by John Creasey
“Look here,” Foster said thickly, “at least I’ve got the right to speak on my own behalf.”
“Every right,” Gideon conceded, “and you’ll get it, when the time comes. At the moment I know what you’ve done but I can’t prove it in court. I’m going to look for proof at a time when I’ve a hundred other urgent jobs that need doing. I’m going to have to waste time on a job like this, and perhaps a murderer or two will get away as a result of it. That ought to make you feel happy.”
Foster said thinly: “You can’t prove what isn’t true.”
“That’s right, too,” said Gideon. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were very tired. “All right, get out.”
Foster turned toward the door. With his fingers on the handle, he hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder. Gideon was no longer looking at him, but out of the window, which overlooked the many windows of a wall on the other side of the rectangular yard.
But he spoke.
“Foster,” he asked, “what made you do it?”
“I didn’t do it,” Foster said, viciously angry. “You’ll be wasting your time all right. Be careful what you say, or I’ll get you for defamation of character.”
He went out, and slammed the door.
2. Gideon Walks
Lemaitre sat on the edge of his desk, bony legs crossed, cigarette drooping from his lips. All this was safe now, as the rage was spent. As he listened, he thought that Gideon was tired and showing signs of more years than forty-nine. It was always a strain, being a Yard officer, and Gideon took his responsibilities more to heart than most. He lived his job day and night, in the office, in London, in his home. They all did, up to a point, but few so thoroughly as Gideon.
“The filthy swine,” Lemaitre said at last. “I never did like him; he’s always been too smooth. Can you pin it on him?”
“Not yet,” said Gideon. He was pulling at his empty pipe, a rough-surfaced cherry wood, which was almost a sign of affectation.
“Who put in the squeal?”
“Birdy.”
“Well,” Lemaitre said, “you can trust Birdy.”
“That’s right,” agreed Gideon, “you can trust Birdy, especially on a job like this. His own daughter got to like reefers, and he buried her at nineteen. She’d been a pro for three years, and a dopey for two. That makes Birdy the most valuable contact man we’ve got in the Square Mile on all kinds of dope peddling, and we can’t afford to lose him. So I’ve put a man onto him, and had him warned that he must look out for trouble. Because Foster will tell Chang, and Chang will try to find out who squeaked. He may not have any luck, but if he does – well, we won’t go any further than that. Chang will clean up the Chang Club, too; after this morning you’ll be able to run a vacuum cleaner over it and not find a grain of marijuana or any kind of dope.”
“He’ll do that,” agreed Lemaitre. “That’s what puzzles me, George. Why did you smack Foster down when you did? Why didn’t you raid the place first? You might have picked Chang up and put him inside for ten years.” He looked puzzled, but he grinned. “But being you, there’s a reason, you cunning old so-and-so.” That he could talk so freely was conclusive proof that he felt sure that Gideon was his normal calm self again. “After the suppliers?”
“Partly,” Gideon said. “I went for Foster and took the chance of warning Chang because I want to drive Foster into doing something decisive. He’ll have to go to Chang; if they’re watched closely they’ll probably be seen together. And we need proof.”
Lemaitre wrinkled his nose.
“Sounds more like me talking than you,” he remarked. “Couldn’t you have watched Foster, without telling him what you suspected?”
Gideon let himself smile, for the first time that day.
“I’ve had Foster watched for two months,” he said, “and even you didn’t know. Got nowhere. The thing that got me this morning was the dope. I can understand a man having his palm oiled, but—” he broke off, and ruminated. Then: “I also think Chang’s big time, and on his way to the top. I’d like to watch him now that he’s had a smack, and see how he tries to cope.”
“Cunning as a fox,” Lemaitre mocked. “I’d be inclined to put him away before he became big time.’’
“That way, we wouldn’t know who was climbing in his place,” said Gideon. Unexpectedly, he smiled again; it gave him the kind of look that all his children loved to see. “You may be right, Lem, this could be one of my mistakes. I think I’ve started something, and I’d like to see where it goes.”
“Going to report Foster to the A.C.?”
“Unofficially,” Gideon said. “We can’t make a charge. Foster will soon discover that, and he’s bound to resign. He’s got the makings of a very bad man in him. Can’t possibly give him a second chance, of course; if he won’t go by himself, we’ll have to find a way of getting rid of him, but I don’t think that will cause any trouble. Now, what’s in this morning?”
He turned to his desk and the three files.
All Scotland Yard knew that the wrath was over, and that it had fallen on the sleek head of Detective Sergeant Foster; none found it in themselves to be sorry, because Foster, being a know-all, was without close friends. One or two casual friends tried to pump him, without success, and he left the Yard a little after eleven o’clock.
By that time Gideon had run through the three groups of cases. Inquiries Proceeding held his attention more than either of the others, and he skimmed through the new cases quickly. Nothing seemed of exceptional interest. Inquiries into several robberies in central London looked as if they were petering out: a jealous ex-lover had thrown vitriol over his love; a woman had been found murdered in Soho. The newspapers would make a sensation of it, but as far as a woman could ask for murder, she had. There was a forgery job building up; it might become very big before it was finished, but he needn’t worry about that now.
The Inquiries Proceeding took most of his time, and the report he studied longest was one on the last mail-van job, now ten days old. If the Yard had an Achilles’ heel, it was that; mail-van robberies had been going on for three years, and there was plenty of evidence to show that it was the work of one group of crooks; there was nothing about their identity. That worried Gideon because it had become a challenge to the Yard’s prestige as well as to its skill.
It wasn’t the only challenge.
There was the constant one of drugs. Close up one distribution centre, and another would open. Judging from what he now knew, at least twelve were open all the time. None of them was big, none threatened to become extensive or to affect the lives of many people except those who were already on the fringe of crime; it was a kind of running sore. Sooner? or later, a duke’s daughter or an M.P.’s son would become an addict, and then it would be made into a sensation. The Yard would be prodded from all sides, and Gideon would get as many of the prods as most. He seldom revolted against this form of injustice, for he knew well what some people seemed unable to grasp.
There was a never-ending war between the police and the criminals, a war fought with thoroughness, skill, patience and cunning on each side. With a few exceptions, the big cases were not the important ones in this unending war. A man who had never committed a crime in his life might suddenly commit murder and his trial become a cause celebre, but the chief impact of the big case upon the Yard would be to keep some of the men away from their daily struggle against the run-of-the-mill vice and crime.
Now and again Gideon would say all this, earnestly, to a friend or to a new policeman or even a newspaper reporter, and shake his head a little sadly when he realized that they took very little notice.
There was dope, then; there were the mail-van robberies; there were the thieves who worked as industriously as any man at his job or profession, taking the risk of a spell of prison life as another might take the risk of bankruptcy. Crime never stopped. Big robberies and little robberies, big thieves and the little sneaks, a few gangs but little violence, one fence sent to jail her
e, another discovered there—oh, the trouble with being an officer at Scotland Yard was that one lived in a tiny world, and found it hard to realize that ninety-nine per cent of the nation’s citizens were wholly law-abiding. Gideon’s greatest worry, and constant anxiety, were the formidable and increasing evidence that many law-abiding people would readily become lawbreakers if they had a good chance and believed that they would not be found out.
Foster was a painful case in point… .
Inwardly, Gideon was worried in case he had been swayed too much by his fury when handling Foster. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he would have waited to cool off before tackling the man; this time he hadn’t been able to. Every now and again he erupted as he had this morning in a rage which perhaps only he knew was virtually uncontrollable.
Well, it was done. With twenty-odd years’ experience of the Square Mile behind him, he could afford to play what some people would regard as a hunch – this time, that it was wise not to pull Chang in. It was policy to keep hunches even from Lemaitre and certainly from the Assistant Commissioner, although sometimes he thought that the A.C. knew.
The A.C. took the report on Foster very well. No eruption of shock and shame, just a calm acceptance of the fact that they’d picked a bad one when they’d taken Foster on, and an almost casual: “Sure of your facts, Gideon?”
“Yes.”
“All right, let me know if you think he’s going to try to whitewash himself.” The A.C. didn’t smile, but was almost bland. “Nothing else outside?”
“Not really,” said Gideon. “Four of those mail bags were found floating in the Thames last night – from the Middlebury Road job, by the markings, when they stole the van and all. Ten days ago. Just a chance that we might be able to find out where they were thrown into the river; the River coppers are trying that now. Otherwise—” Gideon shrugged.
“If there’s a job I want to finish before I get moved on, it’s the mail-van job,” the A.C. said quietly, “but I needn’t badger you about it, I know how you feel. All right, go off after your bad men.” This time he smiled, and then added as Gideon stood up: “How did that girl of yours get on with her examination?”
Gideon brightened perceptibly.
“Oh, she got through, thanks. She says she was lucky, she happened to know most of the questions, but-”
“Modest, like her father,” observed the A.C. “Guildhall School of Music, wasn’t it? I had a niece who used to think she could play the piano, too. Your girl a pianist?”
“Fiddler,” said Gideon. “Can’t say I’m a devotee of the violin, but she passed her exam, all right, and can take a job tomorrow – if she can get one! Won’t do her any harm to find that jobs don’t grow on trees, though. Hard to believe that there’s a musician in the family.” Gideon went on, with barely subdued pride, “I can’t sing a note without being flat, and my wife – well, never mind. Will you be in today, if I need you?”
“I’ll be at lunch from twelve-thirty to three.”
Gideon kept a straight face. “Right, sir, thanks.” He went out, letting the door close silently behind him, and shook his head. “Two and a half hours for lunch, and I’ll be lucky if I have time to get a bowl of soup and a sandwich from the canteen.” But he said it in no resentful mood. If changing incomes with the A.C. meant changing jobs, he would stay as he was.
Nice of the old boy to remember Pru. Well done, Pru. Eighteen—
He remembered Birdy’s daughter, buried at nineteen. He remembered how easy it was to become in need of reefers or of any of the more dangerous drugs; you might have your first taste without knowing it, but you’d still be eager for a second, anxious for a third, desperate for a fourth – and there were precious few cures for addiction.
At half-past eleven, he was walking from the Yard into Parliament Street, soon to turn right toward Whitehall and Trafalgar Square. It was a crisp morning in April, no rain was about, the look of spring was upon London and the feel of spring was in Londoners. In a vague sort of way, Gideon knew that he loved London and after a fashion, loved Londoners. It wasn’t just sentiment; he belonged to the hard pavements, the smell of petrol and oil, the rumble and the growl of traffic, and the unending sound of footsteps, as some men belonged to the country. They could be said to love the soil. The only time that Gideon was really uneasy was when he had a job to handle outside of London or one of the big cities. The country hadn’t the same feel; he felt that it could cheat him, without him knowing it, whereas here in London the odds were always even.
He walked almost ponderously, six feet two in spite of slightly rounded shoulders, broad and striking enough to make most people look at him twice, and some turn and stare. He was sufficiently well known for a dozen men to nudge their companions and say: “There’s Gideon of the Yard, and sufficiently well liked and trusted to get a grin and a “Hi, guv’nor!” from the newspaper sellers and one or two familiars who knew him in the way of business. Very few people disliked Gideon, even among those he put inside. That was one of the reassuring things, and it put the seal to his oneness with London. He supposed, in a way, that it was the common touch. He could think the same way as many of these men thought; they were as dependent on the throbbing heart of London as he.
Dope, gangs, thieves, murderers, prostitutes, pimps, ponces, forgers, blackmailers, coiners, con men, big-time crooks and little squealers, frightened men and terrified women, vengeful old lags like Birdy who had suffered from the parasitic growth he had helped to put upon the body of London. Here they were, all together, practitioners of every kind of crime, side by side with every kind of goodness, clean crime and “dirt,” too. Somewhere, Foster was licking his wounds or talking to Chang or plotting revenge out of his hurt vanity.
Nothing happened that hadn’t happened before.
Now, Gideon was going on his “daily” rounds; in fact only once or twice each week could he afford the time to do this, and the years had taught him as well as those who employed him that the time he spent on his rounds was well spent indeed. He was going without any specific purpose, and he didn’t think about Foster or crooks all the time. Twice, a young girl he passed, bright with the beauty of youth and touched with the eagerness of innocence, reminded him of his Prudence. Once he told himself that he thought more of Pru than he did of Kate, and supposed that all couples who had been married for twenty-six years lost—something.
When he got back to the Yard, it was just after twelve. Except that he had shown himself to many people who needed reminding that he was about, it had not been an eventful morning. For the past hour he had hardly given Foster a thought, which meant that his fears of having used bad tactics didn’t go very deep; it would be all right.
Two or three senior officers made cryptic remarks as he went along the wide corridors, but it was Lemaitre who waited with the stunning news.
“Hallo, George, you heard?”
Gideon put his hat on a corner peg. “Heard what?”
“Foster’s dead,” Lemaitre said. “Run over by a car that didn’t stop.”
3. Foster’s Sister
Gideon did not answer as he went round to his chair, moved it gently so that the back did not scrape against the wall, and sat down. He picked up his cold pipe, and ran his fingers over the corrugations in the cherry bark. Lemaitre waited until he was sitting back, before adding:
“They rang up from Great Marlborough Street, full of it.”
There was another long pause. Then: “What beats me,” said Gideon, making himself keep very matter-of-fact, “is that anyone could knock a chap down in London and drive off and get away with it. Or did anyone pick up the number of the car?”
“No,” said Lemaitre. “Well, not yet.”
Gideon picked up a pencil, and spoke as he wrote down his first note, which read: “General call for anyone who saw moving car near fatal spot.” Aloud: “Was he killed instantaneously?”
“Pretty well.”
“Anything else?”
Lemaitre looked at
a clock with big dark hands on the wall over the fireplace. It was ten past twelve.
“I should say it happened at eleven fifty-five,” he said. “If you ask me—”
“In a minute, Lem,” Gideon said, and pulled a telephone toward him, asked for the Chief Inspector’s room, then gave instructions: it was simply a call to find witnesses of the accident, all the usual routine; he said everything in a tone which was almost eager, suggesting that these hoary measures were fresh, interesting, even exciting. “And let me know what you get, will you?” he added, and put the receiver down. “What’s that, Lem?”
“If you ask me,” repeated Lemaitre, “Foster telephoned Chang, Chang got the wind up, and put him away. And don’t tell me I’m romancing, they don’t come any worse than Chang. Just because we’ve never been able to put him inside, it doesn’t mean that he’s a lily-white—”
“All right,” Gideon said, still feeling the rough bowl of the pipe, “I know all about Chang. I’d like to find out if he did know about Foster being suspended—hmm. I think I’ll go myself. Wonder what time Chang gets up.” He was muttering, might almost have forgotten that Lemaitre was still in the office with him. “Hell of a thing to happen. Could have committed suicide, I suppose, or else been so steamed up that he didn’t look where he was going. Car didn’t stop, though. Looks ugly.” He stood up, thrusting both hands into the baggy pockets of his jacket, still holding the pipe in his left hand. “Anything else in?”
“Nothing much. There was a go at a mail van in Liverpool Street at half-past ten, the railway police stopped their little game, but the three men involved got away.”
Gideon’s interest in that seemed sharper than it had in the news of Foster’s death. “Description?”
“No. Masked, until they’d got away.”
“You know, Lem,” said Gideon, “if we had as much nerve as some of these johnnies, maybe we’d get results quicker. They’re quick, they’re smart and they’re full of guts. That the lot?”
