by John Creasey
Table of Contents
Copyright & Information
About the Author
1
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8
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13
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Series Information
Select Synopses
Copyright & Information
Thugs and Economies
(Gideon's Staff)
First published in 1959
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1959-2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2013 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755126378 9780755126378 Print
0755134044 9780755134045 Mobi
0755134451 9780755134458 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.
1
AXE
“The Trouble with criminals is that they don’t learn their job,” Keith Ryman said. There was a faintly sardonic smile on his handsome face as he stood by the bar in his flat, martini in hand. The only other man present looked at him as if warily.
“You’d better not say that to Charlie Daw.”
“Forget Daw, he’s small beer,” Ryman said. “I don’t mean they’re not good craftsmen. If you get the right man he can open a safe or pick a lock as well as a mechanic can fit a carburettor. The craftsmen are all right, but no one studies crime like men study big business or the professions,” asserted Ryman, and smoothed down his fair, curly hair; now he was smiling broadly. “I think I could make a real go of it, Rab.”
“If anyone could, you could,” Stone said. He was a smaller man, rather sallow, and his well-tailored suit and spotted red-and-white tie and socks fell just short of being flashy as his manner was just short of being sycophantic.
“No doubt I could,” Ryman agreed, nodding his head as at a well-deserved compliment. “This is the time to begin, too.”
“Why’s that?” asked Stone.
“Don’t you ever keep your ears open?”
“Try me.”
“In the Regal bar last night there were two Scotland Yard men, cribbing like hell because they’d got to go back on duty. Remember? “
Stone’s eyes lit up with recollection.
“That’s right. There were – and moaning like stink because the Yard’s short-handed. One of them said they really need three men for every two they’ve got.”
Ryman sipped his drink, contemplated his crony, and although he tried hard to restrain it, excitement made his eyes shine, and pitched his voice a key higher.
“That’s it,” he assented. “The police are short-handed, and they don’t say too much about it because it might encourage the crooked fraternity to put in overtime. They play it down all right, but a really smart man could find a way to take advantage of this situation, Rab. I think I’m the man.”
“You certainly get ideas,” Stone said. “Anything in mind already?”
“Yes,” Ryman answered, softly. “We’ve got to get them on one foot, Rabbie, put ‘em off balance. That’s the strategy, all I’ve got to work out are the tactics. Are you in on this?”
“Believe me I’m in,” Stone assured him, eagerly. “I’ve got the right contacts, too. We’ll make the best team in London.” His excitement was less controlled than Ryman’s. “How about another drink, to close the deal?”
Ryman nodded, and Stone went to the other side of the bar to mix the drinks. Ryman said very little after that, but his thoughts were furiously active. He had real ability and a good mind, but a streak of weakness and a bigger one of cruelty had warped his attitude towards living. He made most of his money by his wits, often at cards, and the polish of a minor public school helped him with that and also served him well socially.
Now he began to see himself as a man of genius, the only one with the wit to take advantage of a situation, and Stone fed his self-esteem with great skill.
Although George Gideon, Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard, was also aware of the problem of manpower in the Force, he was not thinking of it the next morning. He was thinking about Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, the Commissioner. Scott-Marie was a somewhat remote person even to the other Chiefs at the Yard. He took the chair at the weekly conferences of Assistant Commissioners and heads of departments, but appeared to hold the reins at Scotland Yard very lightly. That did not mean ineffectively. In the course of nearly thirty years’ service, Gideon had known several commissioners, and once had done a sounder or more balanced job than Scott-Marie. He had the trick or the gift of getting the best out of most officers, and of finding the right man for the various key posts at the Yard.
Nevertheless, Gideon was conscious of an invisible barrier between him and the Commissioner, and did not see how it could be avoided. Sir Reginald Scott-Marie had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, came from a long line in a family with ducal forbears and, before being appointed to this job, had held two key Colonial posts. George Gideon had been born to an obscure West London couple, had neither reason nor desire to think back beyond his grandparents, and in a sardonic mood would call himself ‘an old London Elementarian’. In fact, he had left school at fourteen. The barrier seemed more than social; it was in outlook,
in understanding of the same people and situations, and in daily living. When Gideon got home he liked to take his coat off and do some decorating or carpentry, almost any odd job about the house except washing-up. Scott-Marie would put on a smoking-jacket, burrow in Greek mythology, and even in those days be waited on by butler, footman and maids. Gideon knew that, for he had twice been to see his Chief in the evening, on urgent matters concerning the treatment of suspects who had diplomatic immunity. Gideon also knew the Commissioner’s wife slightly. She was twenty years younger than Scott-Marie, and quite a beautiful woman.
One of the troubles with which Gideon had grown up at Scotland Yard was the preponderance of the uniformed and civil service men in the Force over the members of the Criminal Investigation Department. He found it increasingly difficult to be patient with some of the other departments and occasionally was annoyed because, combined, they carried so much weight. Scott-Marie did not appear to take sides, but sometimes Gideon thought that his years as a Colonial administrator had given him above-average understanding of the problems of the CID. In these days, with the crime rate fluctuating from year to year, but usually becoming higher, the Department’s problems were increasing alarmingly.
A major one was that of getting suitable recruits. Gideon, who had the perhaps quaint idea that his chief job was to direct the investigation side of the Department, found himself increasingly involved in such matters as the training of uniformed men and recruiting for the Metropolitan Police as a whole.
On the morning of the first conference in the month of May, Gideon was in his office, going over the report of the night’s events and the morning’s mail, with a Chief Inspector whom he did not much like or respect. His regular aide was down with influenza, his second choice was taking part of his holiday before the summer rush of the men with young families, and this particular CI, Riddell, was not used to Gideon’s likes and dislikes; he was a bit prosy, and had far too high an opinion of himself.
He was sitting at one side of Gideon’s big desk, Gideon at the other. The pile of reports, mountainous at the beginning of this session, was reduced to the last half-inch. Most mornings Gideon saw the Superintendents and Inspectors handling the different cases, but the conference was due to start at ten, it was already a quarter to, and he had to leave more than he liked to Riddell.
He glanced at the next report which read:
As instructed, I proceeded with a detective officer to 51 Canning Street, SW3, to prefer a charge of breaking and entering against Eric Thomas Jones. On arrival, I was informed that Jones had not been home all night. On request I was permitted by Mrs Jones to search the premises, and came to the conclusion that Jones had not spent the night there. His wife stated that she could give no information as to his whereabouts.
Gideon felt as if he wanted to growl more fiercely with each sentence. The report was signed by a Detective Sergeant Worth, whom he knew comparatively slightly.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “Does Worth always write like this?”
“What’s the matter with the report?” asked Riddell. “Quite straightforward, isn’t it?”
Gideon made himself say: “I’m glad you can find some merit in it. Why wasn’t Jones watched? He was here, in our hands, yesterday afternoon. How’d we come to lose him?”
“There was no instruction about having him followed,” answered Riddell. He showed no sign of resentment, and probably did not notice the undertone of exasperation in Gideon’s voice. He probably regarded Worth’s piece of witness-box prose as a model report.
“No instruction,” Gideon echoed, and pushed his chair back. “You knew we were going to pick him up, didn’t you? You knew—”
“I wasn’t in charge of the case, that was Bell’s job. If Bell had wanted Jones followed, presumably he would have given the instructions.”
“Go and get Bell,” ordered Gideon. Riddell now looked annoyed, but he pushed his chair back and got up, going out without a word. In his shirtsleeves and with his collar loose, Gideon stood up, went to the window overlooking the Embankment, and fastened his collar and knotted his tie. The morning was pleasantly warm, the river looked bright, the red buses made vivid splashes of colour on Westminster Bridge; a beautiful morning.
“Instruction,” breathed Gideon.
He was glad of the three minutes’ respite, so as to get a firmer hold on himself. It was useless to lose his temper with Riddell, the man simply hadn’t the ability this job required. He thought that Bell had, Bell was next in line – but if he’d fallen down on a simple job, he must be slipping. The conference would start in less than ten minutes, so there was really no time to go into details; that filled Gideon with self-annoyance, he ought not to have allowed himself to be goaded into sending for Bell.
The door swung open, and Riddell and Bell came in. They made quite a contrast, and if looks were everything, Riddell was the better man. He was handsome in a heavy-jowled way, dressed more like a stockbroker than a Chief Inspector of the CID, and looked immaculate; his brown eyes were alert-looking and his hair was either dyed or of very healthy pigmentation. Bell was a shorter, plumper man, with untidy grey hair, and his trousers always needed pressing. He liked to smoke a pipe, and he had grey eyes which twinkled; a fatherly-looking chap, Gideon always thought, with a good, reflective mind. Obviously Riddell had ‘warned’ Bell that Gideon was on the warpath, and there was no twinkle now; he was over-formal.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Why the hell didn’t you have Jones followed from here yesterday? You knew we’d want him before long, and that he’d slipped away before. We might be looking for him for months.”
“Had three men available and four jobs to do,” Bell answered quietly, “and I thought it was better to take a risk with Jones than slip up on the other jobs.” He had an even, matter-of-fact way of speaking.
Gideon thought: ‘He’s right, and I’m the one who’s slipping.’ He rubbed the end of his heavy chin, and saw Riddell with a smug I-told-you-so look on his smooth face. “You had two chaps on the Morrison job and one after the old woman, but what about the two who finished the work out at Walton?”
“Sent ‘em home, they’d been out two nights in a row.”
“So it boils down to not having enough men,” Gideon said heavily. “I’m going along to the conference this very minute, I’ll see if I can dig something out of the powers that be. Thanks, Bell. Let me know when you pick Jones up. What’s this chap Worth like?”
“Means well,” answered Bell.
“Oh, Gawd,” breathed Gideon, and looked at Riddell. “I’ll take a call about that Scottish job and another from Paris, keep everything else away from me while I’m with the big noise, will you?”
“Yes, Commander.”
Gideon saw Bell open the door for him, and stepped into the passage. Bell closed the door and followed him, but didn’t speak. They reached the corner, Bell to go down in the lift, Gideon to walk down one flight of stairs and then across to the other building.
“Joe,” said Gideon, “do you ever long for the quiet life?”
“Long for it? I sigh for it.”
“I mean, really somnolent, like sitting in for me when I’m not in the office.”
“Cheer up, Race will soon be back,” Bell said. Race was Gideon’s chief aide. “And there’ll never be another one like Lemaitre. You ought to have kept him away from the Divisions. Voracious, those Divisions are.”
“Meaning, you’d rather stay where you are?”
“Depends. Is it worth another hundred a year?”
“Shouldn’t think so, but it might be,” said Gideon. “Seriously, how’d you feel about it?”
“Would jump at the chance of being with you,” Joe Bell answered, and then the lift arrived. “That’s if anyone has the privilege in future. You’re going to be late, and I’ve been told that unpunctuality doesn’t please his nibs.”
“He’s not so bad,” said Gideon.
Yet he hurried, down the stairs and
along the wide passage which linked the two buildings, his long stride covering a lot of ground. He was big and massive, slightly round-shouldered because of his height, with iron-grey hair, which was swept straight back from a broad forehead. His eyes were the same colour as his hair, and he did not yet wear glasses. He had a hardy-looking skin, neither coarse nor fine, big but well-shaped hands and feet. He gave the impression of jousting an invisible adversary as he went along, and was quite aware that several men he passed, some CID and some on the civilian staff, turned and looked at him, and afterwards whispered about him.
The conference-room door was closed, and an ‘engaged’ sign was pinned to it. He thrust the door open and stepped in. There was a small ante-room, another open door, and beyond this a long, narrow table; it was like a company boardroom in a prosperous business. The chairs were padded and massive, the table glowed with polish, and the walls were panelled in medium-brown oak. ‘They find the money for this,’ Gideon thought. Scott-Marie was talking in his rather clipped way, hardly moving his lips. The other Commanders, his own Assistant Commissioner, the other ACs, the Secretary, and the Chief of the Solicitor’s office were there, as well as the Public Relations Officer. It was a group exclusively of men, mostly grey-haired, bald or balding, sitting a little self-consciously, as always at the beginning of a meeting like this.
Scott-Marie had a cold fish approach.
There was one vacant chair, half way along one side. Gideon went to it. Scott-Marie did not pause to acknowledge his arrival, but continued quietly: “ . . . and so we have to accept the fact that the decreased budget of fifty thousand pounds is the worst we need expect this year, although I’ve been told that the Treasury is reluctant to admit that. It’s useless to ask for more, so we shall have to manage. Wherever possible we must make economies, of course, and that is one of the tasks I want to talk about. How long will it take before each Department can examine its methods and recommend operative economies? If we don’t do something, we shall find them forced upon us, and it would be unwise to have to make cuts under pressure.”
