An Uncivilised Election

by John Creasey

  Gideon felt as if cold fingers were clutching him.

  “So he was married too.”

  “Married, with two-year-old twins.”

  After a long pause Gideon said slowly, “Go and see Littleton, will you, and ask him to handle this with the press. It’s a public relations job rather than a news item. We want as much sob stuff sympathy as we can get from the Globe and anyone else, and we want that Identikit picture displayed as often as we can get it. Also we want a special appeal made through the press to all the women whom this bogus beggar saw, asking them to keep a very close lookout wherever they go.”

  Piper was looking brighter.

  “I’ll see that it’s stepped up, George. I won’t worry you unless something goes wrong.”

  “That suits me,” said Gideon.

  Piper went out, and the morning’s usual routine briefing began. There was still no clue in the search for the murderer of the woman whose body had been found in a well in Cornwall. Three other provincial investigations, with Yard men on the spot, also were negative. A chief inspector had arrived in London from Stockholm the previous night, with a report on an investigation into the activities of an Englishman who was suspected of a big art theft in Sweden.

  “He’s their man all right,” the inspector asserted. “They want me to dig as deeply as I can into his background and let them know the result.”

  “Do that, stay with it, and keep me in touch,” said Gideon.

  A grey-haired superintendent who had spent a week in Paris came in. He had been working with the Sûreté Nationale in a search for a Bristol solicitor who had disappeared, leaving his clients’ funds in a sad way.

  “He’s there all right, I’ve seen him,” the superintendent said. “The Sûreté are keeping a watch on him and will make sure he doesn’t do a flit.”

  “Fix the extradition papers with our solicitors and the Home Office, and go and get him,” Gideon ordered.

  Detective Sergeant Whittle, standing in for Parsons, who was already at Great Marlborough Street, came into the office for the first time in his life. He was so stiff and formal with nerves that Gideon felt sorry for him. He sent Lemaitre out of the office to help the man feel a little more at ease. Whittle, in his early thirties, very fair haired, with darker eyebrows and exceptionally pale grey eyes, stood at attention.

  “The superintendent particularly asked me to report to you, sir.”

  “What about?” asked Gideon. Parsons was doubtless blooding Whittle, who was believed to have great potential.

  “The burglaries at the home of election candidates, sir.”

  “We had more of them?”

  “There were three more last night, yes, sir.”

  “We had two isolated ones, then three on each of three consecutive nights, and then a lull for a few days. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. And—I’m afraid I slipped up.”

  “How?”

  “It’s a very busy time, sir. We need men at the meetings where the F.F.P. people are likely to be in strength, as well as at the usual places, committee rooms and suchlike. After the arrest of Jefferson Miles I thought it safe to take the surveillance off certain candidates, including Robert Talmad. He was one of those whose home was burgled last night.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They wouldn’t have been watched in any case.”

  “Can’t see why you should blame yourself for that,” said Gideon. “How’ve you been trying to handle this?”

  “Through the divisions, sir. I have been acting as liaison on behalf of the Yard. I’ve talked to the three divisions affected last night, and there is one possible line of inquiry.”

  “What is it?”

  “A member of Mr. Talmad’s committee went to his house for some papers and met the thief coming out. It was just one man, sir. He kicked the committeeman in the shins and escaped. Among the men I’ve been checking on is one called Mason, Shins Mason, who—”

  “I know Mason.”

  “I expect you do, sir.” Whittle became beetroot red. “Well, I thought it would be a good idea to ask Mr. Christie of NE to find out what Mason’s been doing lately, and where he was last night.”

  “Do just that,” approved Gideon.

  “Thank you, sir.” Whittle, only slightly relaxed, turned and went out, and closed the door too hard.

  Lemaitre came in, with a grin.

  “They do breed ‘em these days, don’t they? What’s old Parsons up to? Think this is a kindergarten?”

  “Whittle will do,” said Gideon. His internal telephone bell rang as he spoke and he glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past eleven, and the Jefferson Miles hearing was due at eleven-thirty. For some reason he was very jumpy about it, and wondered if he had made a mistake in staying away.

  “The Commissioner would like a word with you,” a woman’s voice told him. Gideon wrenched himself from the doubts about staying away from the police court hearing. “A moment, please.” It was a long moment, and Gideon straightened his collar and then suddenly remembered how Whittle had been affected, and wondered how he, George Gideon, had behaved when he had first seen the Commissioner himself.

  Scott-Marie was back to formality.

  “Commander.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I assumed you would be at Great Marlborough Street this morning.”

  “Nothing there that can’t be handled without me, sir.”

  “I see. Well, I didn’t ring up about that, but I would like a report on the hearing tonight,” said Scott-Marie. “What can you tell me about a man named Travaritch, Professor Travaritch?”

  Gideon’s pulse began to beat fast.

  “He’s a physicist at Harwell, sir, working on a project called Keyboard. I heard from one of our informants – the private agent Dancy, in fact – that interest was being shown in him by some unknown person. As you will know, I discussed it with Commander Ripple. Nothing has developed from that, as far as I’m aware.”

  “I certainly didn’t know about it,” said Scott-Marie. Gideon was disturbed, for that could only mean that Ripple had not sent through a report about Travaritch. Now Scott-Marie would realize that Gideon had thought one had gone through. “Have you any idea who is making the inquiries about Travaritch?”

  “No, sir, not yet. He is being very closely watched.”

  “Not very well, I fear.”

  Gideon’s heart thumped.

  “Apparently Travaritch has disappeared from the Harwell establishment,” said Scott-Marie. “He appears to have realized that he was under observation. The establishment security officials say that our men were not discreet enough.”

  Gideon did not speak right away. He knew the sensitivity of the various service ministries and everyone associated with nuclear research. Security had been tightened up, and a number of C.I.D. men had been seconded to the various ministries: that had resulted in some feeling between the existing security chiefs and the seconded men. It was all a little silly but probably inevitable, as he had realized when he had worked out the new system with Ripple and others. He had been one of an advisory committee of five.

  Somewhere along the line he had slipped up.

  He knew that it was because he had left the reports and the handling of the situation to Ripple, and Ripple had left it to him. Each should have checked with the other and made absolutely sure. It was no excuse for him that Ripple hadn’t reported; he himself should have and risked duplicating the report. As he admitted that to himself he felt a flush creeping up from his neck to his cheeks.

  “I would like you to confer with Commander Ripple and prepare a joint report for me,” Scott-Marie said. “Can it be ready by five o’clock this afternoon?”

  “An interim report can.”

  “That will do. Thank you, Commander.”

  Scott-Marie rang off. Gideon sat absolutely still, the blood still darkening his cheeks. Lemaitre began, “Did he tear a strip off—” and stopped, as if he realized that something
had happened which affected Gideon profoundly. He went on with the report he was writing but kept glancing up at Gideon covertly.

  Gideon stood up, slowly, and went to the window, to the view he loved, the smiling water, London. He could just see the lamps on the terrace of the House of Commons. For the first time for weeks he looked at it without thinking of the election.

  Amanda Tenby walked with her long strides and her feline stealth toward Braine Street, Highgate, where she was to meet Lady Wallis and would get a message from Daniel Ronn about Travaritch. She was aware that a uniformed policeman was always on duty within sight of the Wallis house, but that was common to the houses of many of the Action Committee, and she did not worry about it. Demure-faced Lady Wallis opened the door for her, and drew her inside.

  “Is there any message?” Amanda wanted to know.

  “There is and there isn’t,” said Lady Wallis. Her voice was so gentle.

  “Has he got it?” Amanda demanded.

  “I don’t know, I really don’t know,” said Lady Wallis. “I do understand that the security officers have been showing some interest in him, dear. Isn’t it a good job that Daniel made sure that no one was likely to connect him with us?”

  Amanda didn’t speak.

  “Amanda, my dear—”

  “If we don’t get it, we’ve wasted our time and our money and we won’t have a chance to show how serious we are,” Amanda said in a taut voice. “Has Travaritch betrayed us? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I don’t think so, dear. But Daniel says that he is asking for more money, in view of the extra risk involved. And he says that he thinks it may be necessary for him to get out of the country at very short notice, so he needs a passport, I’m afraid, and tickets and things.”

  “If that man’s fooling us, I’ll murder him!”

  “Don’t talk like that, Amanda, please. There’s no reason to think he is fooling us, you know. If the security men are watching him, then the risk is indeed much greater, and he would naturally expect to be paid. After all, if a man was found guilty of taking one of these things away from Harwell and offering it to a third party who might represent a foreign power, it would be a very serious situation, wouldn’t it? I mean, he could be sent to prison for forty years – isn’t that the term that the naval dockyard people were sent to prison for? I think we have to be realistic, Amanda. After all, this was your idea, dear, and we always knew that it would cost a lot of money.”

  Amanda asked, through her teeth, “How much more does he want?”

  “Daniel said something about ten thousand pounds.”

  “How much will you find?”

  “Well, you know that we’re not as well off as we used to be, but we will certainly make a contribution – ten per cent, say. Or perhaps fifteen – I really don’t think we could go above fifteen. Daniel is going to telephone early this afternoon, for an answer one way or the other. The trouble is, Amanda, that if we refuse what Travaritch now asks, then he might turn spiteful, and report what we have been suggesting to him. It was a thousand pities that you and Daniel ever showed yourselves to Travaritch, so that he knew whom he was dealing with. I’m afraid that was a grave mistake.”

  Amanda said, “Lucy, do you trust Daniel?”

  “Trust him, dear?” The old lady’s voice rose. “Why, of course I do. I think I am shocked to hear you ask. What on earth made you?”

  “Daniel isn’t very well off, is he? If I thought he was putting up the price without telling Travaritch—”

  “Oh, I’m sure that it’s nothing of the kind!”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Amanda. She went to the window, where Venetian blinds were drawn. A policeman walked past slowly, and she could just hear the plodding of his footsteps; it was as if she was suspected, as well as Travaritch – if Travaritch really was. After a long pause, she said, “All right. But that must be the last increase. Make them understand that, Lucy.”

  “I will, I will indeed,” said Lady Wallis.

  Gideon did not go to see Ripple immediately; he wanted to be sure that he handled the interview in the right way and did not imply criticism. Ripple could be touchy, and on his job that wasn’t surprising. Gideon felt no easier than he had when the flush had crept over his face and when Lemaitre had stared at him so anxiously. To try to make sure that Lemaitre had no chance to ask questions, Gideon opened some files, but he did not study them closely until he reached the slim one about Travaritch, which he always kept locked in his desk. There was so little information. A record of Dancy’s telephone call, of what he himself had arranged with Ripple – there were only a few notes about that – and his own notes about the importance of the investigation. There were three reports from Harwell and three from Special Branch men whom Ripple had detailed to watch Travaritch.

  Gideon sat back in his chair, forgetting that he didn’t want to show his feelings to Lemaitre. It was over half an hour since Scott-Marie had talked to him, and he felt no easing of the fear. And it was fear. He could look back over his years at the Yard and see in retrospect the long line of security failures – some even disasters – which had occurred in England. Sometimes it had been the fault of the Yard, more often the fault of one of the service ministries or the Foreign Office. He had never studied the cause of the failures closely, as it was Ripple’s job, and the job of other men who had led the Special Branch, but he had studied it. He was fully aware of the repercussion and the ramifications of the big spy trials. He knew how the rest of the world would feel and what they would say and how they would think if there was another leakage of secrets from Great Britain. Fuchs, Burgess and Maclean, the trio of spies at the Portland Dockyard – these were the more disastrous failures, but there had been others. British security had suffered too many setbacks. It could not really be trusted. Then had come his part in it, the great reorganization of security arrangements after the Portland scandal. Six top Yard men had gone to the research establishments to organize security and as far as he knew had made a good job. He, George Gideon, had certainly been satisfied.

  The reputation of Scotland Yard remained high throughout the world. In spite of a few minor failures, it was still regarded as incorruptible and superefficient. It was a part of him. His pride was never in himself but in the Yard, and now he – he himself – had slipped up in such a way that another great scandal might blow up and smear not only the country but the Yard itself.

  “George,” Lemaitre said.

  Gideon looked up.

  “You all right, George?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” Gideon lied. “Nothing that can’t be put right.” He hoped to God that was true. “The Old Man doesn’t want me to discuss it with anyone.”

  After a pause Lemaitre said, with that prescience which sometimes gave him a promise of brilliance: “That Travaritch thing or the Tenby bitch?”

  Gideon said, “When I can tell you, I’ll tell you.” He got up, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say that he was going to see Ripple but he realized in time that if he did he would confirm Lemaitre’s guess. “I’ll be back in half an hour or so. You carry on, will you?”

  He went out.

  Lemaitre leaned back in his chair, stared at the door, and said very slowly: “My God, what’s on? I’ve never seen him like that before. Never.”

  Gideon was thinking: We’ve got to find Travaritch. If we have to call on every house in the country, we’ve got to find him. In any other mood he would have told himself that he was talking like Lemaitre; there was no way of making house-to-house calls, for it would take the whole of the police force weeks, and there was so little time.

  15: Outburst

  Parsons, at Great Marlborough Street, was feeling on top of himself and the situation, but also feeling puzzled. Jefferson Miles seemed to have no one to defend him. He had expected to find that Quatrain had briefed counsel, even for the police court hearing, but there was not even a solicitor, exce
pt the man watching for the Home Office and the Yard. Quatrain and two of his supporters were in the packed public gallery. The press benches were just as crowded, and seething with the kind of excitement that any cause célèbre generated. The only completely dispassionate people present seemed to be the magistrate, Mr. Thompson; the magistrate’s clerk, a young man who appeared set on following the tradition of irascibility-cum-confidence; and Quatrain.

  The magistrate’s clerk read the charge.

  Thompson, who looked rather like an American Indian, partly because he had just come back from a cruise to the Bahamas and his skin tanned easily, sat with his hands clasped in front of him. His hooked nose, with the rather wide, distended nostrils, added to the illusion.

  “Has the accused anything to say?” he said.

  Everyone looked at Jefferson Miles, who was looking at Quatrain. He did not speak, but gripped the rail of the dock tightly.

  “I will repeat my question,” said Thompson. “Has the prisoner anything to say?”

  Miles drew in a deep breath, which puffed up his chest like a balloon.

  “I’ll say what I’ve got to say at the trial.”

  “It may have escaped your notice that you have not yet been committed for trial,” the magistrate said. “It has not passed my notice that you appear to be unaware of the gravity of the situation in which you find yourself. Who represents the police?”

  A grey-haired solicitor stood up.

  “I do, your honour. And I would like first to call evidence of arrest. Ah—Superintendent Parsons, sir.”

  “And the accused?”

  “I understand he wishes to conduct his own case,” said the clerk.

  Miles nodded.

  “Very well,” said Thompson.

  Parsons had done it all so often, had held the Bible and sworn the oath and stepped forward to depose, but he had never felt anything like this. All the tension that had been injected into the election campaign because of what had happened at Quatrain’s house seemed to have been compressed into this small, oak-panelled courtroom. The situation was as explosive as one of Miles’s bombs.