Gideon's Day

by John Creasey

  The Back Room Inspector spoke into the telephone at Gideon’s right ear.

  “Yes, George?”

  “This Sayer chap,” Gideon said without pre-amble. “Have a go at the evening-paper chaps, ring up the news editors if necessary, ask them to make sure they run Sayer’s picture in each edition, getting it in as soon as they can. And give ‘em a picture of a girl … either of them will do…. Yes, I’ve just had a word with the Old Man, he’s okayed it. Thanks.” He rang off, spoke immediately into the other telephone! “Hallo? … Good, send him in to me.”

  He put that receiver down too, and took a deep breath.

  Lemaitre was holding on to a telephone, but not speaking. He looked across and said: “We won’t get any more done if we starve. What about some grub? Hallo. Yes, all the men you can spare; pick up photographs of Sayer at 7Q, that’s the quickest way.”

  The door opened, and the sergeant who had been instructed to find out what he could about Foster’s sister came in. He seemed touched by the vibrant excitement which affected the others. Neat as a new pin, he entered as if he were daring the lion’s den, with Gideon the lion. But Gideon’s expression was placid and his voice quiet, in spite of his pallor and the sweat on his forehead.

  “Well, what have you got?” he asked.

  “Miss Foster’s at her home now,” the sergeant said. “Incidentally, sir, she’s married, and separated from her husband; she’s a Mrs. Addinson. She does murals for cafes and night clubs, has a little studio in the Chelsea flat where they—she lives. As far as I know’ she doesn’t yet know what happened to Sergeant Foster.”

  “Chelsea, yes,” said Gideon. “Hmm.” He lived in Fulham, the adjoining borough. “All right, thanks.”

  The sergeant put down some notes, and turned to go.

  “Sergeant, send someone down to the canteen for some sandwiches and beer for both of us. Ham and beef all right, Lem?”

  Lemaitre seemed to be listening to someone on his telephone; but he nodded.

  “Beef well done, and plenty of salt,” ordered Gideon. “Thanks.” He nodded, and looked hard at the two telephones, as if he could not understand why they were silent; neither had rung for nearly five minutes. He wiped his forehead, then his neck, then made a gesture by tightening the knot of the tie, but he didn’t do his shirt up at the neck. The once-smooth, starched whiteness of the collar had wilted, and was damp near the neck.

  Lemaitre said: “OK” into a telephone, banged down the receiver, groped for a cigarette, lit it, and glanced at Gideon. “Quiet, all of a sudden, isn’t it?”

  “It’s one of those days,” Gideon said. “Two supers off duty, one ill, three out-of-town jobs taken our best C.I.’s. One of these days I’m going—”. One of his telephone bells rang.

  He took it up slowly, almost gently.

  “Superintendent Gideon here. Who? .. Yes, yes, go on.” His eyes glistened, he grabbed a pencil and made waving signs in the air with it. He jotted down a couple of notes, and said: “Yes, fine, thanks.”

  He let the receiver go down with a bang, and Lemaitre, looking at him, had an odd thought: that Gideon looked ten years younger than he had first thing that morning. “The River boys say those mail bags were dropped into the Thames somewhere near Battersea Power Station. They’ve been out to look, and found another flapping around a submerged barge; it caught on a nail or something. Footprints near the spot, some tyre marks, everything that might help us to get something. I can push that onto B2; pity it’s near the Sayer job, but still.”

  He lifted a telephone. “Give me B2 Headquarters… .’’He waited, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his left hand. Then: “Hallo, Superintendent Gillick? … Gideon here … No, not Sayer, but that’s priority … Yes, he’s a swine all right… . Listen, Gil, the River boys think that some mail bags, part of that last post-office job, were thrown in the river from a spot near Battersea Power Station last night. They’ve a launch standing by to guide your chaps. Can you spare a couple?… Sure, sure, plaster casts, tyre tracks, all the usual, and if we could have them this afternoon we might catch the beggars yet. We had a set of tyre tracks and some footprints from the Maida Vale job, you know, be interesting to see if they match up… . Yes, thanks … Oh, fine, every one of them, noisy brats most of them …” He shook his head at Lemaitre, who was grinning broadly, and rolled his eyes. “Yes, the older boy’s working, thanks, doing nicely … Thanks a lot, Gil.”

  He blew out a noisy breath as he put the receiver down.

  “Champion talker on the Force,” Lemaitre said “Why don’t you ring off when he starts gassing like that?”

  “Might want some special help from him before this is over,” said Gideon philosophically, then looked up at a tap at the door. “I’ll swear at anyone short of the Old Man,” he declared, and barked: “Come in!”

  It was the uniformed but hatless constable, with a tray, sandwiches with ham and beef overlapping the bread, and two pint bottles of beer.

  “And welcome” Lemaitre grinned.

  Downstairs in the Information Room, uniformed men were standing by the big maps spread out on tables in front of them, with tiny model cars and other models on the tables, and croupier’s rakes to move them with. There was a continual chatter of low-pitched conversation, some men talking into radiotelephones, some into ordinary telephones, some to neighbours. No beehive would be busier on an early summer’s day.

  There were more men round one of the boards than any other – that depicting the southwest area. Here concentrations of model cars and of policemen and plain-clothes men stuck on round wooden bases were continually being moved. A report would come by radiotelephone, a car would be moved; a report would come by telephone, and a man moved.

  All the Divisional police stations and the substations in the south western area of London were reporting regularly. Police in uniform and in plainclothes were calling on shopkeepers throughout the huge area, with descriptions of Arthur Sayer. Photographs, some prints hardly dry, were already being distributed in large numbers. Special forces were watching spots like Clapham Common, Battersea Park and Tooting Bec – all places where children played.

  In Clapham, a Divisional Inspector with a soft Devon burr in his voice was talking to Lucy Saparelli. Lucy seemed to have shrunk, her voice was a hoarse whisper, Michael and Victor were next door with the neighbour, and a sergeant – selected because he had boys of his own – was talking to them about Sayer.

  The two o’clock radio program on all wave lengths was interrupted with a description of the wanted man. The next evening newspaper editions carried his photographs as well as photographs of the first child victim, Jennifer Gay Lee. No minute, no second of time passed without someone showing another picture of Sayer, or asking if he’d been seen in the district.

  Gradually the search narrowed. Sayer had been seen at Brixton, in the biggest shopping centre in the immediate neighbourhood.

  A policeman who had been travelling on a bus recognized him. He did not give chase, but went swiftly to a near-by police box and telephoned his substation.

  “Got off near the Forum,” he reported to his sergeant, “same place as I did. Looked a bit dazed, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’d daze him! Which way did he go?”

  “Turned left—yes, that’s right, left.”

  “Well, that’s something.” The sergeant picked up a telephone, and the message was flashed to the Yard. Instructions went out smoothly and swiftly for men to concentrate in the Brixton area, with the Forum cinema as a focal point.

  Then a waitress at a busy cafe, shown the photograph by a plain-clothes man, looked up at him eagerly.

  “Why, he’s been here!”

  “Sure?”

  “‘Course I’m sure, I served him, didn’t I? Asked him if he had a headache, and he bit my head off. And a tuppenny tip! Not that I expect—”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Well, I don’t know that I noticed …”

  “I know the o
ne,” said the cashier, leaning out of her box. “Wearing a light brown coat and grey flannels, and one of those pork-pie hats. He turned left.”

  “Sure?”

  “Wouldn’t say so if I wasn’t.”

  Shopkeepers, van men, road sweepers, traffic-duty police, newspaper sellers, newsagents – everyone between the cafe and the Forum was questioned quickly and comprehensively, and each revealed a little more of Sayer’s trail. It always led the same way: to the Forum.

  A commissionaire said: “Let’s have a better look.” He peered. “D’you know, I think that chap’s inside. Come in half an hour ago. I remember he looked over his shoulder, as if he were scared of being followed; that’s him all right. What’s he done?”

  A policeman explained.

  “What?” The commissionaire looked sick.

  A cashier said nervously: “We only had about twenty in, and he was one of them. ‘Course I’m sure.”

  “That’s him all right,” said the usherette on duty at the balcony entrance. “Proper sissy, he looked, and his hands was so cold you wouldn’t believe … And don’t you come it, copper, just happened to touch his hands while I was tearing his ticket in half, that’s all.”

  A sergeant in charge said: “We’ll cover all the exits then telephone H.Q.”

  The superintendent at the Divisional H.Q. said “Good, but don’t go in for him yet; I’ll phone the Yard.”

  Gideon was finishing his last sandwich when the telephone broke a glorious period of ten minutes’ quiet. It rang sharply, with its oddly imperious note. He swallowed hard, washed the bread and meat down with a gulp of beer, and snatched the receiver up; he moved quickly, as if he felt guilty at having been eating for ten minutes.

  “Gideon …”

  “Put him through!”

  “Hallo, Gordie … The Forum, Brixton? … Fine … I don’t know whether he’ll put up a fight or not… . Only weapon we know he’s got is that knife… . No, I won’t come over myself, much rather your chaps handled him; if he’s there I’m sure you won’t miss him…. Yes, please, the moment you have any news … Gordie, half a mo’, and don’t get me wrong, he might be deadly. He’ll know that he hasn’t a chance to save himself from hanging, and he could be right out of his mind. I—God!”

  He broke off.

  Lemaitre actually jumped out of his seat.

  “Get your men inside that place,” shouted Gideon. “It’ll be dark inside, and there might be some kids. I’m coming.”

  7. Old Woman Alone

  At about the time that Gideon was shouting into the telephone in a kind of anguish, an old woman sat alone in the parlour behind her small shop in Islington, on the other side of London.

  Her name was Mrs. Annie Sharp.

  The Islington police, on the lookout for Arthur Sayer, were on the lookout for a lot of other people, too, although with less urgency. None of them suspected that there was any danger for the old woman in her shop. She had lived in the two rooms at the back for thirty years, and had never been known to have a holiday. Her husband had been killed early in the First World War, and since then she had managed alone. Now her five children were married; those neighbours who knew her well knew that only two kept in touch with her, and one of those was now in Australia.

  Annie Sharp was a good-natured, friendly soul, and although the shop did not make plenitude for her, it kept her from want. The counter was built so that she could move from the sweets and chocolate side to the tobacco, matches and cigarette side without trouble, and her small till was on the corner of the counter, immediately opposite the door leading to the parlour.

  The upstairs flat was let to a man, his wife and three children, but they were all out. Annie Sharp knew that, but it did not worry her; thirty years without a frightening incident in the same place breeds a kind of confidence which has nothing to do with logic or probability. The district had its tough and its rough spots, but Annie Sharp’s experience with crime was limited to a few small bad debts; and although she was a kindly and soft-hearted woman, some shrewd instinct warned her not to let anyone have more than a day or so’s credit.

  ‘Don’t ask for credit,’ said a little printed card in a flyblown showcase, ‘and you won’t be refused.’ That hint worked.

  The two o’clock back-to-work hooter of a near-by factory had finished blowing some time ago. Everyone who came home for lunch had gone back now. Annie knew from experience that she was in for the quietest period of the day. Until about half-past three, when the women started out with their perambulators, the most she could expect was the odd casual customer for cigarettes; or the child who had succeeded in wheedling a few coppers from a parent who was probably feeling desperately anxious to have forty winks.

  The shop-door bell would wake Annie up.

  She settled down, with her feet up on an old, velour-covered pouf, her thin grey hair awry, her head resting back on the back of a comfortable old wing chair. She wore carpet slippers, worn shapeless by shuffling, but in spite of her seventy-two years she had a surprisingly tight little figure.

  A tap, needing a new washer, dripped in the kitchen, but the sound did not disturb her. After a few seconds, she began to snore faintly. That and the continual dripping of the water into a saucepan made the only near-by sounds. Occasionally someone walked sharply along the pavement, or a car drove past, but these were distant sounds, and did not disturb Annie Sharp. Then the bell at the shop door clanged.

  Her eyes opened, and she clutched the arms of the chair in the same instant. She allowed herself a second or two to wake, then stood up. The shop door, on a black japanned spring fastener, closed slowly.

  “Coming,” she called.

  Then she heard a sound that worried her. It was as if the flap of the counter were being raised, and she allowed no one to come in here without being invited. A child, perhaps, trying to sneak sweets. What children were coming to …

  She hurried to the doorway.

  She saw the man.

  He looked young, although it was hard to be sure of that, because he wore a cap pulled low over his eyes, and a brown scarf drawn up over the lower half of his face. He was at the till, and as she reached the door, it went ting! sharply.

  “Here!” she cried. “You get out of here!” She went bustling forward, more angry than scared; but a little scared too. “Go on, be off—”

  “Shut up,” the youth said.

  She saw his narrowed eyes, and didn’t like them, but she was still more angry than scared, and snatched up a bottle of Coca-Cola from a case standing on a shelf.

  “Be off!” she shouted.

  He didn’t speak again. His voice had sounded gruff and vague behind the scarf, but there was nothing vague about his spiteful eyes. She raised the bottle, and he struck her hand aside. The bottle dropped but didn’t break. He had a piece of short iron piping in his other hand; Annie Sharp saw it, and opened her mouth to scream.

  He struck savagely… .

  He struck again and a third time, but the third blow wasn’t really necessary.

  He dragged her behind the counter, and then into the little back room. Two children went hurrying past, girl and boy. He pushed the old woman in a corner, where she lay bleeding to death, and then made a quick search of the room. He found twenty-five pounds in an old tea caddy, and a small bundle of notes, which he didn’t trouble to count, in a sewing basket. He uttered something under his breath, glanced at the woman, and then went into the shop.

  The till was still open.

  He took the few pound and ten-shilling notes from the back, grabbed a handful of silver and dropped it into his jacket pocket, then stepped through the gap in the counter, dropped the flap and went to the door.

  He pulled down the scarf, bent his head, opened the door – and almost fell over a toddler standing and; peering at the sweets, spittle-damp fingers making patterns on the window. He shoved the child aside. A woman, pushing a small-wheeled pram, was coming from the right. The man turned left. The woman stopped at
the shop. The killer reached a corner and looked round; the woman was putting the brake on the pram, and going into the shop. He began to run.

  Gideon, with a sergeant beside him, drove down Brixton High Street as if he were on a lap at Silverstone. He succeeded in scaring the sergeant, who until then had regarded himself as fit for the Flying Squad. He seemed to shoulder other cars aside, and had an impudent disregard of the giant buses, the throbbing of petrol and Diesel engines, the wayward antics of cyclists, who thought themselves danger proof. Seeing the Forum a little way ahead, the sergeant said:

  “Nearly there, sir, slow down now.”

  Gideon grunted.

  He saw a gap in the cars parked outside the Forum, and performed a miracle of parking, getting into the space and then out of the car almost in one and the same movement. Once out and on the pavement, the fury slackened.

  A plain-clothes man whom he recognized vaguely and two whom he didn’t were coming out of the cinema. Several uniformed police were about them, like a blue-bottle bodyguard. Handcuffed to a man half a head taller than himself was Arthur Sayer. His lips were parted and trembling; he was pulling against the plain-clothes man, although a second man held his other arm and was helping him along.

  Gideon saw the car they were heading for. He went to it. He would have confessed to no one in the world that his heart was thumping painfully, and that he hardly knew how to frame his question.

  “Any more trouble?” he asked as they drew near.

  The man he recognized said: “Any more—oh more kids? No. He was sitting just behind a couple, but hadn’t started anything. I—you want to talk to him, sir?” The Divisional man suddenly realized who this was and what respect was due to Gideon.