An Uncivilised Election

by John Creasey

  Then he said, “Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll go to Q’s place.” He put down the receiver. “Miss Miller, Mr. Parsons and I have to leave at once, on an urgent matter. Mr. White will look after you. You’ve been of very great service to us and also to your country. Very great service indeed. In fact, if you hadn’t been there I don’t know what would have happened. I hope to see you again, to express our thanks more effectively.” He smiled at her warmly, and shook hands.

  “What’s up?” demanded Parsons as he hurried with Gideon to his car.

  “Another Q bomb,” said Gideon briefly.

  “God. Where?”

  “The Q candidate in the Midlands. There was a bomb under the bonnet of his car.”

  Parsons said in a thin voice, “Miles has been up there today!”

  “I know,” said Gideon. “He left half an hour before the explosion. He’s supposed to be on his way to Quatrain now. I’d like to get there first. Come in my car, you can have yours sent on to the Yard.” He climbed into the back and his driver started off as soon as Parsons had got in and slammed the door. “Could have been planning a series.”

  “Looks like it,” said Parsons.

  Gideon leaned over the seat in front of him, and took the radio transmitter off its hook. He clicked on, and called the Yard. Information answered. “I’m speaking for Superintendent Parsons,” he said. “I want all Q candidates warned that they may be in danger from plastic bombs planted in their cars or in some other thing or place which they use frequently. Have that sent to the nearest headquarters and transmitted to the candidates immediately.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Gideon rang off.

  “Thanks, George,” said Parsons. “I hope to God—”

  “What?”

  “He hasn’t planted any others.”

  Gideon didn’t speak. The car sped through the thinning traffic of the West End and along Park Lane and finally swung into the carriageway of Park Towers, opposite the dark mass of Hyde Park with its hidden lovers. No other police were there yet, but a group of men were standing near the entrance, talking to the doorman. As the police car drew up, several of these men swung round and hurried toward it. As Gideon and Parsons stepped out, a man called: “Half a mo’, Mr. Gideon.”

  Gideon paused for a fraction of a second, and a flashlight dazzled him: Two other photographers took their chance, and reporters began to pour out questions, walking step by step with Gideon and Parsons.

  “Have you heard about the bomb in the Midlands?”

  “Did you expect another explosion?”

  “Any arrest made yet?”

  “Are you anywhere near making an arrest, Mr. Gideon?”

  Gideon paused at the entrance to the lift.

  “Very near,” he said. “Thanks to Superintendent Parsons and the divisional police, we know who our man is.” He stepped into the lift, and the doors closed, almost trapping Parsons. The doorman squeezed himself into a corner and did his best to stand to attention. One of Quatrain’s men waited at the seventh floor. He was wearing the same uniform as when out of doors, but it had a white ‘Q’ on each shoulder, in the form of an epaulette.

  “Mr. Quatrain in?” inquired Gideon.

  “Mr. Quatrain gave orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed, sir.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “Mr. Miles, sir.”

  Gideon nodded and turned toward the apartment. Outside the door were two more of Q’s men, big and powerful. Gideon went straight up to them. Parsons, a yard behind, wondered if they would obey their leader or whether the authority of Gideon would overawe them. They moved closer together, blocking the way.

  Gideon saw the movement, noticed the way their hands bunched and knew that they did not intend to let him pass. Quite suddenly another crisis had come upon him, a swift conflict between police authority – for these men knew who he was – and a political group.

  He stood very close to them.

  “I want to see Mr. Quatrain, at once.”

  They didn’t speak and didn’t move aside or touch the door or do anything to suggest that they would inform Quatrain.

  “I am Commander Gideon of the Criminal Investigation Department,” Gideon announced clearly. “Step aside, please.”

  They did not move.

  “I will give you thirty seconds to stop interfering with the proper processes of the law,” Gideon said. “Tell Mr. Quatrain I am here.” When neither of the men moved or spoke, Gideon half turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Superintendent, go down and get all the available uniformed and plain-clothed men in the vicinity, will you? Bring them up here at once.”

  Parsons began to object. “But you’re alone—” He didn’t finish, for it dawned on him that Gideon wanted him out of the way. The doorman was standing at the top of the stairs and close to the lift, looking scared. The Q man on duty at the lift seemed as if he would get in Parsons’ way, and Parsons caught his breath, quite prepared for trouble. The man moved aside. Heart thumping, Parsons went into the lift. The doorman followed him and pressed the button; the doors closed.

  Gideon was left in the passage with three of Quatrain’s men.

  He said, “If you know what you’re doing, you’ll let me in at once.” He drew back, as if preparing to wait for reinforcements, and there was a slight relaxation in the manner of the two men in front of the door.

  “And if you lay a finger on me,” Gideon said, “I shall see that each one of you, Quatrain included, spends the night in jail and comes up before the magistrate for assault and conspiring to obstruct the police.” As he finished speaking he moved forward and kicked the door twice, making dull, heavy thuds. Then the men struck out at him. Gideon thrust his right hand forward, spanned one man’s face with his fingers and banged him back against the wall; the noise was louder than that caused by the kicks. The other man brought his knee up toward Gideon’s groin. Gideon turned, took the knee on his thigh, saw the third man standing and hesitating as if he could not make up his mind what to do. The man whose head had been banged was sliding down the wall, the other victim was momentarily off balance. Gideon punched him in the stomach, and as his head jerked forward struck him under the chin, putting all his massive strength behind the blows.

  He heard a shout from the stairs, and two newspapermen came rushing.

  “Hold it!” one of them called.

  Flashlights made lightning in the passage and footsteps made thunder. Gideon did not look round, but tried the handle, turned and pushed. The door opened. He stepped inside. Two more of Quatrain’s men stood just inside the door and Quatrain and Jefferson Miles were together in the doorway of the big room overlooking the park.

  13: Arrest

  Quatrain was moving forward, hands clenched, handsome face blazing with anger. Jefferson Miles stayed in the doorway. Gideon could not see him clearly. The door of the passage was open, and the newspapermen were trying to get into a position for a picture, but the two Q guards rushed forward to block their path.

  Quatrain reached Gideon. His lips were working, his lean body seemed to be aquiver with passion.

  “What is the meaning of this unwarranted interference? What do you mean by—”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Quatrain,” Gideon interrupted. “I want a word with Mr. Miles.” He stepped forward, too big and strong for Quatrain to stop him. Miles was holding the door frame, and his expression told Gideon that he knew what to expect; yet there was a lingering mask of surprise too, as if it had only just dawned on him. Gideon was ready for him to dart back inside and slam the door in his face. He was within arm’s length when Miles seemed to realize his danger and did exactly as Gideon had feared. He sprang back, snatching at the door to close it. Gideon thrust his foot forward. The door struck it, and swung away from him. Miles was rushing across the room toward the great window overlooking the park, the lights of Park Lane, and the highway through the park and the dark distance. He tripped over a stool.

  “This won’t help y
ou, Mr. Miles,” Gideon said equably. “I want to ask you a few questions.” He was calm and matter-of-fact now, and still moving forward, crowding Miles back until he banged against the window with a booming sound. “Where were you at eleven forty-five on the night of October—”

  Miles snatched his right hand from his pocket. In it was a cylinder, cigar-shaped, black in colour. He drew his arm back to throw this. Gideon, knowing the danger, realizing what was likely to happen from the moment Miles had heard the truth, closed with him and thrust out his right arm to clutch at Miles’s wrist. Gideon saw the cylinder drop from the man’s fingers. He let Miles go, stretched out his hand, and caught the thing.

  For a terrifying moment he held it in his hand, expecting the explosion. He turned his face away and covered it with his free hand. He heard Quatrain exclaim, felt movement about him, lived in anguish for seconds which never seemed to end.

  Then he realized that the impact had not been hard enough to set the bomb off.

  “If it had gone off, it would have injured you as badly as it injured David Smith,” Quatrain said stiffly.

  “I daresay,” said Gideon. He had a tumbler half full of whisky and soda in his hand and was sitting on the arm of a large chair. The danger had been over for fifteen minutes, but he still wasn’t quite free from tension.

  Jefferson Miles was on his way to Cannon Row, under arrest. Two more cylinders had been found in his pockets, and Parsons was en route to the mews flat to see what else was there. The press had taken advantage of the confusion to take photographs and were still waiting outside for Gideon. Now there was a strong force of police on duty – in the passage, at the lift, and in the hall as well as outside. Crowds had gathered, Gideon knew; the sound of shouting came faintly through the big window.

  Quatrain looked very pale.

  “Yet you took an extreme personal risk,” he said.

  Gideon sipped his drink.

  “That sounds a bit daft, coming from you,” he remarked. “Would you send one of your chaps to risk getting his head blown off if you thought there was a chance to stop it yourself?” When Quatrain didn’t answer, he went on: “Once I knew it was Miles – and I’ve told you about the girl who saw him that night – there was only one thing to do. Get him quick. He must be insane if he’ll go to these lengths to drive you to extreme measures. Was he always one of your worst extremists?”

  Quatrain said, “Yes. Yes, he was.”

  “It’s the kind of thing that’s bound to happen if you play at soldiers instead of work at politics,” Gideon said flatly. “You understand that this means that we shall have to make a comprehensive search of your apartment, of your offices, of the committee rooms, and of the homes and offices of all your known supporters, don’t you? Jefferson Miles might not have been alone in this. Has he the technical knowledge to make the bombs?”

  “No, he hasn’t,” said Quatrain in a still voice. “I will, however, give you the names of others who may have such knowledge. And of course my files and records are at your disposal.” He seemed to stare past Gideon, as if at some awful disaster; Gideon had never seen such pain in a man’s eyes. “Thank you for your part in this, Commander. It was an act of very great courage, the ultimate in the acceptance of human responsibility. Thank you again.”

  Scott-Marie, in the study of his St. John’s Wood home, held Gideon’s hands for what seemed a long time, and said as if with difficulty: “That is the greatest debt we shall ever owe you, George.”

  Kate was at the front door when Gideon reached the house, and Malcolm, Priscilla and Penelope were just behind her. It was nearly ten o’clock. Gideon looked up in surprise and, without thinking, asked: “What’s this royal reception about?”

  “George,” said Kate huskily, “are you all right?”

  “You’ve been on television, dad,” said Malcolm eagerly. “It wasn’t a motion picture, but it was a jolly good still. It’s a jolly good likeness too. Everyone at school will have seen it.”

  “Pity they didn’t drop the camera,” Gideon said. With Kate’s arm in his, and her manner telling him how acutely the realization of danger had come upon her, they went indoors. He broke a rule, and talked freely to them, dramatizing the scene with the two Q men outside the door. He said nothing about the effect of it all on Quatrain, but added for the children’s benefit: “It was all due to the powers of observation of a girl – not much older than you two” – Priscilla and Penelope, the one so fair and the other so dark. Priscilla was nearly twenty-three, and engaged, and Penelope at nineteen was already dividing her spare-time-enthusiasm between the piano, which she was learning to play professionally, and a boyfriend who seemed as serious over her as he was over his violin. Gideon watched their listening faces and went on: “This girl who put us onto the truth had plenty on her mind as it was. She had been waiting for a man who’d let her down pretty badly, but she remembered seeing Jefferson Miles so vividly that she was able to identify him. Teaches you the usefulness of keeping your eyes open and remembering what you’ve seen, doesn’t it?”

  “I take you, pop,” said Malcolm half impudently. Upstairs, when Kate was in bed and Gideon was pulling on his pyjamas, Kate said: “Do you know much about the girl who identified Miles, George?”

  “I only know she’s been let down by one of the tenants at Park Towers. The usual promise of divorce and marriage. She isn’t the type who would make a wealthy man want to leave wife and home. According to Parsons, she daren’t tell her parents. I hope we haven’t had that effect on any of our kids. If they do get into trouble—”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Kate said. “Penny and Priscilla would never—”

  She broke off, for her husband’s grin reminded her of the time when Matthew, their second son, had caused a family crisis.

  Catherine Miller slept better that night than she had for some time. First Gideon and then the man she had momentarily mistaken for her father had been so helpful and understanding. She knew now what she had helped the police to do, for the story had been on the radio as well as on television. Gideon’s name had been displayed too prominently for her to doubt where he had gone after talking to her.

  If only she could get rid of the baby.

  Effie Wilcox did not sleep well that night; she had not slept really well since the time Fred had come tearing up to the flat about the bogus doctor. For a night or two he had slept badly too and had left for work looking red-eyed and exhausted, but he had soon started to sleep well again, and he was asleep now. She was looking at him. It seemed only a few days ago that she had loved lying awake and studying the outline of his face and prominent nose against the window and the stars, but it hurt her whenever she thought of that now.

  If she had been unfaithful he couldn’t have taken it worse.

  She didn’t understand him, but did know that he was desperately unhappy and was avoiding her as much as he could. The election had been a godsend to him. He was out most nights, and seldom got home until eleven o’clock or later, and so she saw him only for a few minutes in the morning, to get his breakfast, and half an hour or so at night. What little he had to say was about politics. He didn’t even mention the bogus doctor. Since the one time when she had stood up against him she had been baffled and defeated by his silence, and she did not know how to handle him.

  At times she almost wished she could get rid of the baby; that might wipe out the memory.

  Also at times she began to feel indignant that Fred could behave like this over something which hadn’t been her fault. It was almost as if it had turned his mind. He had always been ludicrously jealous, but she had never dreamed that it could affect him like this.

  He didn’t seem to want to be at home; and when he was at home, he didn’t want to touch her. He studiously avoided doing so. She had not felt his hands upon her in passion or in gentler love since that awful morning.

  She did not know what to do.

  If she did get rid of the baby—

  There were moments when she tol
d herself that it was ridiculous even to think about that, but at other times she felt that she hated the thought of the child. She did not realize that even had things been normal, even if she had never seen that fake doctor, she might have felt these moments of revulsion, that there would be times when the emotional stress of carrying her first-born would have given her absurd ideas and have made her feel as if life was a nightmare. But had things been normal there would also have been the times of a deep, ecstatic delight because of the child.

  She had not known this golden mood for a long time.

  Fred turned and muttered something in his sleep; he often did these days. She could never be sure what it was; the words ran into one another as if they were scrambled over the telephone, but now and again she thought she could make out two words: “Kill him, kill him, kill him.”

  Then she would tell herself that it couldn’t be true, that such a thing would never be in his mind.

  As he got up next morning, as he kissed Effie perfunctorily, as he went downstairs for his motor scooter and rode off, Fred Wilcox was thinking about the bogus doctor. Over and over again he told himself that if he ever found the man he would kill him, not only because of what had been done to Effie, but because he felt that the man had ruined their marriage. Now and again he argued with himself that it wasn’t Effie’s fault and it wasn’t right to blame her, but he couldn’t get rid of the weight of depression that was with him all the time. His works manager noticed this and watched him carefully, and the plain-faced girl with pimples and the beautiful legs watched too. She had always had a soft spot for Fred Wilcox, and had told herself that the time would come when he would want a bit more fun and games than the milk-and-watery girl he had married could give him. Sooner or later he was going to grow up and she would like to help him.

  Two nights later a man named Scott Hannaford sat well back in a leather armchair and studied the copy of the General Practitioner which had come by the morning’s post. Hannaford was a man of thirty-nine, slimly built, with a very pleasant manner. He had been on the fringe of the acting profession in his youth but had never made any success of it. One or two of the things he had learned at that time, however, came in very useful today. Makeup, for instance. He knew how to dye his hair and how to restore its natural appearance without any difficulty; his natural shade was drab, and no one was ever likely to take special notice of it. There were changes one could make with the shape of the nose, by thrusting little cylinders up the nostrils; there were changes one could make to one’s cheeks, and to the line of one’s mouth, all of these without using makeup.