by John Creasey
He swung round in the road, where there was a clear stretch, nodded to the watching constable, and drove through Hyde Park toward the southwest and Chelsea. It was then four o’clock.
Florence Addinson, nee Foster, opened the door. At the first moment, she was just an attractive young woman, with features—expression?—a little too bold perhaps, wearing a washed-out blue smock daubed here and there with paint, and poking red-lacquered finger tips through her raven-black hair. Her hair was untidy and piled up on top with one of those ring buns, or whatever they were called.
Then she recognized Gideon.
“Miss Foster,” Gideon said, and felt irritated with himself: why use the wrong name when he knew it was wrong?
“I—yes,” she said, as if she didn’t think it worth contradicting him. “Yes, aren’t you—”
“Superintendent Gideon.”
“I thought you were.” She hadn’t moved away from the door, but held on to it tightly. Nervously. “Weren’t you at Mr. Chang’s this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Superintendent Gideon, can you tell me—” she began, and then snatched her hand away from the door. “Oh, what a fool I am! Won’t you come in?”
“Thanks,” said Gideon.
“I’ve just been doing some sketching,” she said apologetically. “A rush job.”
“ For Chang?”
“No, he—he changed his mind.” She led the way into a long, narrow room overlooking the Embankment.
Had Gideon ever entered this room during Foster’s life, he would have quickly started wondering where the money came from. Detective sergeants didn’t usually live in luxurious apartments overlooking the Thames; or have dark, almost black oak furniture, circa 1600, in a room which was richly panelled and had several Dutch panels on the wall – each worth something more than three figures.
Had they family money?
The woman stood and faced him, and the impression that she was nervous came back. She seemed younger than Gideon had thought, partly because she’d not made up since morning; her cheeks had a scrubbed look. She no longer looked overbold, nor so attractive if you liked smoothness of line. The smock hid her figure, too, where her suit had emphasized it.
Her eyes were almost black; like Foster’s.
“Superintendent, is my brother in any trouble?” The question came out swiftly, quickened by embarrassment.
“What makes you think he might be?” asked Gideon.
“I—I don’t know. That doesn’t matter. Is he?”
“Yes, he is.” Gideon glanced down at her left hand; she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “It would be pointless to lie to you; the papers have the story, I’m quite sure.” He really meant that it would be a mistake to come out with all the truth now, but if he questioned her first and afterward told her what had happened, what would she think of him?”
What did it matter what she thought? He had a job to do.
“I’d like to know the truth.” She was taut.
“Good. Do you mind telling me why you should think that he was in trouble?’’ When he chose to exert himself, Gideon could have the charm of a benevolent patriarch, and could inspire confidence even in people who ought to know better. “It might help a lot, in the long run.”
She said abruptly: “He seemed worried.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. I think—” she paused.
“I’ll find out sooner or later, one way or the other,” Gideon said, “and I’ve come myself because I thought it would help if you knew you were dealing with a senior officer.”
“Oh,” she said, and mechanically added: “Yes, thank you. Well, it’s—it’s hard to say. I think he was being threatened. He—”
Gideon’s big hand now held the fat cigarette case. Foster’s sister took a cigarette. He lit it, then shepherded her to a window seat. It was rather a fine view, especially with the sun shining on the broad Thames, the two bridges in sight just far enough away to look fragile, and the plane trees lining the embankment powdered with light green; husks of the buds were beginning to litter the road and pavement.
The story came out swiftly.
The girl was no fool, and obviously had been worried for some time. At heart, she said, she’d been worried for two years, since Foster had first started to buy new furniture. Some of this was their own, which they’d inherited, but some pieces were recent acquisitions. All the paintings had been bought in the last year or so. He said he bought them at wholesale prices, and she had never voiced her anxiety to him.
Lately, she knew that he’d been worried; he hadn’t slept much; he had been at work all day and out too much at night. She had felt sure that he was being put under some kind of pressure.
“Did you suspect anybody?” Gideon asked bluntly.
She didn’t answer.
“Nothing you say to me will be used,” Gideon said. “I might be able to switch inquiries, that’s all. Did you suspect anyone?”
She said hesitantly: “Well—in a way. He—he knew that man Chang slightly, and I knew Chang had telephoned him. He always seemed more worried after that.”
“Why did you go to Chang’s?” Gideon asked.
“I—I thought I might find out something,” she said. “Oh, I know it was silly, but I was really anxious. There’d been some talk of mural paintings for the new clubroom, and I got an agency to introduce me to Chang about it. That’s why I was there. I could have dropped through the floor when you arrived.”
“You recognized me, did you?”
“You aren’t a man to forget,” she said.
Unexpectedly, that pleased him; she seemed to know that it did, and for a moment she was more relaxed. Then she changed, and her voice hardened.
“What has happened? I’ve tried to get Eric on the telephone several times, but couldn’t, and a sergeant I spoke to was most evasive.”
“Hmm, yes,” Gideon commented. He didn’t like what he had to do, and the dislike stiffened his voice. “Rather ugly trouble, Mrs. Addinson. That’s why I went to Chang’s. I think Chang was bribing your brother to shut his eyes to certain offenses.”
She exclaimed: “Eric taking bribes?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t be certain!”
“No,” agreed Gideon, “I can’t really be certain.”
“Where is Eric? What does he say?” She was flushed and very anxious.
“He denied it, of course,” Gideon said, and went on very heavily: “Had you any reason to believe he was taking bribes?”
“No!”
Gideon thought: “I don’t believe her.” Then he began to wonder more about her: was her explanation of her visit to Chang the true one? Had she known Chang before? Was she involved? Were her present fears due to worry about the possibility of being caught out in some crime?
He saw her, now, just as another witness who might become a suspect. If Chang had warned her about Foster’s danger from the Yard, it might explain much. The one thing that seemed certain was that she had not heard of the death of her brother.
“Mr. Gideon,” Florence Addinson said abruptly, “will you please tell me where Eric is?”
“Yes,” said Gideon, “although it’s not a job I like, Mrs. Addinson. I hate bringing bad news of any kind.” He felt that it had all gone wrong, he wasn’t breaking this gently; she was expecting to hear that her brother was under arrest.
He must get it over.
“He was run down by a car this morning,” he said, and stopped again. He saw understanding dawning; surprise came first, because it was so unexpected, shock next; and the grief would come afterward. He knew only too well that it was impossible to judge in advance how a woman would react to such news, but there was a one-in-four chance of a burst of hysteria. He let her have time to get used to the fear which he’d put into her mind, and then added quietly: “It was over very quickly, I’m glad to say.”
“Over,” she ejaculated.
She sat on a cushioned
window seat, back to the sun-gilt river, a few wisps of hair blowing slightly in the breeze from an open window. She didn’t move, Sitting this way, the smock was drawn down tightly; she had the kind of figure Kate had had twenty years ago.
"Over," she repeated hoarsely.
“I’m afraid that’s it,” said Gideon, and liked the task less than ever. “It’s very distressing.”
“I can’t—I can’t believe it!”
It was going to be hysteria. She’d jump up in a minute and keep repeating that she couldn’t believe it, and then she would probably call it murder, and she would look round for someone to blame. She was so young; middle twenties at most, thought Gideon, then he realized that he was letting the emotional side gain the upper hand; he was seeing her as an attractive woman. He had to see her as the sister of a policeman who had accepted bribes, and probably been murdered; as a witness who might lead him to Chang and beyond; to the distributors of drugs which corrupted and killed.
She jumped up, hands clenched.
“It can’t be true! Why, he left here this morning, as fit as-”
She broke off.
Her colour was coming back, an angry red which seemed to be reflected in her eyes. Gideon watched her, not quite dispassionately.
He would let the first blast pass over his head, then try to steady her, then he’d ring Lemaitre and have a couple of good men come along here, to start searching. There had to be a quick and thorough probe. She was on edge and likely to remain so; if they could find one little pointer that involved her, they would be justified in trying to make her crack. If she was in the clear, the sooner it was established the better.
He watched her fighting for her self-control; admiration came back; it was impossible to rid himself of the curious sense of personal concern for her.
Then she said: “I hope you’ll tell me everything, Mr. Gideon. Everything, please.” She paused and then flung out: “Did he kill himself?”
That startled Gideon.
“No,” he said. “No, we’ve no reason to think so. Have you?”
“Just that he was worried. That man Chang. I—” She raised her hands and let them fall. “Anyhow, it’s too late to do anything to help Eric now.”
Very quietly, Gideon said: “You may be able to help us, Mrs. Addinson. Will you try?”
“In every way I can,” she promised.
It was twenty to five when Gideon reached the Yard. He had waited there until Sergeants Wedderburn and Miller, the day’s bright boys, had arrived at the flat. By then, Foster’s sister had been completely composed, and he found doubts about her hard to retain. The two sergeants would go into figures, study all Foster’s accounts, find out who the furniture was bought from, who sold old masters “at wholesale prices.” It had all the makings of a nasty job, and Foster’s game might have gone on for some time, but for Birdy.
Gideon had been thinking about the man who had really started his day. Birdy Merrick, at fifty-odd, had spent twenty years in jail. His was one of the worst records of any man in London for burglary and breaking and entering, but he had not been able to stand by and watch young girls become maddened with drugs. Good in every man? Certainly Birdy’s love for his dead daughter had gone deep.
Gideon’s office was empty.
He hung his hat with exemplary care on the peg in the corner, then took out his pipe and tobacco, next took off his coat, loosened his collar and, putting his right foot up on a chair, eased the lace of the shoe; the little toe was pinching a bit.
It was very warm. He sat down slowly, fingering the familiar roughness of his pipe and the smooth pouch at the same time, anticipating a smoke, feeling less tired than dispirited. That was partly due to Foster’s sister. He thought of Kate asking him if he couldn’t snatch a few hours off. It was so long since he had worked normal hours, and relaxed in the evening, that he had almost forgotten what it was like.
Lemaitre’s hurriedly written notes were in front of him. There was one about a patrolman’s report on the painter at Chang’s; a man known to have a chip on his shoulder, but as far as was known, quite honest; he’d never worked for Chang before, and Chang had tried three decorators before getting one who had been able to come at once. So the painter was out; Chang’s anxiety to get the club painted quickly was more firmly in.
Another showed negative results from the inquiry about anyone with a “tough reputation” having left Chang’s about eleven o’clock, and this confirmed, incidentally, that a decorating firm’s foreman had been in to see Chang but had not been able to do an urgent job at the club. Chang, this report said, had wanted the decorating finished in time to open as usual that night.
The last report, at the bottom, made Gideon’s teeth clench. Attached to it was a print of a photograph of Foster, lying dead in the road. He was face upward. The photograph showed that the blood had oozed from his head into the dust of the roadway. It was a brilliant picture – a bit macabre, perhaps, if that were the word, but as a photograph vivid and clear in every detail. Obviously the car had crushed his stomach. There was death looking at Gideon—
On the curb was a dark patch and a shiny surface: a puddle. It had rained early in the morning. There was something else, and Lemaitre had pointed a red-penciled arrow toward it. Gideon looked closer, and then his heart began to beat fast, he felt the choking throb of excitement.
The arrow pointed to a tyre track.
The tyre track looked familiar; and was familiar. It was of a new Michelin type, and the size was probably 5.50 x 16.
Lemaitre had written hurriedly: “Same make tyre as Gillick took a cast of, size and all; could be the same tyre, and if F. was bumped off by the mail-v. boys—how about it?”
10. Find That Tyre
“The only thing that matters,” said Gideon to the Assistant Commissioner, who had come to his office, “is to find that tyre. It’s one of the first real mistakes they’ve made, and they probably don’t know it. If we can find that tyre—”
The A.C. was tall, lean, grey-haired, sardonic when the mood took him, and just now sardonically amused.
“All right, George, I want them as much as you do, but we needn’t get excited about it.”
“We needn’t get—” began Gideon explosively. He held his breath, then put his pipe down slowly. “If you were Lemaitre, I’d have your hide for that remark! I don’t mind telling you that there’s just one job—”
He broke off.
They looked at each other uncertainly, and grinned simultaneously.
“Seem to have heard that before somewhere,” said the A.C. “Where’s Lemaitre?”
“Waterloo.”
“He shouldn’t have gone before you came back,” said the A.C. mildly. “Drop him a hint that if he leaves the office empty I’ll have his hide. I’ve just been looking through Sayer’s statement. We’ve got a cold-blooded devil there.”
Gideon didn’t speak.
“And that Islington job, the old woman in the sweetshop,” the Chief went on, “that’s a bad one, too. Haven’t had a chance to look at it much, have you?”
“No.”
“More your cup of tea than anyone else’s,” the A.C. said, “and if it weren’t, I’ve got to send Chatto to Portugal on that extradition job; he’s the only one who can speak Portuguese well enough to get by in Lisbon, and I don’t trust Portuguese English. Smith’s still up to his eyes in the City fraud case, I don’t want to take him off. Deering’s cracked up—”
“Deering isn’t the only one near cracking up,” Gideon said, into a pause. “I’m all right, and will be for a bit, but flesh and blood is flesh and blood. We’re all being driven too hard, from sergeants up. Had a chap with me today. Discovered he was on until two o’clock this morning, back on duty at six, and still at it. That’s the way we make mistakes, and that’s the way we’ll go on making mistakes. Hasn’t any blurry fool got any idea how to get our recruits’ strength up?”
“No,” said the A.C.
“I don’t understand
why it’s so hard.”
“Want your boys to become C.I.D. men?” asked the A.C. dryly. “Several years on the beat first at low pay with some danger, while there are plenty of good prospects elsewhere?”
“I wouldn’t want my boys to become C.I.D. men if it made ‘em millionaires,” said Gideon forcefully. “Oh, I know what you mean, and I still think it’s wrong recruiting methods. Bit more glamour, that’s what we want. Well—” he broke off. “What brought you in, sir?”
It was a casual, belated “sir”; just as a matter of form.
“Islington,” said the A.C. “Have a look at everything, will you? You’ve got X-ray eyes. And then there’s the Moxley case. We don’t want Moxley to get off. If ever a man deserved to be hanged, he’s the one. Sure the sergeant and the Inspector you’ve briefed as witnesses are good enough?”
“As good as we’ll get,” Gideon assured him. “But don’t count on a verdict. Moxley killed his wife all right, and he did it because of that tart who gets her face and fanny plastered all over the papers, but it’s going to be tough. Not a thing more we can do about it, either. That rape job’s up in Number 2 at the Old Bailey in the morning, too; we’ll get those little baskets all right. Cor!”
The A.C. said: “Seamy, isn’t it?”
“What I want is to get away, have a nice clean breeze running through my hair for a bit,” said .Gideon, “but it won’t be for a few months yet. I—excuse me.”
The telephone bell rang. He picked it up, sitting on a corner of the desk. The A.C, a tailor’s dummy of a soldier in mufti, stood waiting. Gideon’s expression told him nothing; Gideon’s voice told him a lot.
“Hallo, Birdy,” said Gideon.
He listened… .
“All right,” he said, “I’ll send it over to you in old notes. … I don’t know, but someone who’ll recognize you. Then lie low for a bit, don’t get yourself into trouble… . Unless you tell me anything more about Chang.”
He paused.
“Okay, Birdy,” he said, and rang off.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead; both hand and forehead were damp.
