Thugs and Economies (Gideon of Scotland Yard)

by John Creasey

  He stopped.

  The grey-haired male stenographer taking notes stopped almost at the same instant.

  The Assistant Commissioner for the Uniformed Branch was the first to speak.

  “We keep everything under constant review, and know just where economies can be made, if essential. I don’t approve of them, of course, but as it’s part of the general Government economy campaign, we will have to do it.” He finished, smoothing a bald head with a great show of virtue, and sat a little more relaxed. The AC for Traffic said much the same thing, but grumbled more; he could have recommendations ready in a week.

  Arthurson, of Research, said rather gruffly: “If I chop off a fiver, it will mean I get less done. Don’t they see that this is the one thing we can’t afford to economise on?”

  “I agree about that,” put in the Uniformed Branch AC. “We need more, not less, uniformed police on the beat, I’m sure everyone will agree with that. However, if it is in the national interest, we’ll have to do it.”

  Most of the others had a little say; none of them was satisfied, those who were not self-righteous in their willingness to make a sacrifice were glumly resigned to the inevitable.

  Gideon was at a disadvantage too, and it was his own fault. He liked to sit next to Hugh Rogerson, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, so that they could exchange notes and whispers, but Rogerson was hemmed in by Traffic and Research. He was worried about Rogerson, in any case; he knew that the older man was not well, and was finding it more and more difficult to cope.

  Inevitably, the Commissioner looked at him.

  “What can you promise us, Mr Rogerson?”

  Rogerson shrugged.

  “Nothing, I should think.” He had a droll way and a sense of humour which Gideon liked; he got along extremely well with his AC and hoped that his health would not force his resignation. He leaned forward and looked sideways along the table at Gideon. “Can we pare off a bit, Gideon?”

  “It isn’t yet a question of whether we can or we can’t, we shall have to,” declared Scott-Marie, “but the immediate question is how long will it be before you can assess the situation, and give estimates on the amount of economy you can achieve?”

  Rogerson shrugged.

  “Say a couple of weeks,” he said. “Might be three.”

  Gideon was sitting very still, back firm against his chair, big hands clasped on the table, staring at an inkstand. His reflection showed indistinctly in the high polish; so did that of the other men, and of pads and pencils. He was the only one present who hadn’t yet spoken, was fuming inwardly, and hoped that he did not show it; he had shown his feelings too much this morning already, his mood was unreliable.

  “Have you any comment, Gideon?” Scott-Marie asked.

  Now everyone was watching or waiting for Gideon to speak.

  “Plenty I could say, but I don’t see that it would do any good,” he said, in his deep voice; he was normally a slow-speaking man, but now he spoke almost briskly.

  Scott-Marie said: “I’d be interested to hear what it is.”

  So he was going to be forced into possible comment, Gideon realised; but he still hesitated. He knew exactly what he would like to say, but was doubtful whether it would serve the slightest useful purpose, and there was no point in rubbing Scott-Marie or any of the others up the wrong way. He unclasped his hands and slid his right hand into his pocket, to smooth the big bowl of the pipe he kept there, but seldom smoked. Someone coughed.

  “Let’s have it, George,” urged Rogerson, quite unexpectedly; he was always the one most likely to unfreeze the conference atmosphere.

  Gideon took out his pipe.

  “Well,” he said, with great deliberation, “our Department alone wants another two hundred and fifty men, at least twenty per cent more floor space than we’ve got, and every man-jack in it ought to get a twenty per cent rise. The starting salaries ought to be increased, too. I dare say we could manage on an extra half a million.” He gave a quick grin, which made him look surprisingly youthful, and was glad that he could speak without the slightest outward sign of exasperation; no one could be more dispassionate than he sounded. “I know what I’d do if I had my way. I’d tell the Home Office that fifty thousand pounds off was impossible. I’d ask them to have a look at the realities of life. I don’t know about anyone else. I can only talk about my Department, and my Department’s probably the one most affected by those realities. Crime is going up again. It’s practically back to where it was in the bad days just after the war, and it’s likely to get worse before it gets better. I don’t think it’ll get better unless we can put on extra men, and even if we get the money, it’s going to be a hell of a job training them. I’d tell the Home Office that they can get ready for the biggest crime wave London’s had since 1939, and as things stand now there isn’t a thing we can do about it. If our cash is cut, the situation will get worse. I’m serious,” he added, and looked straight into Scott-Marie’s pale blue eyes. “I think the Government and the public ought to be warned what we’re up against, then whatever happens we’ll be able to say we told you so. One thing’s certain, too; if we have to pare off a penny in my Department, we’ll have our noses rubbed in the dust pretty soon. We’ve got these new vice laws, we’ve got— oh, what the hell, we all know that the work’s doubled in ten years, don’t we? Let’s ask a question and make someone answer: do we want to stop crime, or don’t we? If we do, then what tools are we going to be given to stop it? If we go on as we are, we’re going to be bloody near helpless.”

  He stopped, had to do something and put the empty pipe to his lips. The Commissioner showed no reaction as he looked round the big table. For a few moments, no one spoke. Then one man said in a rather high-pitched voice: “I think that’s an unnecessarily gloomy view of the situation, Commissioner. We aren’t the only Force which has had to economise. The Armed Services had been very severely reduced in number, but there is no reason to assume that the efficiency has been affected adversely.” The word ‘efficiency’ was the barb: Gideon felt it even before it was delivered, but he was never troubled by inter-departmental slanging matches which occasionally cropped up. “In my considered view, the Uniformed Branch has greater reason to complain about understaffing, but the Assistant Commissioner concerned hasn’t raised that issue at this meeting.”

  That AC never raised an issue.

  The invitation to argue on the importance of one Department against another did not snare Gideon. So far, no one had agreed with him. Rogerson might – unless he thought that enough had been said already. Rogerson was a man who liked peace; if he had a weakness, it was that he would not fight for his Department.

  “I quite see the point about the Armed Services,” remarked a District Commissioner who would not have made that contribution unless he felt sure that the Chairman was unimpressed by Gideon.

  Gideon said, very mildly: “There’s one big difference, isn’t there?”

  “What?” asked a man he couldn’t see.

  “The Armed Services aren’t fighting a war,” Gideon said. “We are. I don’t have to tell anyone here that we never stop, but I don’t suppose you’ll see it my way, that’s why I didn’t chime in before. Since you ask me, Commissioner, I should have to resist any attempt to force economies on the Criminal Investigation Department, because I couldn’t do my job if they were forced on me.”

  He sensed the general disagreement, and was now certain that no one would back him up. He remembered little Eric Jones, somewhere on the run when he should have been awaiting the first magistrate’s court hearing. He thought of the fact that he had an incompetent like Riddell with him, or else the need to take a first-class detective, such as Bell off the job he was most suited for. He felt angry against people and circumstances which he could only vaguely comprehend; there was really no one to fight. If he could talk like this to the Home Secretary, then perhaps it might make some impression; as it was, this would not even get the conference support.

  H
e must not show his feelings too strongly, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to show the Commissioner just how deeply he felt. So he added quietly: “And if I couldn’t do the job, I’d rather not have it. I’d rather be back on the cab rank, then I would know that if I were assigned to a case, I could see it through. I wouldn’t have the feeling that I often get now – frustration after frustration, job after job falling down. This very morning, I learned of a dangerous criminal we missed because we had four jobs to do and three men to do it with, and the Divisions are just as badly off.”

  At least he had caused a sensation; he could tell that by the way most of those on the other side of the table were looking at him; by the sharp intake of breath in the man on his right; by the way Rogerson leaned forward and stared at him, unbelievingly.

  The Commissioner asked, as if coldly: “Are you serious about that, Gideon?”

  2

  ANSWER

  Gideon Thought: ‘Now I’ve done it.’ He thought: ‘He’s quite capable of taking me up on it, too.’ He had a moment of anxiety, and then saw a new line of approach, so emphatic that it surprised him. He wanted to say: ‘Yes, sir, I am serious, never been more serious in my life. What the hell’s the use of working like I work if they’re going to sabotage it by being mean as muck?’

  The thoughts flashed through his mind while everyone waited; but a moment or two would not matter, he was always inclined to deliberate before he spoke, and the longer the pause this time, the more they would realise that he meant whatever he said.

  There was utter silence round the table.

  “Yes,” answered Gideon, at last. “Dead serious, Commissioner.”

  Rogerson was stung to saying: “Now, George—” and broke off.

  There was another period of silence, and Gideon’s mind was moving very swiftly; only those who knew him well realised that he had such mental agility. At least two of the District Commanders were thinking that if he resigned, they might get his job. One was eager, almost greedy for it; the other would shy away. The Assistant Commissioners were probably sympathising with Rogerson for having such a problem in his Department, too. Then quite unexpectedly little Forbes, of Research, grinned across the table at Gideon, and said: “Don’t know that I would go that far, but I’m with you in principle, George. We ought to kick against this, and find a way to make the Home Office realise that they’re really cutting the supply lines of a military operation.” He turned to Scott-Marie, with him he was on equal terms in nearly every way, for he was Harrow and Oxford. “Why don’t you send a note back, saying that it can’t be done?”

  “But it must be done,” one of the ACs declared, and actually thumped the table.

  Gideon did not hear everything that was said in the next few minutes. He watched the Commissioner, almost furtively, wondering uneasily what would be the outcome. He did not yet regret his answer, but his mind was beginning to run on the possible consequences. If the Commissioner wished, he could force his resignation. That would mean the loss of four hundred pounds a year and a great deal of prestige. No one would believe that he stepped down willingly; it would be assumed that he had been pushed. That wouldn’t be much fun.

  And there was Kate; and home.

  Gideon was uneasy because the Commissioner gave no clear idea of what he was thinking.

  Two other men came down on Gideon’s side after all, the Research man had won them over, but no one committed himself to such vehemence as Gideon.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” the Commissioner said, into a lull. “We will take it, then, that each Department will advise the Secretary within two weeks what economies if any can be made, and how best they can be effected without causing a deterioration in the Department’s efficiency.” He paused, and Gideon’s heart sank fast. “If any Department feels convinced that any economy is impossible without deterioration, that will be stated on the report of course.” That was a little better, almost a concession. Then the Commissioner looked straight at Gideon. “If any Department is able to cite specific instances of inefficiency or failure due to shortage of staff, I hope they will be added.”

  He paused.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Gideon thought, a little ruefully. ‘Eric Jones, you might be worth more than you think.’

  “The next item on the agenda concerns the Bank Holiday weekend traffic problems, and there is a report on the result of the temporary arrangements made last Easter,” said the Commissioner.

  Gideon did not pay much attention to the traffic problems, although most of what he heard would stay in his mind and if necessary he would be able to quote it at any time during the next week or two. He was busy going back over the events of the last few weeks, and trying to think of cases which had fallen on their face because of manpower shortage. There were dozens; but it would not always be possible to trace the cause back directly. He knew it, any practical man knew, but when it became a matter of putting the cases down in black and white, it wasn’t going to be easy. He built up two cases and then imagined what a defending counsel would make of them.

  Hay.

  Several other items on the agenda had little direct association with the CID, even though most of the departments overlapped. He joined in the discussion several times, behaving as if the major issue had not been forced, but he suspected that his challenge was on everyone’s mind when, a little after twelve-thirty, the conference broke up. By then, he had thought of many other things that he would have liked to say, but he could not open the subject again.

  The Commissioner was summoned hastily, and had only a chance to give a general, “Good-day, gentlemen,” before being ushered out.

  The Research Chief spoke almost as the door closed.

  “Did the best I could for you, George, but now you’ve got your hands full.”

  “Rather spend my time checking the harmful effects of manpower shortage than seeing how we can save a penny here and tuppence there,” Gideon retorted.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “The thing you don’t seem to understand,” said Uniform, “is that this is an edict from the Home Office, which they’ve had from the Treasury. It’s a directive.”

  “Might just as well accept it, instead of kicking,” said Traffic. “God knows I’m bitter enough about lack of manpower, but it’s no use cutting off my nose to spite my face.”

  “George,” asked a District Commander, “would you really resign?”

  Gideon gave a slow, ruminative smile, and answered: “Have a job not to now, wouldn’t I? But it would be worth it if we can make the Old Man see that this particular directive wants putting you-know-where.”

  He took the first opportunity to leave, and was glad that only Research went with him.

  “Stick to your guns, George,” he urged. “Someone has to.”

  “I know, I’ll make a nice Roman holiday,” Gideon said.

  He went back to his office, opened the door, expected to find Riddell at the desk opposite his own, a smaller desk with four telephones, but Riddell was not there; nor was the sergeant. Gideon had told Riddell and everyone who worked here with him that the office must never be empty during the day; but here it was, and suddenly two telephones began to ring at once. He snatched at the one on his desk.

  “Gideon.”

  “Bell here,” said Chief Inspector Bell. “I’ve got some good news for you.”

  The other bell kept ringing, at Riddell’s desk.

  Gideon grunted.

  “Don’t sound so pleased,” protested Bell. “We’ve got Eric Jones, so it only made twelve hours’ difference. Picked him up at his sister’s place, in Poplar.”

  Gideon made himself sound hearty.

  “Nice work, Joe, keep it up. Can’t stop now, I’ve two or three things to do.” He put the receiver down with a bang and strode across to the other desk, snatched that receiver up, and barked: “Gideon.” There was a little gasp, and then a woman said: “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought my husband would be there.”

  �
�Who is that?”

  “I’m Mrs Riddell.”

  Gideon grunted: “No, he’s—” and then the door opened and Riddell came in. “Here he is.” He held out the receiver. “Your wife.” Riddell took the receiver, looked at him a little uncertainly, and then said: “Hullo, dear, I’d just been out of the office for a moment.” He held the telephone cable away from a corner of the desk so that he could go and sit down, listening all the time. He must have listened for five minutes, with only an occasional comment. Then he said: “Yes, I don’t know of anything that will keep me later than six, I’ll be there on time . . . Goodbye dear.” He rang off. “Got some friends coming in tonight,” he told Gideon. “My wife always gets into a panic in case something crops up to make me late. I told her that while I was in this office she needn’t worry, it’s only when you’re on the investigation staff that you can’t call your life your own.”

  Gideon grunted.

  He did not enjoy the rest of the day. It was useless to keep railing at Riddell, but the man irritated him far too much. There was no time to give his mind to the problem that he had set himself, but whenever he managed an odd thought about it the more difficult the task appeared. It was a variation on a familiar theme; everyone knew that manpower shortage was responsible for many failures to solve crimes from murder downwards, just as the Yard often knew who had committed a certain crime; getting the evidence to satisfy a court was as difficult as getting more staff.

  “What I want is a few hours to think about it,” he told himself. “Kate’s in for a quiet night.” His wife was wont to complain that when in the middle of a puzzling or worrying case, he was capable of sitting for hours staring into space, fiddling with his pipe, almost forgetting that she was in the room with him. “What I need is a good man or two on the job, to do some digging with me.” He had these fragmentary thoughts between consultations with superintendents, talks with Divisional men, talks with Information, all the general routine of the CID. There was no outstanding case on the go at the moment, but there might be tonight or tomorrow; there would certainly be at least one sticky one this week – and a dozen times one of the Department’s men was going to pray for more help, but wasn’t likely to let Gideon play God, and so hear the prayer.