by John Creasey
“The F.F.P. people think that this will be a stalemate election, with the Liberals holding the balance of power, or at least with a government in with such a small overall majority that it won’t last long. The consensus is that the Battle Committee and all the others concerned with Nuclear Disarmament are working up to the point when they can put a large number of candidates up at the election that will follow. They’re using the canvass to test their strength.”
“Could be,” said Gideon thoughtfully. “Needn’t worry us, if that’s all it is. Two minutes.”
Parsons stood up.
“I’m not satisfied it is all. I think that there is going to be a big Eve of Poll rally in London, probably at Trafalgar Square, and probably in all big cities. I think they’re going to use it as a great demonstration of the strength of the Fight for Peace movement and the danger of having nuclear weapons. And I wish to God it wasn’t Guy Fawkes Night. There will be fireworks in more ways than one, and there could be a lot of damage.”
Gideon was standing up too.
“You mean, we need our chaps at the demonstration centres and also at the party Eve of Poll rallies, and we can’t stretch ‘em.”
“I don’t really know what I mean. I’d say we ought to cancel all leave and have every man we’ve got on duty that night, in spite of the fact that they’ll all have to be at the polling stations next day.”
Gideon said, “I’ll think about it. Thanks.” He nodded and went out without another word.
Lemaitre exploded. “What’s up? You out of your mind? Fancy worrying him with trivia at this stage.”
Parsons rubbed his fleshy chin.
“Known him for over twenty years and you still don’t know him, do you, Lem? If he didn’t think he was right up to date with the general situation he wouldn’t be able to concentrate upon his big problem, whatever it is. There’s a rumour that it’s another spy case – and someone’s slipped up.”
Lemaitre, who knew what it was, just glared.
Gideon tapped at the door of Scott-Marie’s room, and opened it when the secretary called. Her door was open. Ripple was already there, with three Security chiefs from the service ministries and Atomic Control. Rogerson looked very old. Chairs were in a half circle in front of Scott-Marie’s big, leather-topped desk, but Scott-Marie wasn’t there. It was one minute to eleven. Gideon took the only vacant seat, nodding round to the others; he had seen them all last night and there was only a murmur of “good morning.” It was obvious from their faces that all of them knew the latest development.
Scott-Marie opened the door as the stroke of eleven from Big Ben sounded faintly in this high, bright room. He took his seat, said “Good morning, gentlemen,” and placed his hands on the desk.
“Commander Gideon, is there any trace of Travaritch?”
“None has been reported to me, sir.”
“Commander Ripple?”
“No, sir.”
“At this time yesterday I would have said that it was impossible for the situation to get any worse,” Scott-Marie told them in his clear, dry voice, “but of course it is now immeasurably worse. I have just come from the Prime Minister, from the Home Secretary and the Minister for Atomic Research. We can be left in no doubt of the gravity of the loss. In the wrong hands, this one unit could spread radioactivity at danger level over a very wide area, and the immediate effect would be considerable, with much damage to human tissues.” Scott-Marie spoke as if the words were being forced out of him and he could not really believe they were true. “The example given to me – and I believe to everyone from the service ministries – is that if it were to be damaged or misused in Trafalgar Square, for instance, the effect of its radiation would be felt over a radius of more than a mile, affecting or possibly affecting over a million people. I have no reason to believe that is an exaggeration. Such a demonstration is quite conceivable. It would demonstrate once and for all the effect of radiation on people in the West, and extremists might believe that this would frighten a vast majority of the people into demanding an end to the bomb here. There may be reason to think that the portable atomic unit has already been taken out of the country, but until we know for certain—”
A telephone bell rang.
Scott-Marie broke off, and stared at the phone. Gideon fancied that the Commissioner would have gladly shouted at it. Instead, he stretched out his hand and picked up the receiver, and in that second Gideon sensed that he had been wrong, that Scott-Marie half expected this call. Feared it, perhaps.
“This is the Commissioner speaking.” He kept his voice low, and stared out the window. Everyone waited tensely.
Then Scott-Marie exclaimed, “Are you sure?”
Gideon had never heard him raise his voice like that before, never seen his eyes flash so, never known him to show such signs of excitement.
Then Scott-Marie said, “Yes, at once.” He put the receiver down, and looked at the men in front of him. He moistened his lips. It was impossible to tell whether he had had good news or bad.
“The Watford police report that they have discovered the body of the man Travaritch in a cottage between Watford and St. Albans. They are sure that it is the man. Gideon, Ripple, I want you to go there at once. Final identification will be from an associate of the dead man – I will arrange for him to join you at the cottage. A Hertfordshire police car will meet you at the junction of the A41 and A4088 on the south side of Watford. Presumably you will wish to go—”
He was already talking to the service chiefs.
Gideon and Ripple were halfway across the room.
“George,” called Lemaitre, as Gideon strode along the passage past his own office door.
“Not now,” Gideon said.
“Dancy says he must talk to you.”
“I’ll call him later.”
“He’s been on three times already.”
“I’ll call him the moment I can.”
Lemaitre said, “Okay.” He withdrew reluctantly, but reappeared a moment later and called in a different voice: “George!”
“What the bloody hell do you want now?” Gideon demanded, swinging round and banging into Ripple.
Lemaitre was rushing forward with Gideon’s hat thrust out toward him.
There was not room for all of them in the kitchen of the cottage. The place stank. The flies buzzed, some of them round the wounds in the dead man’s belly and in his chest. He had not bled very much, and the two knife thrusts had been made at close quarters. The knife, cleaned of prints, was on the table. Also on the table were the marks of two cases which had rested there – marks which showed clearly against the dust and in patches of grease, in spots of jam and marmalade. The Watford police had already made preliminary investigations and carried out the essential routine. A police surgeon stated with assurance that the body must have been there for days. It had been discovered early that morning by a tramp who had called to beg for breakfast, found the back door open, and stepped in.
The Geiger counter test showed that the radioactivity in the cottage was normal.
18: Eve of Poll
Gideon never ceased to marvel at the way the subconscious mind worked. As he sat alone in the back of his car that afternoon, being driven by a borrowed chauffeur, Gideon thought of what Parsons had said about his fear of a big demonstration, a rally to outdo all rallies. Gideon had not given that a moment’s conscious thought, but his subconscious mind must have been working for now he felt as if he had assessed the situation and could issue reasonable instructions. The burden of the murder of Travaritch, and the possibility that the “keyboard” unit was still in the country in the hands of a man who did not know how to operate it, was still heavy on him, but that did not make Parsons’ problem any less intractable.
Gideon leaned over the back of the seat in front of him.
“Hand me that telephone, will you?”
The chauffeur leaned sideways, unhooked the phone, switched it on. When Information answered, Gideon said: “This is Comm
ander Gideon. Give me Superintendent Parsons.”
“At once, sir.” There was a pause, and then the same man said, “We’re getting Mr. Parsons, sir. Mr. Lemaitre would like a word with you.”
“All right, I’ll talk to him.”
“George,” said Lemaitre, obviously bursting with suppressed feeling, “Dancy says that if you don’t talk to him soon, you’ll regret it for the rest of your born days. I think he means what he says.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s going to call every half hour, on the dot.”
“Tell him I’ll be back at the office by five o’clock,” said Gideon. “Anything else in?” That was almost a mechanical question.
“Parsons is bursting himself to talk to you, too,” Lemaitre said, “but I told him—”
“Put me through.”
“Listen, George—”
“Put me through.”
Lemaitre didn’t argue again, and after a moment Parsons came on the line. He was almost as tense as Lemaitre had been. It was as if the election nerves were affecting him, as they were all the candidates, whose fight was nearly over.
“George,” Parsons said, “ten minutes ago I had a call from the Conservative Central Office. One of their canvassers got a ‘yes’ on the T question. He was canvassing Soho this morning and saw a restaurant proprietor, Cleo. Cleo says he’s seen the man once. I went over the minute I heard, and brought Cleo back with me. He saw T with Amanda Tenby and Daniel Ronn, about four weeks ago.”
“I am quite sure of it,” asserted Cleo, when Gideon was back in his office. Cleo was in a black suit with a bow tie, his hair shone, his face shone, his shoes shone. “It is the kind of face I would not forget. That photograph is a very good one, very good indeed. He had luncheon with Mr. Ronn and Miss Tenby. The date was October 15th, I have the reservation in Mr. Ronn’s name, and neither he nor Miss Tenby has been to my restaurant since, so that must have been the day. I hope that I have been helpful, Mr. Gideon.”
“You’ll never know how helpful,” Gideon said.
Parsons showed Cleo, still shimmering, out of the office.
Gideon had talked to Parsons and checked what Parsons had already laid on: calls at Amanda Tenby’s Chelsea flat and at Ronn’s rooms in Mayfair, calls at every Battle Committee meeting place where either the man or the woman was known to have visited. All the members of the Battle Committee were on the list for questioning, all their helpers too. Parsons, anticipating the steps which Gideon would take, had withdrawn all the plain clothes men he could from Eve of Poll duty, and had sent a teletype message to every division in London as well as to all the Home Counties police. The railway stations, air terminals and seaports were being watched.
“Think roadblocks would do any good?” Parsons asked.
“Shouldn’t think so,” Gideon said. “We’ll leave that until the morning anyhow.” He did not ask if there had been any news at all; even a whisper would have reached him by now. He pushed his fingers through his hair, and then his telephone bell rang. He leaned across and picked it up as Lemaitre said: “That’ll be Dancy. It’s six o’clock.”
“Gideon,” said Gideon.
“Dancy,” said Dancy. “You’re the most evasive copper in England, a damned sight slippier than a crook. I have some real dope for you. I would have given it to Ripple but he’s unavailable too.”
“Sorry,” said Gideon. “I’ve been tied up.”
“Well, you ought to untie yourself, Gee-Gee, you really ought. I’ve been casting my bread upon the waters and I’ve reaped two harvests of considerable interest, about our friend whom we had better call T. In the first place—”
“He had lunch with Amanda Tenby and Daniel Ronn at Cleo’s Restaurant, Dean Street, on October 15th,” said Gideon.
Dancy’s garrulity was stilled.
“Or have you got some other news for me?” demanded Gideon heavily. It was in a way a relief to feel that the Yard had got the information in time for him to be able to say that it was the result of police work; it was an added burden to know how soon this man had discovered it.
“Gee-Gee, you’re a sly old fox, that’s the truth of it,” said Dancy. “I didn’t think you knew. But that’s right. Has it helped at all? I’ve heard rumours that T hasn’t been home for a few nights, and I wondered if you’d lost him.”
“We’ve found him,” Gideon said heavily.
“Oh. Oh, I see. Quite a success story for you, then. I’d better stick to my unfaithful wives and roving hubbies.”
“You do all right,” Gideon said, “and I won’t forget this. That’s a promise. There’s one other thing you can do for me. Keep all this under your hat. As soon as I can, I’ll buy you a dinner and tell you the whole story.”
“Good old Gee-Gee! I’ll hold you to that.” Dancy, delighted, rang off. Gideon, disconsolate, put the receiver down. He sat for a few seconds, frowning, then called Scott-Marie and reported. He told Rogerson, whose reaction was very slow, and began to work on the Yard men and the divisions to step up their efforts in the search for Ronn and Amanda Tenby.
It was half past seven when he realized that he promised to try to get home, and could not. He closed his eyes momentarily against the image of Malcolm in his disappointment, then put in a call to Kate.
Malcolm answered.
“Hallo, old chap,” said Gideon with forced brightness. “I can’t get home for a bit, but I’m anxious to know whether I’ve got a member of Parliament for a son or not.”
“Well, no, not exactly,” said Malcolm. “Jolly nearly, though. The Labour man beat me, but it was a jolly close thing, and I just pipped the Tory. I’ll tell you what the big surprise was, though.”
“What was it?”
“That fourth candidate, the one I nearly forgot,” answered Malcolm. “We thought he would lose his deposit, nobody took him seriously. He got nearly as many votes as the Tory and me, though. And he looks such a weirdie!”
“I’m glad he didn’t beat you,” Gideon said heavily. “Nice work, old chap, second is a good place to be in. Tell your mother I won’t be home until late, and not to wait up for me, won’t you?”
“Okay, dad,” said Malcolm. “Ooh, just a minute! There’s a big Eve of Poll rally in London, some people have just told me about it. Is it all right if I go?”
“I don’t think I should,” said Gideon slowly, “I think there’ll be too much of a crush. Give it a miss this time, will you?” He rang off before the boy could argue, understanding how much he would like to go, then looked up as the door opened. Parsons came in, carrying two photographs.
“What is it?” Gideon demanded.
“Two fingerprint fragments were found near Travaritch’s body,” Parsons said. “I’ve identified them, George. Ronn’s. I’ve put out a general call. Right?” Parsons’ eyes glittered.
Gideon dialled Information and said harshly: “Give that call for Ronn absolute priority.” He rang off. “That might save us. Thanks. Anything else?”
“There’s to be a monster rally in Parliament Square tonight,” said Parsons. “Not Trafalgar Square, after all. It’s been organized by word of mouth – nothing printed, nothing officially announced, but they’re marching in from all over London. Uniform keeps getting reports of new lines merging on the main roads. It’s the big demonstration, George – there will be a hundred thousand people in Parliament Square, at least, and God knows how many in the overflow. And it’s happened too suddenly for us to stop them. They’re on the march.”
From the outskirts of London they had left in ones and twos and little groups; by car, by bus, by train and taxi. From the inner suburbs they had started out in single lines of marchers, picking up more and more supporters on the way. They walked in silence. The banners and the placards they carried did their talking for them. They kept at the same steady pace all the time. At every crossroad a few more joined, from houses and apartment buildings, from shops and pubs and restaurants, from bus garages and stations they came on their silent
march, all heading for Parliament Square.
As the single lines of marchers reached the main arteries leading to the heart of London, they formed in double and at times in treble file, as if they had been trained for it on some parade ground. There was no stopping them. They simply marched on and on, ignoring traffic, which had to crawl behind them, and scores of frustrated motorists passed them with a snarl and a blast of stinking exhaust.
None complained.
The very young, the early teenagers, the young married with babies in their arms, the middle-aged, the elderly and the old all marched until the streets of London were filled with the ghostly battalions, the soft padding sound of footsteps taking the place of martial music. In the light from street lamps banners and placards showed white and ghostly with the pictures of the mushroom which they believed would kill the world, and pictures of the sick and the maimed and the idiot who would be left, they said, when the nuclear war was “won.” At the windows, at the doors, at gateways, people who did not know what it was all about watched the marchers. Some talked, a few joined, a few cursed, but nothing made any difference. Those who passed along any particular street or road or highway were soon lost to sight but behind them they left a restlessness all over London and a tension which spread from the meeting places and big halls where the politicians gathered in their last frenzied or impassioned or reasoned appeals.
Police helicopters and military helicopters went to get a complete picture. The press of London and of the world soon beard what was happening. Reporters joined the throng, radio and television units were rushed to the most advantageous positions. The roofs and windows of buildings were taken over for television and for newsreels, and radio carried word of the silence around the world.
The wealthier newspapers hired helicopters too, until the night sky seemed to reverberate.
Gideon went up in a police helicopter, just after nine o’clock.
In the dim light of the streets and the brighter lights of the main roads, he saw the files of marching men and women and children, who did not stop but only slowed down the nearer they got to the true heart of London. He saw the way they filed into Parliament Square. He saw the police, trying to keep them on one side, but the battle was lost almost before it had begun. The police could arrest a thousand or five thousand, but here the demonstrators were in their tens of thousands, the mass thickening until they blocked all roads leading to Parliament Square.
