouth business, always worrisome, always creating pressures.
Richard Benwell said to Clark Henderson: “Are you sure this was the same Libby?”
Henderson pulled at his beard. “Yes.” He fingered a yellowed press cutting which told the story. “There’s no doubt at all.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Someone who used to know him up in the Midlands recognized him at a meeting two nights ago. He told me about it.”
“What will happen if it comes out?”
“He’ll lose a large proportion of votes, and they would come to you.”
“Sure they wouldn’t-go to the Tory?”
“A few would, but in this constituency most of the Liberal votes will come from Labour.”
“What do you think we ought to do?” Benwell asked.
Behind steel-rimmed glasses Henderson’s eyes seemed hard and bright; like glass marbles.
“Get you as many votes as we can.”
“Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
“There’s always a chance.”
Benwell said slowly, reluctantly, “I’m not saying I’m going to use it, mind you, but if we did decide that the electors ought to know, how would you set about telling them?”
“You wouldn’t have anything to do with it personally, nor would any of your voluntary helpers,” Henderson answered. “I would see that it came out.”
“Clark, you won’t do anything without telling me first, will you?” Benwell felt very young and inexperienced. His agent, veteran of a dozen elections, knew so much more and was so sure of himself.
“You’re the candidate,” Clark Henderson said. “It’s up to you.” He put the cutting away in his wallet. “Now, these canvassing reports. There are two most frequently asked questions – what do you think about the Q bomb and what’s your opinion of the Big Bomb? We’ve got to watch the answers to both of them – condemn them both without committing you to anything. And these F.F.P. Battle Committee weirdies are out in strength. They’ve started canvassing for support and persuading electors to ask candidates to promise to support them. It’s very tricky, Richard – you need every vote you can get.”
“I know,” said Benwell. “Well, I’ve got to get on with some canvassing.”
It was sheer chance that he passed a street where Libby also was canvassing. The tubby little Liberal looked thoroughly happy as he stood on a doorstep with half a dozen women talking to him earnestly. He had a most persuasive manner. Benwell walked past the end of the road and started on another street of houses, but he could not get Libby’s half-forgotten crime out of his mind.
What was the right thing to do?
What was the best thing to do in the interest of his party?
If a man had been light-fingered twenty-odd years ago, he might still be light-fingered. Even if it was the only time he had been convicted, it might not have been Libby’s only offence.
Benwell called at a house with a Fight for Peace “Ban the Bomb” poster in the window. A clear-eyed elderly woman, with a beautiful complexion, and an earnest man came to the door and started to argue. That was the trouble: a garrulous couple could waste a quarter of an hour or even more, and the really talkative ones were always on the other side.
“I certainly believe in banning the bomb,” Benwell said, “but I’m not convinced that we should do it unilaterally.”
“Now you listen to me, young man …” the woman began.
At the end of the street where Benwell was canvassing, Detective Sergeant Whittle was talking to a uniformed constable, who had reported that a middle-aged couple, ardent supporters of the F.F.P. Action Committee, had received a lot of callers lately, including many of the most extremist members of the committee.
“I wouldn’t like to say they’re up to anything more than a campaign of heckling at meetings,” the constable said. “But you put out a request for information about any exceptional activity, sarge.”
“Yes, we did. Thanks. Can you give me the names of the members who’ve called there?”
“I’ve got it written down.”
Whittle studied the list, thanked him again, and got into his car. A detective constable was at the wheel, and the car moved off as Whittle flicked on the radio and called the Yard. Information answered him.
“Superintendent Parsons? —He’s engaged, hold on.”
Parsons seemed always to be engaged. In the three days since the outrage he had worked himself harder than ever in his life. Provided he got four hours’ sleep at night, he kept going and felt well, but he knew that he was being driven by a compulsion which, once it collapsed, would leave him not only flat but dangerously near a stage of nervous prostration. He had watched the way work was going at some of the committee rooms, talked to many of the candidates, and seen the same kind of tension in them; it was a driving compulsion, absolute preoccupation with the job in hand.
His maps now had three colours of ink painted carefully on them, as well as the pins, showing the committee rooms in the London constituencies, and the homes of the candidates, and places where open-air meetings were held. Constantly in consultation with Gideon, he had arranged a system by which all the election agents informed the local police of places where they intended to hold outdoor meetings, and he made sure that uniformed as well as plain-clothed police were in attendance. But there were limits to the way in which divisional and headquarters strength could be stretched.
He was talking to White, of KL. He always seemed to be on the telephone to that division.
“… all I can say is, this girl says that it was a big man,” said White. “She’s sure he drove off and came back later. She was waiting for one of the tenants at Park Towers – he’d put her in the family way. That’s why she wouldn’t come forward before.”
“I’ll see her,” said Parsons.
“If you ask her to come to the Yard she’ll faint right off.”
“I’ll come over,” said Parsons. “How about seven o’clock?”
“I’ll fix it.”
“Thanks.” Parsons rang off, stretched his hand toward the internal telephone, and the outside one rang again. “Bloody thing,” he said mechanically, and plucked it up. “Parsons.”
“Sergeant Whittle calling you, sir, from his car.”
“Put him through.”
Parsons was holding on when the door opened without a preliminary tap, and Gideon came in. Gideon waved his hand, as if to tell Parsons to go on with what he was doing, and stepped across to the maps. Two sergeants started to get up. Gideon waved them to their desks.
“Skipper,” said Whittle to Parsons, “I’ve been in Highgate and had a word with the policeman on duty in Braine Street. Where the Wallises live.”
“I know.” Parsons could picture the clear-eyed little woman and the sad-looking man, Lady Wall
is and her husband, who were active members of the F.F.P. Battle Committee.
“They’ve had a lot of meetings lately, and among the visitors they’ve had Amanda Tenby,” Whittle went on.
“And Ronn?”
“No.”
“Any idea what they’re up to?”
“No. Division’s made two attempts to get men at meetings by offering help, but the Wallises said that they had all the help they could use for the time being. That sounds phony in itself.”
“I’ll say it does.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Right,” said Parsons. “Try the St. John’s Wood lot next.” He put the receiver down and looked up at Gideon, who was studying the little painted areas and the legend explaining them. There were small black crosses against the homes of two of the candidates, and he could see no explanation of these. Parsons joined him.
“What’ve we got here?” inquired Gideon.
“Candidates whose homes have been burgled while they’ve been at meetings.”
“Much stolen?”
“Not a lot, no. They happened last night, I’ve only just seen the reports. As it was election material it was channelled through me instead of to you. In a hurry for the details?”
Gideon said slowly, “Not really. Anything new?”
“Yes. There’s actually a ray of hope in the Q Bomb case,” answered Parsons. He spoke in a calm, deliberate voice as if determined not to sound excited about it. “White’s discovered a girl who was outside Park Towers on the night of the bomb. He says he’s interviewed several hundred people himself, and in all the division’s talked to over three thousand. This is the first promising line.”
Gideon was looking at him very straightly. “Well?”
“It’s a young girl who was waiting in one of the cars for a tenant whose wife suspected he’d kept a little bit of fluff on the side, and delayed him. And was wifey right! The girl’s in the family way. She didn’t know what to do and just sat waiting miserably. I haven’t got any details yet, but she’s supposed to have said that a man came out of the main doors, drove off in an old Bentley, and came back half an hour later in a smaller car. She’s sure it was the same man. He was a big fellow wearing a raincoat. She’s sure he’s the same man, because a car came along with its headlamps on, and he hid his face by turning toward her. She saw it clearly.”
“Ah,” said Gideon softly. “Jefferson Miles has an old Bentley.”
“Don’t I know it. He’s up in Birmingham today, helping the local Q candidate. He’s due back to report to Quatrain tonight.”
“When are you seeing this girl?” asked Gideon.
“About seven o’clock.”
“I’ve got a late conference with the Commissioner,” Gideon said. “Call me at his office if she confirms this story. Show her a dozen photographs, including one of Miles.”
“I’ll get ‘em looked out,” said Parsons. “My God, if Miles did that to David Smith—”
“If he did, he did himself a bit of good as he’s now Quatrain’s right-hand man for the election,” Gideon observed. “Anything else?”
“Amanda Tenby keeps going to Battle Committee meetings all over the place, but I can’t trace anything dangerous or illegal as a result. There’s the Lord and Lady Wallis group, over at Highgate, and it’s pretty hush-hush. I wish we could find an excuse for raiding that house.”
“If we need to raid it we’d better raid it,” said Gideon flatly. “We can use the Special Branch for it. I’ll have a word with Ripple.” He nodded and went out, closing the door very quietly. The two sergeants stopped what they were doing for a moment and watched Parsons. Parsons said, “I’m going to Photographs. Put any calls through there.” He pulled open the filing cabinet which contained his dossier on Jefferson Miles, took out Miles’s photograph, a very good one, and tucked it under his arm.
“I want a dozen photographs of men roughly like this chap,” he said to the inspector in charge of Photographs. “Not too like him, mind you.”
“That’s Miles, isn’t it?” asked the inspector.
11: “Keyboard”
Gideon went back to his office, deeply thoughtful, and opened the door on Lemaitre talking into the telephone; Lemaitre always seemed to be on the telephone. He was virtually locum tenens for normal Yard work while Gideon concentrated on the ramifications of the election. Except for the constant fear that there might be another bomb outrage, the election campaign was proceeding as quietly as Gideon could have wished from the police point of view. There was as yet no outward sign of a clash between Quatrain’s supporters and the Battle Committee. The Fight for Peace members were distributing leaflets door to door and making thorough nuisances of themselves at meetings, but they were behaving strictly in accordance with the law. Sooner or later there might be a clash, but every day that passed strengthened the position of the police, for every day they learned more about the F.F.P. supporters, their plans and their members.
Lemaitre’s tone changed. “Hold on, pal,” he said and pressed one palm over the mouthpiece. “This one’s too big for me, George, you’d better handle it.”
“Who is it?”
“Dancy.”
“Jacob Dancy?”
“Yes.”
Jacob Dancy was probably the most efficient, most highly paid, and the least publicized of all the private inquiry agents in the country. Most of his work was on divorce cases, inevitably, but he was consulted by a number of insurance companies and had been employed on arson investigations where the police were not justified in taking action. Gideon disliked Dancy as a person, respected him as a man, and occasionally half wished that he was attached to the Yard. He had been here as a young C.I.D. officer and had known Gideon slightly.
Gideon picked up his telephone.
“Put the call on Mr. Lemaitre’s line through to me, please—Hallo, Dancy. How are you?”
Dancy had a high-pitched voice, rather husky; a little like Roger Livesey’s. It came over the telephone badly.
“Glad I’m not in your shoes,” he said. “Have you found your bomb man yet? “Can you put a finger on him?”
“Wish I could, I’d get some of the glory,” said Dancy. “I wanted a word with you about a different matter altogether. Much though I like friend Lemmy, I didn’t think I should talk to anyone but you about this.” Dancy’s overfriendly manner, his tendency to ooze a kind of affable sarcasm, explained why a lot of people did not like him.
“I know you wouldn’t call me if you didn’t think it important,” said Gideon. “Someone planning to steal the crown jewels?”
“That’s not worthy of the great Gee-Gee,” reproved Dancy. “No, George. It’s just a little oddment of information which might interest you. I had an unusual commission the other day. I was asked to check back over the history of a certain Professor Ivan Travaritch.”
“Trav-aritch.”
“Not Tovarich,” said Dancy waggishly. “Travaritch is a brilliant young worker in nuclear physicist circles. I’m told that he’s one of the most brilliant we’ve ever bred in England. What’s in a name, after all? He’s two-generation English, yes – and as I understand it, very, very patriotic. I’m sure the Special Branch screened him thoroughly before he went to work at Harwell.”
Gideon had forgotten his irritation with Dancy, Lemaitre, the election problems, even Jefferson Miles. This was the way serious crises often threw their shadow: a whisper here, a whisper there, a hint, a vague possibility – and spy hunts were the most difficult and the least popular carried out by the Yard.
“What did you have to find out about him?”
“I was asked to look for any skeleton in his cupboard. It didn’t matter what it was. Reading between the lines I assumed that some bad lads wanted to be able to exert pressure on poor Professor Travaritch, and hoped I could dig something murky out of his past.”
“Who wants the information?”
“Now, Gee-Gee, you know that I can’t betray t
he confidence of a client! It wouldn’t be right, would it? In any case, no crime has really been committed, yet – I’m just passing on a piece of interesting information. Up to you, old boy. Have Travaritch watched, won’t you?”
“You could help a lot by naming the man who made inquiries about him.”
“I can tell you but I don’t think it would really help. You know how these jobs come, Gee-Gee. A friend of a friend of a friend wants a little information. I was offered two hundred and fifty pounds for this job, so it must be someone who seriously wants to know.”
“Did you accept it?”
“I said I’d consider it.”
“Ask for five hundred pounds, as it’s about a man at Harwell, will you?” suggested Gideon. “Then we’ll really know how badly the information is wanted.”
“Will do.”
“And you’ll call me?”
“Will do.”
“Thanks,” said Gideon. “Do you know anything else?”
“I know that Travaritch is working on what is called Keyboard,” Dancy told him. “That’s about all, I’m afraid. You won’t forget to remember this old friend of yours if he ever wants a favour, will you?”
“No,” said Gideon. “I won’t.”
He sat for a few seconds, staring straight at Lemaitre, seeing but not noticing him, not even aware of the fact that Lemaitre was looking across, apparently greatly puzzled by his expression. Gideon moistened his lips. It was as if a gigantic shadow had passed over the office, and it made the election troubles almost non-existent.
“Seen a ghost, George?” inquired Lemaitre.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Gideon. “I’m going to talk to Ripple, and by the time I’ve finished with him I’ll have to go and see the Old Man. Better telephone your wife to say you’ll be home late.”
Lemaitre made a great to-do about groaning.
Gideon went out, walked halfway along the passage, and stopped outside a door marked: Commander Ripple, Special Branch. He gave a perfunctory tap, although he knew that if Ripple wanted to make sure that no one could interrupt him his door would be locked. It wasn’t. Ripple, a big, fat, brown-looking and brown-clad man, was sitting in his shirt sleeves in a room that was stiflingly hot. As the administrative head of the Special Branch, he was in charge of all matters concerning enemy aliens as well as those matters which touched the police and also touched upon the security of the state. It was big brown Ripple who was at all the royal occasions, who organized the protection of the royal family, of the Prime Minister, and of somewhat lesser but nevertheless very important persons.
