Gideon's Day

by John Creasey

  “Get up,” he said, as if he had made up his mind what to do, and she cringed away from him. He bent down, took her wrist, and pulled her to her feet. Then he pushed her toward the dressing room. Her legs moved automatically; she thought she was bound to fall on her face.

  The lovely clothes were in the wardrobe.

  “Just the job,” he said, and hustled her forward.

  “Get in.” He meant; ‘Get into the wardrobe with the clothes’.

  “Go on, Rosie, get in, I won’t hurt you!”

  She was breathing through her nose, and felt as if she could never breathe freely again, was almost choked. And she was too frightened to believe what he said. Something made him change his mind, too. He stretched out an arm to her shoulder, turned her round, and loosened the scarf round her mouth; it dropped to her neck.

  “My, my,” he said, “you’re quite something; pity we didn’t meet some other place.” Suddenly he pulled her to him and squeezed her. She felt his hard, lean body, the thudding of his heart. She felt the surge of desire in him, too, and a different fear began to choke her. She couldn’t breathe; she felt his hands—

  He let her go. “Get inside,” he said harshly, “and if you open your trap for the next five minutes, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  He thrust her back among the luxurious dresses, among thousands of pounds’ worth of the most exclusive models by the world’s great designers, and then closed the door. She heard the key in the lock. She leaned back against a velvet gown, slipping further and further down, still frightened, and also disturbed in a different way. She could not forget the hardness of his body against her.

  Then she slipped down, until she was almost full length on the floor. With her hands behind her, she could turn round. It was blackly dark. She felt herself breathing evenly, but fear soon began to catch up, like the sea sweeping over her in waves.

  She shouted, and the sound was muffled; she knew that it couldn’t be heard.

  She started to struggle and to shout, and was terrified. The blackness became thick, oily, choking, throttling; the blackness became peopled with strange shapes, strange, bright, dazzling, blinding colours. After a while she was screaming without knowing what she was doing… .

  Then the door opened: “Good Lord!” exclaimed Lady Muriel’s husband. “What—here, Inspector, here’s the maid. Here she is!”

  Rose felt much better.

  Everyone had been very kind, especially Lady Muriel and Mr. Simister. The police had been quite nice, too. The man Mr. Simister called Inspector was ever so young, really. She’d had some hot coffee, very sweet, and then a weak whisky and water, and the doctor – Lady Muriel’s own doctor – had been and; examined her, and said that she wouldn’t suffer much harm. Then the Inspector had started to question her, making her remember everything she had seen and everything that had been said. She didn’t like it. Twice Lady Muriel asked him if it were really necessary, and in a firm but friendly way he said it was essential.

  Then something he said made her remember that the thief had called her Rosie.

  “Are you sure?” The Inspector’s voice sharpened.

  “Oh, yes! Of course I am.”

  “How often did he use your name?”

  “Well, only once, I remember….”

  A few minutes afterward, the Inspector spoke to Mr. Simister in a voice which Rose was supposed not to hear but which she heard quite clearly: “If it’s someone who knew the name of the maid, it suggests co-operation from your staff. And a key to the trinket box was used, remember? I think I’d better see the staff at once, Mr. Simister, especially anyone who knew this suite well.”

  Lady Muriel said in a startled voice: “Not Forbes.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling,” Mr. Simister said sharply.

  There was a moment almost of conflict; then Lady Muriel turned to Rose.

  “You look tired, Rose, and I’m sure the Inspector won’t want you any more now.” Her glance at the Inspector suggested that he had better not. “Come along to the morning room, and I’ll get you something.”

  She put a hand on Rose’s arm.

  It was rather wonderful, Rose thought, walking side by side with Lady Muriel, who was a head taller, very very beautiful, and wearing that lovely cocktail gown which was full of rich colours. It was almost like walking alongside a friend.

  Behind them, Mr. Simister was talking worriedly to the Inspector.

  The office was hot. April was behaving oddly; you could usually rely on a chilly evening, but even with one window open, it was warm. Gideon had his coat off, his waistcoat open, his tie hanging down, his sleeves rolled up. For once his hair was ruffled. He was talking first into one telephone and then into another, putting down and lifting receivers as if he were juggling with Indian clubs. The smooth transition from one case to the next came much in the way that a brilliant linguist can change from one language to another without any apparent interruption in thought.

  And Gideon made notes.

  “That you, Adams – anything doing in the Madeson Square job? … Hmm … No, don’t bring the valet over here unless you’re pretty sure he’s involved; no need to put a foot wrong … Yes, old chap, watch him if you like… . How’s that maid, what’s her name? … Yes, Rose … Good. Any prints? … Hmm, looks as if the valet’s the chief hope. ‘Bye.”

  There was hardly a pause before he turned to the other telephone, already in his left hand.

  “Hallo, Lem, sorry to keep you. Any luck? …”He chuckled. “And you stood Fifi up for this? You’re going to know all about it! … I know it’s not funny, calm down… . Well, stay there if you like; we certainly want that chap. Think he’s been along already and noticed that the car’s being watched? … Who’ve you got with you?”

  The other bell started to ring. Gideon lifted the receiver and switched to it swiftly: “Hold on, please.” He went back to Lemaitre. “Well, he doesn’t look so much like a copper as some of ‘em. Give it another hour! Bye.”

  “Hallo. … Oh, Fred, thanks for calling. Any news of Birdy? … Pity… . Found that junk at his house, did you? Well, spread the story round, won’t you? Then if we pick him up, his friends and neighbours will know it’s because he’s wanted; it won’t look as if he came to us for protection.… No, I know he didn’t…. So do I.”

  There was a moment’s lull.

  “So do I,” he repeated, and meant that he hoped that the Divisional people found Birdy.

  The hell of this was that a gang like Murphy’s could act almost with impunity; almost.

  He pulled his wad of notes toward him. These were the scribbled notes he had started to make from the moment he’d come in that morning. Everything that had been attended to he crossed off; only half a dozen items remained, and he wrote these out on a fresh slip of paper. They were mostly trifles, and among them was: Check Basil B. about his evidence on the Moxley job.

  He lifted a receiver.

  “Know if Chief Inspector Boardman’s in?” he said. “Oh—ring his home for me, will you?” He put the receiver down and waited; the other bell rang. “Hallo, Gideon here. Eh? … Good Lord!” He found himself chuckling, looked as if he were delighted. “Nice work, glad they don’t always get away with it.”

  He chuckled again, and then saw the office door open. “Yes, I’ll put some dynamite behind them, but King-Hadden’s off duty tonight; it’s never so quick when—”

  The visitor was the Assistant Commissioner, his sleek grey suit changed to sleek dinner jacket, soft cream shirt, small bow tie: a distinguished man indeed.

  “… okay, Basil,” Gideon said, and rang off and looked up smiling. “Didn’t expect you back,” he remarked.

  “I had a dinner date I couldn’t miss,” the A.C. said, “but wanted an excuse to cut the speeches. How are things going?”

  “It’s like rain,” said Gideon, and then corrected himself. “Hailstorm, rather.”

  “With an occasional rainbow – what’s so funny?”

&nb
sp; Gideon chuckled.

  “Chap broke into a house in Maida Vale an hour ago, a six-footer apparently, and he had a gun. The woman of the house discovered him and chased him out with an umbrella. He dropped the gun! Empty. Evans was telling me; he can always make a story like that sound twice as funny as it is, but—” Gideon chuckled. “Armed gunman chased by angry woman with umbrella – can’t you see the headlines in the morning? It’ll keep something off the front page.”

  “The Waterloo job, I hope.”

  “Not much chance of that.” Gideon grimaced, and told what had happened.

  “You’ve always thought that there was organization in these mail-van jobs, haven’t you?” the A.C. asked musingly.

  “Some sort of,” agreed Gideon. “The pattern’s always pretty well the same, isn’t it? I’d say that there’s a clearing house for information, which always reaches the same chap. He passes it on to different people, and they give him a rake-off. First time I’ve ever been hopeful is today, if Chang—”

  He broke off.

  The A.C. lit a cigarette.

  “I was wondering,” he said, sitting on the arm of the easy chair reserved for visitors. “You’ve thought that it was worth giving Chang rope, haven’t you? Any special reason?”

  “You mean, when I heard about Foster from Birdy, why didn’t I go for Chang straightaway?” Gideon pinched his nose. “I don’t know. Don’t suppose I ever shall. I just felt it was the wrong thing to do, but I’m not so sure now. But see what’s working out. Birdy squealed on Chang. Chang has put a finger on him, through Murphy. That gives a direct line between Chang and Murphy. Now we know that Murphy is nominal boss of a gang, and that among the people who do jobs for him there’s every kind of crook, from killer to snatch artist. Well, if Chang is the man who gets the information about mail vans and passes it on to Murphy, Murphy might pass it further down. I don’t say it is the answer, just that it could be. The one certain thing about Murphy’s bunch is that they’re tough and they’re smart and they don’t squeal. We’ve been trying to get Murphy for years, have never pulled him in on anything that counted, and haven’t thought it worthwhile putting him inside for a couple of months. Now we’ve got a half chance of picking up one of the men who did the Waterloo job today, and if we can lead back from him to Murphy we might really have something.”

  Gideon paused.

  “Yes, you would,” agreed the A.C. fervently.

  “If we could get Murphy and hit him really hard, it would do more good than we’ve done at one swipe for months,” said Gideon, as if he longed for exactly that. “For years. Meanwhile, we’ve started a new line. I’ve sent out instructions for all known Murphy men to be checked and to find out if any of them have postmen among their friends. I’m having Chang’s customers checked, too, to find out if there are any postmen among them. Or bank managers or clerks, for that matter. It’s the first time we’ve thought of Chang or Murphy together or singly as in any way interested in the mail-van jobs. Could be wrong now, but at least it’s giving us a bit of pep for the time being.”

  “George,” said the A.C., “I have never suggested that you don’t know your job.”

  Gideon grinned.

  “Thanks! Then there’s another angle. Foster’s sister had a telephone call from a hysterical woman who said that Foster had been murdered.” He deliberately ignored the A.C.’s start of surprise. “Woman named Estelle, apparently a sweetie of Foster’s. I started to check, and one of the girls who dances at Chang’s club is named Estelle.”

  “Well, well,” murmured the A.C. “Talked to her yet?”

  “Haven’t found her. She digs in Chelsea, but hasn’t been home since morning. As soon as we get a chance, we’ll tackle her.”

  A telephone bell rang, almost before he had finished.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and plucked the receiver up. “Gideon … What?” He bellowed the word, must have deafened the man at the other end of the line, and certainly startled the A.C. “Bring him right over,” he said, only a little less boomingly; “nice work, Lem! Wonderful!”

  He put the receiver down. The Assistant Commissioner, who knew him in most moods, had seldom seen him show such obvious satisfaction; and that could only come from really good news.

  Gideon appeared to want to savour it before passing it on.

  “We’ve got the driver of the Austin with the Michelin tyre,” he said at last, and his expression said: ‘How about that?’

  “Young chap with a scar at the back of his head – the Waterloo post-office driver saw a chap like that, remember?” Gideon was more excited than the A.C. had seen him for years, but he fought against showing it. “Lemaitre’s bringing him over. Going to sit in on this interview, sir?” He grinned almost impudently.

  The A.C. said: “I think I will, George. That’s fine.”

  “But it’s late to have that post-office driver in,” Bedded Gideon, and his pencil sped. “We’ll have an identification parade at ten o’clock in the morning. I wonder if this could be the day.’’ He got up, to stretch his cramped limbs. “I think a noggin’s indicated here; going to have one?”

  “On principle and in office hours,” said the A.C., “I disapprove. But thanks.” The telephone rang.

  “All right, I’ll get the whisky, “he said, and rounded the desk as Gideon picked up the receiver.

  “Gideon here.”

  “Oh …”

  “Yes, all right. ‘Bye.” Gideon rang off, and kept a finger on the cradle of the telephone as the A.C. stooped to open a cupboard in one of the pedestals of his desk. “Fire out at Mince Lane, a big fur warehouse. The fire chief thinks it might be arson. I’d better send Marjoribanks over.” He lifted a receiver. “Detective Inspector Marjoribanks, please. … Hallo, Marj, got nice job for you. Belinda Blue-eyes thinks that there’s arson in Mince Lane – pretty well gutted a warehouse, I gather; have a go as soon as you can.

  “Thanks,” he added a minute later, and then put the receiver down and took a glass from the A.C., who held a syphon in his right hand. “Splash more, I think,” he said, and watched the soda water as it squirted and splashed. “Whoa! Ta. Here’s to getting a trail back from this to Chang or Murphy.” He ran his tongue along his lips. “No more news of Birdy; I’m worried about that. I—oh, damn the blurry telephone!”

  “If I were you,” said the A.C., “I’d get out for a bit and leave a sergeant in here.”

  “Blurry sergeants! … Gideon … Eh? … Oh, not bad, but he can keep until morning; hold him at Cannon Row, will you? It won’t do him any harm to wriggle a bit. Yes, I’ll hold on. It’s Percival, from London Airport,” he told the A.C. offhandedly. “That Foreign Office chap who pinched the diplomatic bag from the sanctum sanctorum’s turned up, complete with bag. It’s still full, so we do get results sometimes.” He scribbled. “Must let the press have that, quickly, especially the Globe; it’s been screaming about missing diplomats for two years. Or is it three?” Into the telephone he said, “Violent, is he? Well, get some help; don’t let him cut his throat. Bye.”

  He rang off.

  “You rather remind me,” said the A.C., sipping his whisky and soda, “of a bulldozer which never stops moving.”

  “Don’t say that in anyone’s hearing or I’ll be the Bulldozer for the rest of my stay here, which I sometimes hope won’t be long!” Gideon grinned.

  He rang the Back Room Inspector to tell them about the arrest of the diplomat.

  He had time to light his pipe.

  He picked up a telephone at the first ting of the bell.

  “Gideon … Oh, yes… . Oh, Lor’. I hate those jobs. Can you handle it yourself? … Yes, you’ll have to stop him, I suppose. Fix it with the stations, ports and airports, but soft pedal a bit.” He rang off, forgetting to say ‘bye.’ “That was about Eric Rosenthal – he and his wife have been having a tug-o’-war with their kid, remember? The wife got a court order for custody, and Rosenthal snatched her this evening. What will a thing like this do to a six-year
-old girl?”

  He shook his head.

  He thought of Kate.

  The telephone rang.

  This time it was news with a vengeance. The man Fessell, wanted in connection with the murder of the old woman in the Islington sweetshop, had been seen in Watford. He should be caught before long.

  Then Gideon thought of Birdy Merrick.

  He didn’t think of a man named Fitzroy, for he had never heard of him.

  14. The Murphy Gang Draws Close

  Birdy stood in a dark doorway. Gaslight showed white and pure behind the glass of a lamp fastened to a wall by an iron bracket. Nearby, the ripple of the water of a backwater of the Thames sounded softly and insistently, as if someone were whispering to him. A long way off there was another whisper of sound: traffic on the Mile End and the Whitechapel roads.

  The river traffic was silent.

  It was not often silent, like this; usually a tug chugged along, or hooted; or cargo ships laden down to the Plimsoll line sent their short, urgent blasts to tell the Port of London Authority officials that they were on their way to distant lands. Or a police launch barked in its urgent, questing note, and a searchlight swept the dark, dirty water, looking for unexpected things; or else expected jetsam, such as floating bodies.

  This silence was accursed. In it, every little sound could be heard, and Birdy knew that two of Murphy’s men were near him; listening. Their ears were as sensitive to the night sounds of London as a Bushman’s would be for the night sounds of the forest.

  No cranes were working.

  The silence was so deep that Birdy could have screamed; and screaming brought death or whatever they planned for him.

  Why weren’t the cranes busy?

  Birdy remembered: there was a strike. Not a full-blooded one, but a nasty, mean little strike – no overtime. Birdy had heard dockers talking about it, some for and some against; but they all obeyed. There was no trade union in crime; criminals were self-employed, uninsured and independent. Now that awful hush fell upon dockland, and upon Birdy. He had wormed his way here after seeing Lefty, and waited for the blessed fall of darkness. He had felt that he dared hope, and stood in the doorway, listening for protecting noises which would not come – and listening, too, for the stealthy sounds which might tell of Ali or the Snide.