An Uncivilised Election

by John Creasey

  He had another gift, too, which helped him a great deal: his ability to change the tone of his voice. He could alter it and could mimic other people without difficulty, and he enjoyed doing it. In fact he enjoyed most of life, including the spice of danger that was with him whenever he went to see a doctor and offered his services as a replacement. He selected doctors who worked alone and not in partnership, of course; and he talked to them by telephone first to get some idea of the working conditions, and whether many other people would be around – receptionists and nurses were a problem. In fact, the receptionist often controlled his decision whether to take a job or not; an alert and really competent receptionist was dangerous, but in these days when high salaries were so easy to get, a lot of doctors with a small practice employed girls who were fresh from school. They were no problem.

  He had one precious certificate, stolen years ago from a doctor’s surgery, and he used a liquid eraser to clean off a name once he had used the certificate. He kept it folded across the name, so the traces of roughness did not attract much attention.

  He found himself getting bolder and bolder with each success.

  He was never quite sure what had started him on this; it had been a bit of a practical joke, really. And yet it had been more than a joke. He had always been strangely tongue-tied and diffident where women were concerned. Possibly a dragon of a foster mother had been partly responsible for that. At first he had got satisfaction out of looking at pictures. There were a lot of books of nudes about, on sale almost anywhere in London, with girls whose statistics were utterly unbelievable; whose breasts were positively balloon-like. He had pored over the pictures and next had read a few mildly pornographic stories, then had felt a desire to see whether any girls were like the pictures or whether they were fake photography. In his days as an actor he had once played the part of a doctor, having to examine girl patients behind a screen, to the enormous delight of the audience if not of the actresses. He could remember to this day being slapped in the face by a redhead.

  The idea had gradually developed from his remembrances of those days. Why should a doctor be able to see everything when he couldn’t? Supposing he posed as a doctor? Now he had posed so often that he almost felt like one.

  It was several days since he had been active, and although at one time he had allowed weeks to pass between getting one job and another, it was more difficult these days. He walked about, seeing women who passed by, seeing neighbours, even seeing little Gerda, the German maid at the house where he had two rooms, seeing all the women as they probably were when they had no clothes on. It was a compulsion, and he could no longer wait patiently. Graphic pictures and recollection of the different women who had passed through his hands were not enough. If he was out of a job he was restless.

  A Dr. Osbert Jones was advertising for a locum for a period of three weeks. Dr. Jones asked for a married man but did not insist on it. His surgery was in a street which lay behind Putney High Street, the kind of middle-class area which Hannaford preferred. He did not enjoy the slum areas or the big working-class areas, and he did not think he would feel safe in the better-class residential areas. Dr. Jones’s district should be just about right. He would telephone the good doctor first thing in the morning, for the advertisement said that the position was urgent as Jones had already been let down by another locum who had been taken ill. A doctor in a hurry was more easily satisfied than one with plenty of time.

  Hannaford went to bed and filled his mind with fantasies, but there was one fantasy which did not even occur to him – the fantasy that a man was lying in bed and saying in his sleep: “Kill him, kill him, kill him.”

  There was another thing he did not know; that the police had searched all medical journals and had talked to all doctors who were advertising for locums.

  On his way to work next morning, Fred Wilcox was slowed down behind a Jaguar, and saw the word “doctor” on a windscreen sticker. He was alongside the car for several minutes, because of a roadblock, and kept glancing in. The doctor was middle-aged and grey-haired, and in no way resembled the bogus one. It was a shiny magazine Fred saw lying on the back seat which made him begin to think, a professional magazine, the G.P. Weekly.

  The roadblock gradually cleared. Fred sped on, already late for work, but more preoccupied than worried. If you wanted to get a job as a locum tenens, or whatever it was, how would you go about it? You would advertise, of course – in the G.P. Weekly! Now that he thought about it, that was what one of the newspapers had said: that the bogus brute had answered advertisements from doctors. So why shouldn’t he find out which doctors in the London area were advertising for a locum?

  Where could he get hold of a G.P. Weekly? Were they on sale at newsstands? He was in Sydenham High Street, and knew where to find a big WHSmith newsstand and bookshop. He slowed down, turned into a side street, parked, and went to the counter.

  A teenage girl smiled at him.

  “We don’t keep it in stock, but we can get it for you.”

  “I—er—I just wanted to see something in one,” muttered Fred. Now that he was running up against a difficulty, the idea seemed to lose much of its attraction. “I don’t know that I’d want it every week.”

  “I’ll see if we’ve got one you could have a look at,” said the girl.

  She ducked under the counter and reappeared with a copy of the paper he had seen in the doctor’s car. He smiled his thanks, not realizing how attractive his nervous manner made him. He moved to the end of the counter and turned over the pages, finding the classified advertisements at the back. There was a column headed: Locums Wanted. He read it eagerly, his hands tightening on the shiny surface of the paper. Several of the advertising doctors were out of London, but one was in London – not really near Smith’s, but not too far away: at Putney. A Dr. Osbert Jones wanted help urgently. The address was easy to remember: 66 May Street, Putney. He repeated that to himself over and over again: 66 May Street, Putney. He closed the magazine, thanked the girl, and did not realize that she watched him until he was out of sight. 66 May Street, Putney. He went to his motor scooter and straddled it, the number and name of the street going through his mind. Why shouldn’t he watch the place, and if the swine turned up in answer to the advertisement – well, why shouldn’t he?

  He started the engine, and suddenly thought: “What about the garage?” He tried to remember where there was a telephone kiosk, then saw a post office on the other side of the street; there would be a kiosk there. He hurried, and was halfway across the street when he realized that the engine was still running, so he had to go back to switch it off. He kept licking his lips, he was so tense. 66 May Street, Putney. He knew the number of the garage, and recognized the voice of the boss’s secretary who answered.

  “It’s Fred Wilcox here,” he said. “I’ve got some trouble with my hand, can’t get in today. Tell the boss, will you?”

  “Why, of course, Fred. I do hope it’s not serious.”

  “Not too bad,” he said. “I expect I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  He rang off before the girl could speak again, and went out to the motor scooter. Now that his mind was made up, he felt as if everyone was staring at him. His heart palpitated as he drove off, and he had travelled a mile toward central London before remembering that to get to Putney it would be best to cut across toward Clapham and Wandsworth. He knew the London district well and, once he was thinking clearly, made good speed.

  Putney High Street, thronged even at half past nine in the morning, was familiar to him because he and Effie had often come there in their courting days; it had been a complete change of district, just like a day’s holiday. Along there, not far from the old windmill, was the bower where he had first made love to Effie.

  He turned into May Street, saw the numbers, and realized that Number 66 was on a corner. He propped the scooter up against the curb, opened the repair kit, and took out a spanner, the largest tool in the kit. He slid the spanner down his trousers, the belt hold
ing it firm, and began to walk toward the house where a doctor’s red lamp showed and the sun glistened on a brass plate. Two men were working on a water hydrant near the corner, but he took no notice of them. He hardly knew what to do now that he was there. He walked past the house and for some distance up the street, looking over his shoulder from time to time. Then he walked back. He could not possibly know whether the man he hated was there or not, even whether the doctor was in. He stood by the brass plate which said that surgery hours were from nine o’clock until ten daily, and in the evening from six until seven. The front of the house needed painting, but the lawn was beautifully kept and the flower beds were already planted with next year’s wallflowers. He walked across the road again, feeling awkward because of the spanner. The two men seemed to be having trouble with the hydrant. He re-crossed the road. It was a quarter to ten, and several people came away from Number 66, while several others went in. Some were women. That was what Effie had done one day: gone to a doctor—

  He clenched his fists.

  If he ever got his hands on the fraud he would kill him.

  A shiny Triumph Herald turned into the street, slowed down and stopped just beyond Number 66. A man got out, about Fred’s own build, looked at the house and then went through the gateway. The men at the hydrant appeared to be intrigued by this, which was a change, for they spent most of their time looking about aimlessly. Fred Wilcox drew closer. He had never seen a picture of the man he sought, except the one made up by the Identikit, but from what Effie had said and from the description he had read in the Sex Special, this could easily be the one. The suspect did not go to the surgery entrance, but along a path which bisected the lawn and to the door marked: Private. A young girl let him in and closed the door.

  Fred’s heart was hammering now; it was as if he knew that his compulsion had brought him there at the right moment.

  He walked across the road, back again, then up and down, up and down, fighting against the impulse to rush to the house, to bang the door down, to attack the man inside. His fingers itched to take out the spanner. Supposing it wasn’t the bogus beast? But it must be, he was the same build, he looked like the description, and the newspapers had made it clear that he always changed the colour of his hair, so that didn’t matter. Fred paced back and forth, but stayed close to the door marked Private. More people went in at the surgery, but no more came out.

  The door opened when Fred was only twenty yards away from it, and two men appeared, the young motorist and a grey-haired man.

  “On Friday, then,” the older man said.

  “Friday it is,” agreed the young man briskly. “Good morning, Dr. Jones.”

  The speaker turned and walked toward the street, and as he did so, Wilcox reached the gate. Something in Wilcox’s manner must have signalled a warning, for the young man missed a step. The door closed behind him. A man called out from somewhere nearby, but all Fred could hear was the drumming in his ears. He pushed the gate open with his foot, and said: “I’m going to kill you.”

  He snatched the spanner from his waistband, and leapt. His victim jumped back, thrusting out his hands to fend off his assailant. He saw the glare in Fred’s eyes, saw the spanner smash down toward his head.

  He screamed.

  The spanner struck him on the forehead, the blow diverted only by an inch or two by his right arm.

  Fred drew back to strike again when the two men who had been by the hydrant rushed at him from behind, carrying him down. He fought desperately and wildly, but they mastered him.

  The young man, who was not Scott Hannaford, lay on the neat lawn, with blood oozing from the wound in his head.

  14: Reason to Fear

  On that particular morning Gideon was feeling as satisfied with his job as he was ever likely to be. No crime of major importance had occurred to compel the Yard to swing most of its attention over to it, and the daily calendar of crime was being handled with that smooth efficiency which always showed to best advantage when nothing major had occurred to throw the Yard off balance. Only Parsons was really working all hours, and since the capture of Jefferson Miles, even Parsons had been much less tense, though he still had his work cut out, for the F.F.P. campaign was hotting up. The real danger as far as the police could see, however, had threatened from the clash between Quatrain’s party and the F.F.P. group, but now the teeth of the Q Men had been drawn by one of its own leaders. The irony of this greatly reassured Gideon and he knew it also reassured Parsons. It was as if a kind of benign fate watched over England, and whenever real trouble threatened to break up the continuity of political freedom, something happened to remove the threat. It was due simply to the fact that on the whole the British were not receptive to any cause presented by extremists or fanatics. The Fascists had never made great progress, despite those times in the middle thirties when it had looked as though they might one day become a grave threat.

  Gideon knew that he was being very smug whenever he allowed himself to think or talk like this, but the present mood of satisfaction was not one which he could easily lose. That was undoubtedly due to what had been so abruptly terminated at Park Towers.

  His only present anxiety was shared by Ripple, of the Special Branch, about the interest which had been shown in the nuclear physicist Travaritch. So far Ripple had discovered nothing against the man, either past or present. He had checked the screening which had been routine when Travaritch had first gone to Harwell and could find nothing wrong with it. He had not heard again from Dancy, and was sure that if Dancy had discovered anything else about Travaritch, and who was taking an interest in him, he would have telephoned.

  Lemaitre came bustling in.

  “You going across to Great Marlborough Street, George?”

  “No,” said Gideon.

  “Why not, you mug?” Lemaitre, on this cold day, had on a thick yellow sweater beneath his greeny-grey Harris tweed jacket, a suit for the Highlands which lent a touch of brightness to the office. He wore a tartan bow tie, and his face was as shiny as if it had been polished. “Just because you think they’ll take more pictures of you? You ought to be there, George. The Great British Public and the Benighted British Press expect you.”

  “I know they do,” said Gideon. “But Parsons can handle the Jefferson Miles job better than I can.” He leaned back in his chair, smoothing the bowl of a large pipe which he kept in his pocket. “You look as if you’re all dressed up for the Highland Games. What’s the idea?”

  “Want to cheer this morgue up a bit,” said Lemaitre. “Listen, George. Miles is up for the second hearing, he’s bound to be sent for trial today. You ought to be there.”

  “I’m not going,” said Gideon flatly.

  “Just because—”

  “If you must know, it’s because Parsons has worked his guts out on this case, and I want him to see it through. If I have to turn up at the Old Bailey later, all right. Just now it’s his job, and I’ve got plenty to do here.” As he looked down at reports on his desk his telephone bell rang. He answered. “Gideon.”

  “Yes, right away,” he said, and rang off. “Piper’s coming down.” He thumbed through the reports, noticed that on the one marked The Quack there was a recent note that a Dr. Osbert Jones had advertised for a locum tenens and was due to interview applicants that morning. Piper had two men watching his house in case the Quack applied for the job. Gideon closed the file as there was a tap at the door and Piper came in. As always when he was edgy, Piper was cracking his knuckles. “Morning, Joe, I was just checking your case.”

  “Morning, George,” Piper said. “There’s been a hell of a do this morning.”

  “The Quack got away again?”

  “I wish that was all,” said Piper. “You remember that one of the women he examined was named Wilcox? Well—”

  Piper told the story he had just been told by telephone. Lemaitre stopped working and watched him, while Gideon’s thumb ran over and over the bowl of his pipe. Piper finished at last, leaning against t
he mantelpiece and scowling. “Don’t see that we could have done anything else. Our chaps had no idea what Wilcox was after. In fact, except for his beak of a nose he fitted the description of the Quack, and they thought he was going to apply for the job. They hadn’t any reason to expect him to go berserk.”

  Gideon said slowly, “Not a case for blame anywhere. How is the injured man?”

  “On the danger list. The blow cracked his skull, and he’s being operated on now.”

  “What does Wilcox say?”

  “Apparently it sobered him up with a jerk,” said Piper. “He’d been shouting and raving that the Quack had it coming to him, but when they convinced him that he’d got the wrong man—” Piper broke off.

  “Sure it is the wrong man?”

  “Positive. The man Wilcox attacked is a Dr. Fairweather. A couple of telephone calls were enough to prove that he was somewhere else when the Quack was active. In fact, Fairweather was in France during the time the Quack was busy at Sydenham and examined Mrs. Wilcox. We’re no nearer the Quack than we ever were. Now this—”

  “Wilcox’s wife know about it?” interrupted Gideon.

  “Dowsett’s going to see her,” said Piper. “I’m not too happy about that, he’s a cold-blooded beggar, but it’s not a job we can take away from the division. Fairweather’s wife is at the hospital.”