by John Creasey
He could still hardly credit that he was there. Although it was surprising how ‘ordinary’ everything was, on the surface. This court itself-here, at Wimbledon! — might have been any court in the world. There was a small crowd, no more than a hundred or so, wandering about in the bright sunlight. Even the Centre and No. 1 Courts, he knew, were half-empty. Only the ice-cream vendors were busy, but no one else.
He put his sweater over a hanger, shook hands with the umpire, shook hands with his young, fair-haired opponent, and went to the court. Every muscle in his body seemed to sing.
Aunty Martha was very pleased with her new pupils; she had had them watched with great care, and they had all behaved very well. Little Kitty Strangeways was slightly nervous: she needed more practice with crowds. And Cyril Jackson had enjoyed it too much. He almost took chances, to prove how good he was. Cyril was a great one for dares, and would do anything. He might even try to cheat her, for the fun of it.
If he did, of course, he would very swiftly learn that there was never any fun in cheating Aunty Martha. She simply dared not allow it, no matter how ruthless she had to be.
At the Jockey Club’s Headquarters at Newmarket, in Suffolk, there was an unofficial meeting of the stewards; quite normal at this time of the year. The main interest, of course, centred on the Derby, an interest as great today as ever it had been since the first race, nearly two hundred years ago. And there was a great deal of discussion, for no horse had been scratched and there was so far no clear favourite: at least six horses were equally favoured in the betting, to date.
Of course, it was a long time, yet, before the off-nearly three weeks. Horses could fall out, get hurt on the hard courses, or reach and pass the peak of fitness. But every owner and every trainer with whom the Club was in touch reported a clean bill of health and seemed to be in high hopes. If this went on, there would be over thirty runners, not far off a record.
The general consensus of opinion was voiced by Lord Burnaby, the Chairman.
“It should be a very fine race, one of the best and closest -provided only,” and he cast his gaze towards the heavens, “the weather holds!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cross-roads
Gideon put down the receiver after talking to Henry, and knew that he himself stood at the cross-roads of decision. He had never faced such an anxiety; not even when — years ago — there had seemed a real danger of separation between him and Kate. Nor, much later, when their oldest daughter had been near to death, her first child stillborn.
Now, he was conscious of a strange and compelling pressure; yet despite it he had his job to do. Slowly, other thoughts filtered into his mind; he was returning to normal in one way, at least.
Lemaitre was due to telephone from New York in less than half-an-hour, he remembered. And there was the Madderton bank job to review: when the financial big-wigs were upset it always caused trouble, and he wanted to be completely au fait with the case before he was called on to report.
Hobbs asked: “What can I do, sir?”
“That was Henry,” Gideon told him. “The Jamaican girl’s missing. He wants to know whether to question the people she was working with, or let it go for a while. If we question them, they’ll know we’re after them and they’ll be quite sure she’s on the Force. If we don’t —” He broke off, and picked up the receiver. “Get me Mr. Henry, of AB Division.” He looked hard at Hobbs. “No question about it, of course, we’ve got to find the girl. Might put the fear of God into the young hotheads, while we’re at it.”
“Or the fear of Gideon,” Hobbs murmured.
“How anyone could be afraid of telling me the truth — !”‘ Gideon snorted, then broke off abruptly. “Alec, you mean to tell me—?” He drew the mouthpiece closer: “Hallo-Chas? Yes — didn’t need the fifteen minutes, after all. Do you know the names and addresses of this Action Committee? And the Central Committee . . . Good . . . Round them all up -every mother’s son of ‘em! Put several cars on the job,
then use a Black Maria and pick ‘em up where the cars have found them . . . Yes, tell the Press about the round-up — but better not say it’s a Lords demonstration. Eh? . . . Yes, that’ll do . . . Get ‘em all together in one room — if you can . . . The canteen’ll do fine! Right.” He put down the receiver and gave a grim smile. “He’s satisfied, anyhow — that’s what he wanted to do.”
“Will you go and see the crowd?” asked Hobbs.
“I’ll see. Now, what else is — ?” Gideon frowned. Then asked, almost humorously incredulous: “Alec, is Penny scared of me?”
“In some ways, yes,” replied Hobbs, flatly. “In some ways you’re a pretty terrifying person, George. You set standards which —”
He broke off as the internal telephone rang: this might well be Information, with news of Kate. Gideon lifted the receiver quickly, smoothly, with no sign of tension.
“Yes?”
“There’s no one at your house in Harrington Street, sir,” the Chief Inspector in charge of Information reported. “The back door was unlocked, so there was no need to break in. Is there anything else we can do?”
“Have the house watched, and when my wife comes home have me informed at once,” ordered Gideon.
“Right, sir!”
Gideon rang off, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Then he looked up at Hobbs with a taut smile, pursing his lips in such a way that he really did seem frightening. He didn’t speak for a few moments, and when he did it was almost ruefully.
“I didn’t think the day would come when Kate would talk to you and not to me. You used to scare the wits out of her!”
“I scared Kate?” Hobbs stared, incredulously.
“You see, you don’t know how terrifying you are, either! I—”
Again he broke off, as a long shrill call from the telephone seemed to carry a note of exceptional urgency. Or emergency? He picked it up. “Gideon.”
“There’s a call from New York on the way for you, sir,” the operator told him. “Mr. Lemaitre would like to speak to you personally.”
“Put him through,” Gideon said. He motioned to the extension on Lemaitre’s old desk, and Hobbs picked up a pencil and the telephone at the same moment. Two or three different noises and two or three different voices, one strongly American in tone, sounded before Lemaitre’s own broad Cockney twang came across as clearly as if he were somewhere in London.
“Hi there, George!”
“Hallo, Lem,” Gideon responded, equably.
“We’re really on to something!”
“Let’s have it,” urged Gideon.
“I’ve talked to these smoking-room boys — all four of them — and they all say the same thing,” Lemaitre reported, “These two Americans are in the horse-training business — from Kentucky. Here goes: Colonel Jason Hood . . . JASON Hood, got that? And Thomas Moffat . . . Moffat — that’s it! They may be staying at the Chase Hotel, Kensington . . . In their cups, they said they’d come over to clean up on a big deal involving the Derby. It was obviously on their minds, the whole trip. Someone’s fixing it the way Charlie Blake told me, but I don’t know who or how. They didn’t ever name the people they were going to see, but we can take it from there, can’t we? One good long talk with them should fix it. I’m booked on a plane that gets me into London about ten-thirty tomorrow morning — but if I know me, after a flight that long, I won’t be much good for —”
“We’ll make a start this end,” Gideon promised, looking a question at Hobbs, who nodded. So he had all the names down: would start the new line of inquiry at once. “Why don’t you stay over there for a day or two, Lem? You could check the American end more closely — find out more about the Colonel and —”
“Must I, George?” Lemaitre sounded like a rebellious little boy.
“Don’t you want to?” .
“I don’t want to lose a minute getting the bracelets on the swine who killed Charlie,” Lemaitre said fervently. “If we could break Jackie Spratt’s at the sam
e time, I’d die happy!”
“All right,” Gideon decided quickly. “See you tomorrow.”
He put down the receiver on Lemaitre’s exultations, as certain as anyone could be that Hobbs was thinking along almost the same lines as himself. There wasn’t another man on the Force of Lemaitre’s age and position who would have rejected an offer to stay on in New York, all expenses paid. Hobbs put down the extension, tore a sheet off the note-pad, and crossed to Gideon.
“There’s only one Lem,” he remarked.
“Yes. And as far as I can see, only one Alec Hobbs,” Gideon retorted. “I’d like to talk about this business — Penelope — again when I’ve digested it.”
“Of course. Whenever you wish.”
“Right.” Gideon braced himself: “Now: I’ve been thinking about these two American horse-trainers. They won’t recognise any of our chaps, so it doesn’t matter who we put on to them. We’d better have someone who really knows the racing game, and he’ll have to work pretty fast.”
“And with Lemaitre,” Hobbs pointed out.
“And with Lemaitre. On this job, a man of equal rank, I think.” As Gideon pondered, frowning, a groove appeared between his eyes — in that moment he was surprisingly like John Spratt. “Turpin,” he decided. “Jack Turpin. He’s about Lem’s weight and he won’t tread on his toes. Where is he, do you know?”
“Down at Newmarket. There was that doping job, at Brighton, and the doped horses were trained at Newmarket.”
“Oh, yes. Well, talk to him, find out how far he’s got, and have him here this afternoon if it’s practicable. If I’m not here, brief him yourself.” Gideon looked at the note which Hobbs had given him. “Colonel Jason Hood and Mr. Thomas Moffat.” He glanced at his watch. “My God, it’s twenty past two!” He picked up the pipe and put it in his pocket. “I’m going over to AB Division. I’m not easy about the girl.”
“Have a sandwich before you go,” Hobbs urged.
Gideon stared; and laughed. “Kate ask you to make sure I eat enough?” he demanded. “I think I’ll go across to the pub.”
Hobbs said: “Good idea. You could have a glass of beer, too!”
Gideon was half-way down the steps leading to the courtyard before he thought: “But Alec hasn’t had any lunch, either.” He paused, shrugged, and went on: Hobbs wouldn’t starve. Hobbs and Penny — good God! It wasn’t possible, was it? He had some quick mental pictures of Penny, coming in late after her performances. Little devil! he thought, and laughed. Then stopped laughing, and thought of Kate. His stride lengthened as he went on.
Kate, at that moment, was lying full length on the cold, uncomfortable couch of an X-ray unit at the South Western Hospital. A coloured radiographer was talking on the telephone, a red-haried Irish assistant was tucking a little foam rubber pillow under Kate’s head. The strange contraption above her — the square ‘eyes’, the runners, the box like a camera — looked like something from another world. Not since Matthew had been young and complained of violent ‘tummy-ache’, had she seen an X-ray unit. That old picture had shown a safety pin and a nail, in Matthew’s stomach.
What would this show in her chest?
The radiographer put down the receiver, came across, made a few adjustments and then unexpectedly smiled down. She was a big, middle-aged, broad-featured woman who looked, in her ample white smock, even bigger than in fact she was.
“How long have you had this pain, Mrs. Gideon?”
“Not — not very long.”
“Now then, ma’am, does that mean days or weeks or months?”
Kate, feeling utterly helpless, was driven to remember what she simply did not want to admit.
“I suppose I first noticed the actual pain about a month ago.”
‘And what was it before that? A tickle?”
Kate was startled into a laugh. “Well — hardly a pain. A pin-prick, rather.”
“And now it hurts like hell, eh? Now hold your breath for a few seconds. In . . .” The radiographer switched on and there was a whirring sound; then a click. “Now I’ll want you over on your side; your right side. Let me help you.”
In all, she took six plates; and when she had finished, said with half-laughing assurance. “The doctor will soon find out what’s happening to you, Mrs. Gideon. And knowing what the trouble is, is half-way to getting rid of it. You can dress now.”
“When will you have the result?” asked Kate, studiously calm.
“Dr. Phillips will be in to see the plates tomorrow. He’ll get in touch with you as soon as he’s ready.”
“So soon? Oh- thank you.” Kate was vastly relieved. She felt a little lighter-hearted, too, because she had at last been sensible. But she also felt fearful of what she would know, ‘so soon’ ? If it was cancer -
No one would give her a clue, she thought, as she dressed: that was the worst of it. And it was often said that X-ray wasn’t conclusive: they might want to operate. Alone, now, for the nurse had also gone, she looked at her reflection in a small mirror. She was heavy-bosomed, but still shapely; and she had a lovely, near-white skin. She knew how much George loved its smoothness; she could almost imagine his large, strong, gentle hands on her, now. She felt no pain when he held her, thank heavens; that was the one thing which gave her most hope.
Juanita Conception heard the telephone ring.
She lay in exactly the same position as before, but she was awake and less drowsy than she had been; and so, more afraid. She new there were men in the other room and could hear the drone of voices, but she could not distinguish one from the other. The bell stopped ringing, and a man spoke with sudden shrillness.
“What?” she heard him say. Then:
“So that bitch did give us away “
Juanita winced at the venom in the voice.
“All right,” he added. “Too right I will!” And she knew from that ‘too right’ that it was Roy Roche, the man from Western Australia. He was the one she disliked most; the one she feared more than any of the others. And now she stared at the door, her teeth clenched and her jaws working: there was something almost primeval about the man Roche.
There was a sound at the door, and it banged open. Roy Roche stood on the threshold, Kenneth Noble and one of the others just behind him. Roche’s face, with its straggly beard and full, rather wet lips, made Juanita shudder. He strode across to her, picked a corner of the adhesive-plaster free with his forefinger, and then ripped it off. The pain was so sudden and fierce that she cried out.
“Now, you bitch, let’s have the truth!” he rasped. “The whole bloody Committee’s being picked up! Did you give the police our names? Are you the stinking little stool-pigeon? Come on, talk!” He raised his voice and at the same time took a knife from his pocket — a knife with a short, thick, razor-sharp blade, which he now held close to her face.
“Roy — !” Kenneth Noble began.
But the only man who mattered here, Juanita knew instinctively, was this beast with the knife.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Beast
“Did you give them our names?” Roche almost hissed the words. “Come on, you little bitch — did you?” He bent over her and the blade glinted in front of her eyes, the point very close to her cheek. “Come on, damn you — tell me! Did you give the cops our names?”
When she didn’t answer, he made a quick, slashing motion with the knife and she caught her breath as she felt the sharp pain, the slow-coming warmth. He had slashed her cheek.
“Did you? Tell me — or I’ll fix you so your own mother won’t bloody know you!”
She was quite sure that he meant what he said; and in truth, there was no real need for silence, now. But if she admitted what she had done, what would it help her? She saw in Roche what she had not seen in the others: a capacity for evil. It showed in his eyes, in the way his lips were drawn back over his small teeth. He was not simply outraged because of the discovery: he was doing what came naturally to him-hating her, perhaps hating humanity, enjoying his asce
ndancy; a bullying, cold-blooded sadist, finding pleasure in inflicting pain. And if she told him -
“For God’s sake, tell him!” gasped Ken Noble, at his shoulder. There was sweat on his forehead and fear, not hatred, in his eyes.
“If she doesn’t, I’ll —”
“Yes,” Juanita made herself say. “I told them. I am a—”
“I ought to cut your tongue out.” Roche rasped, and he looked bestial enough to do exactly that. “My God, I will!”
He slashed at her lips, and she screamed. The blade cut, there was surging terror in her, yet her eyes were wide open and she saw all that happened. She saw the knife above her face, blood-dripping, then Ken Noble’s hand close over Roche’s wrist. Roche turned, as if astounded. Noble clenched his fist and drove it into Roche’s face, throwing him off-balance. At that same moment, there was a shout from the room beyond: “Look out! Police!”
And a police-whistle shrilled out; harsh, urgent.
Roche recovered his balance, but he was no longer looking at Juanita. He stood, knife in hand, in front of Ken Noble, who was shielding Juanita with his body as he gasped a near incoherent: “Roy — let’s get out! Let’s —”
Roche drove the knife into his chest.
One moment, Noble was speaking, his fear vivid on his face. The next, he was silent; staring as if stupidly at the man who had plunged the knife into him, leaving only the handle protruding. There was a moment of silence, an awful moment in which everything seemed to stand still, even the breath in Juanita’s body. Then police-whistles and the thumping of feet on stairs let sudden bedlam loose-while very slowly, Kenneth Noble crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap.
Then, Roche turned to Juanita.
She was still fastened at the waist, but her arms were free. Thank God, her arms were free! And he had nothing in his hands now; his knife was deep in Noble’s body. It was impossible to judge what was passing through his mind: whether he realised that he had committed murder and that she had seen the killing. It was impossible to know, from those glittering eyes, whether he was even thinking of her. She was in stark terror, and aware not of pain, but the warmth of oozing blood.
