by John Creasey
The docker grinned and pushed past him, then whispered out of the side of his mouth: “Be careful around ten tonight, Syd.” No one could see that his lips moved and no one else could hear the words.
Taylor grunted, and strolled along the street, more than ever certain of the fact that he was being watched from that house on the corner. The next patrol car and the next copper who passed could take or send a message to Division or the Yard; instead of being on edge. Taylor felt an anticipatory glow of excitement.
If this was going to be the night, he’d be ready; and he could thank his friends among the dockers.
Across the road, in an attic-room where he could not be seen from the street unless he stood right in front of the tiny window, Slob grinned as he saw the docker push past Taylor. He had a big, loose, slobbery mouth; that was why his nickname was so apt. Even his little eyes smiled, and he turned to a man who had just come into the room.
“Bert just told him.”
“That’s the boy.”
“Get everything ready,” Slob said. He slurred his words but they were clear enough and he turned away from the window.
Taylor was never left completely alone for more than twenty minutes; someone was always passing. A Squad car, back from a false alarm at a furrier’s warehouse in the Mile End Road, made a detour and slowed down by the cafe. That was at twenty-five minutes past seven. Taylor, reading a newspaper as he leaned against the wall near the cafe, moved to the car. He was careful not to speak until he was bending down, and no one could lip-read what he said; the most unlikely people had remarkable talent.
“Having a nice quiet time?” asked the Flying Squad driver.
“Until ten o’clock.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve had a squeak,” Taylor told him, and added with obvious pride: “That’s what comes of having friends. You want to try it some time. See that I’ve got company from about nine-fifteen onwards, will you? I’d say that’s the most likely time that Slob’ll try for a break.”
“When it’s murky,” the driver remarked. “Okay, Syd. I’ll give the Yard a flash, and check everything when I get back there. Any idea whether it’s going to be big or small?”
“Assume it’ll be a big crowd.”
“Attaboy!”
Taylor went back to the wall and the newspaper as the car drove off. He experienced a tingling of even greater excitement, and felt not only satisfied but in a mood to congratulate himself for wearing down Micky the Slob before the Yard gave it up as a bad job. He did his regulation twenty deep breaths every half-hour, and kept flexing his muscles, already spoiling for a fight; for he was quite sure in his own mind that there would be one.
The next man likely to come round was the sergeant from the Division, calling on the men on the beat; he was due about eight o’clock.
A girl came out of one of the houses near the corner, and walked briskly towards him. She was very short and rather plump, with an enormous bosom sheathed in a thin, tight-clinging white jumper. She had big, curving hips, very small feet and startling trim ankles, and her colouring was remarkably vivid. Taylor had seen her dozens of times before, and usually she bobbed past him, with a smile or a quip. As always Taylor raised his hat, with exaggerated politeness. She gave him a wide smile, and as she drew up, asked the familiar question: “Aren’t you tired of holding that wall up?”
Taylor was ready for that.
“If it means seeing you twice a day, sweetheart, I’ll hold it up for the rest of the year.”
She stopped, and smiled up at him; she had a pert little face and shiny, smiling black eyes.
“Proper Don Jewan, that’s what you’re getting,” she retorted. “It’s a pity you have to waste your time, I wouldn’t mind treating you to the palais.”
“We’ll go dancing some other time.”
“Don’t exert yourself,” she said. “Seriously, Syd, why don’t you give this lark up? The Slob’s not over there, he ducked long ago. You’re making a mistake, honest you are. I didn’t think you chaps at the Yard had so much time to waste.”
“Now go on and remind me that it’s really the taxpayer’s money we’re spending, such as yours,” said Taylor. A motor cycle was coming along the street, scorching, with a rider and a pillion passenger; he glanced at it, but did not recognise either of the youths on it; they were not in the Slob’s circle as far as he knew. He looked back at the girl. “How much did he drop you to try and make me take a walk?”
“I’m not on his side, I’m just an innocent bystander,” she declared promptly. “I just don’t like to think of you wasting your time. He went a couple of days ago, when one of those stooges of yours was on duty.”
Taylor wondered, a little uneasily, whether she knew what she was talking about. Then he remembered the docker’s message, and decided that she was trying to put him off his guard. She might have succeeded but for the tip he’d just had.
“Care to make a statement?” he asked.
The motor cycle was almost level with him and the girl, now, but Taylor suspected nothing until, quite suddenly, she opened her painted mouth wide, and screamed. Taylor was taken completely unawares. She screamed again and then raised her plump, clenched fists and beat him about the face. He grabbed her wrists, to fend her off. He was just aware of the motor cycle stopping, and saw the two youths jump off, but the girl was giving him too much to think about; now she was clawing at his cheeks, and scratching him badly, and she was still screaming.
It was the oldest trick in the repertoire. Taylor felt desperate, knowing exactly what was coming next and was almost powerless to prevent it. If he could only get the girl off him, he would have a chance. It was amazing how difficult it was to be really rough with a woman, but he gripped her wrists at last, twisted, and sent her staggering back against the cafe window. He swung round towards the two youths, but they were very close, and one had a spanner raised head high.
There was only one hope – attack.
Taylor leapt at the man with the spanner, but as he did so, a man he did not see slipped out of the cafe and hooked his legs from under him. He fell heavily, and a boot smacked into his cheek.
He heard a car coming up.
Through a blur of tears of pain and blood from a cut over his eye he saw the car stop by the corner, knew exactly what was going to happen, made a tremendous effort to get to his feet, but was dragged down. As he fell, he felt those boots again; then an agonising pain stabbed through his head, and he knew that all the hatred that the Slob’s men had stored up for him was pouring out.
He tried to cover up.
Not a sound escaped his lips.
It was all over in two minutes.
Micky the Slob was moving off in the car, the motorcyclists were on their way, the six or seven other men who had come from round the corner were dispersing, the girl had disappeared.
Taylor lay in a crumpled heap, very still, and the first to approach him was the woman who ran the cafe; she sent one of her children to fetch the police.
4
GIDEON’S KATE
Gideon wondered which of his children still living at home would be in, and how long it would be before he could have half an hour alone with Kate. These light evenings, there was a good chance that she would be alone. She would certainly be in, and ready for him; she had a genius for always looking bright and fresh when he arrived, whether it was five o’clock on a rare early home-coming, or ten or eleven, which happened once or twice most weeks. He did not expect to be called out tonight, but parked his car outside the terraced house in Hurlingham, near the Thames, which he had moved into when he and Kate had first married.
It looked attractive, for the red brick had been pointed last autumn, and this spring the painters had made quite a job of the woodwork; black and white, on Kate’s request. The windows shone, as if Kate had cleaned them herself. The tiled porch, made of large mosaic, had a polished look, too. It was an old but comfortable house, and now had everything he wanted
.
He slid his key into the lock, and stepped inside; there was a faint sound of radio music – unless it was the television. He hung his hat on the hallstand, where the children’s clothes should be; only one or two school hats hung there, so the indications were that they were all out. The living-room was at the back of the house, approached by the passage which ran alongside the staircase, and the door was ajar. He opened it quietly. Kate was sitting in an easy chair, some men’s socks on her lap, a needlework basket by her side, watching the seventeen-inch television; a coloured soprano began to sing, clear, pure notes.
“Not bad, is she?” asked Gideon.
Kate started, and turned her head. “Oh, you fool, you made me jump.”
“Sorry, dear.” He went forward and kissed her on the forehead. He hoped that there wasn’t a programme which she was intent on seeing, he did not want to turn off the set deliberately, and would much rather be casual about what he had to do. “Don’t get up, there’s no hurry for five minutes.”
“I’ll just see this,” Kate said. “It’ll be over by half past. Had a good day?”
Gideon didn’t answer.
Kate looked at him sharply, but he was watching the singer, while squatting on the edge of the big table. The room was large and narrow, and there was an assortment of easy chairs, one for every member of the family. Leading off it was the kitchen, where the family had breakfast and supper, often only one or two eating at a time.
When Kate turned back to the screen, Gideon studied her. She looked fine, with her good, healthy colouring, and a rather dominating nose. Her black hair was turning grey at the sides, and was very thick; it was a little greasy now. Her hands, still for once, although the needle was between her fingers, were long and not really rough with housework. There had been a time when she had not been able to afford much help even in the mornings, but now they had a regular daily, and their two elder daughters did a share of the evening chores.
The coloured singer stopped, curtsied, smiled. Kate leaned forward, switched off the set, and said:
“What did you have for lunch?”
“Couple of sandwiches.”
“I thought as much,” Kate said. “It’s time you realised that you ought to have a good meal at midday, George, you’re too old to manage on sandwiches. I’ve a steak that won’t take long, though. Come and help me cook it.”
Just right.
“Be with you in a minute,” Gideon said.
He went upstairs, washed, ran a comb through his own iron-grey hair, and looked at himself in the mirror. No one could deny that his was a strong face. He fingered his jowl, which was thickening, and gave a wry kind of grin. “Now for it,” he said aloud, and went briskly down the stairs. When he reached the kitchen the steak was beginning to spit under the grill, and fat was bubbling in a saucepan, a basket of uncooked chips was waiting to go in. “Looks good,” said Gideon. “All the others had supper?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll lay it here, then.” There was a small table with red formica top, and Gideon put out knives, forks and plates, fetched the bread and the butter, and finished as Kate dumped the chips into the boiling fat; there was a great hissing and a cloud of smoke. She backed away, then took the steak out, and basted it.
“I can open a tin of peas,” she said.
“Never mind the peas,” Gideon pulled out a kitchen chair which looked hardly big enough for him, and sat down, leaning one elbow against the table. “Feel like a confessional?”
“Now what have you been up to?” Kate looked at him intently, and he realised that she had sensed his mood almost as soon as he had come in.
He spoke very quietly.
“I’m not quite sure what the consequences will be, but I may get a kick in the pants. Downwards,” he added, and then told her quietly, and his matter-of-fact manner gave the story an added vividness. Kate watched him most of the time, twice took the steak from the grill and turned it, without interrupting, and he was not quite sure of the story’s effect on her when he finished: “It’s funny in a way. The only hope I’ve got of proving my argument is to work like the devil to prepare it, and I’ve hardly time to turn round as it is.”
Kate said: “If they could be such fools as to accept your resignation, you’d be better off at a Division, George. But they won’t.”
“Wish I could be so sure.”
“Well, I’m sure, and in any case, someone had to say it,” Kate declared, and suddenly he was at ease again. She stabbed a chip with a fork, nipped it between her fingers, shook her hand and went on: “They need another two or three minutes. I don’t know how many of the others work like you do, but you do twice as much as you should, and if you go on much longer you’ll really overdo it. You’ve only got to get blood pressure, or get that backache trouble again, and you’ll have to slacken off.” She flashed a smile at him, and the smile did as much as her words to bring a mood of deep satisfaction; he should have been more sure of her. “You want to let me go and talk to the Commissioner, or better still, start a campaign among the neglected wives. How’s that for an idea? “
They laughed.
“I’m half serious,” Kate said, as she drained the fat off the chips into a big saucepan. “Take the steak out, and cut a piece off for me. I don’t want too much, I had a good lunch.”
“You mean you’re afraid of getting fat?”
She looked at his waistline.
“Well, you aren’t, you’re two inches too much round there already.” Between them they dished up and sat down, before Kate went on: “I shouldn’t even begin to worry, George, especially with Rogerson going. They can’t risk losing the Assistant Commissioner and the Commander at the same time. Did you want the AC’s job?”
“Want me to want it? It’s worth another thousand a year.”
“No, I don’t,” Kate answered, flatly. “I think it would be a mistake. Even now you grumble because you’ve so much administration to do, and can’t give enough thought to the investigation side. If you took that job over it would be mostly administration. I’m not sure you’d get along too well with the other ACs either. They’d be nice enough, but you would probably feel like a fish out of water, and hate it because of the social differences. You may not realise it, George, but beneath that horny old hide of yours you’re as sensitive as Prudence.” Prudence was their eldest daughter. “Now, eat it while it’s hot.”
Gideon thought: ‘Well, I couldn’t have hoped for anything better.’ Kate was making quite sure that he felt like that, of course; and probably they wouldn’t be so silent after all; she might have some suggestions which would be worth following up.
The steak was just right; not too tender, just the thing to get his teeth into.
They had started to clear away when the telephone bell rang. One instrument was in the living-room, another in the hall, a third extension was in Gideon’s bedroom. Gideon went into the living-room. This might be for one of the children, but there was always the possibility that it would be from the Yard; and if it were, it would mean an emergency.
“Gideon . . .”
“What?” he cried, and it was not often he raised his voice.
“All right,” he said a minute later. “I’ll come at once.” He rang off, but did not move away from the telephone. Instead, he stared at the open door leading to the kitchen, and Kate appeared, as if he had willed her to. He dialled another number, as she drew nearer, obviously affected by the look on his face. “I’m calling Rogerson,” he said. “Syd Taylor was beaten up about ten minutes ago, it looks as if he might not come round. I want to make sure that they get the best surgeon they can.”
Kate said, “Syd,” in a tone which told Gideon that she was thinking not only of Syd and his reputation, but also of his wife and his family.
The telephone was ringing: brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr.
He hoped Rogerson wouldn’t be out.
“Why don’t you let me tell him, and you hurry on,” Kate suggested.
�
��Good idea,” said Gideon. “Thanks, dear, I’ll get back as soon as I can, but I may be pretty late. I shouldn’t wait up.” He handed her the telephone, gave her a little squeeze, and went off.
Kate saw him take his hat off the peg in the hall, and saw him open the front door and go out. She knew that he had almost forgotten her, and knew how deeply he would feel about this crime.
She said aloud: “At least he had a good meal.”
Gideon knew the Yard by night almost as well as he knew it by day. There were fewer people about, most of the Civil Staff being home, but there was a greater sense of urgency and expectancy. Two Squad cars were waiting in the courtyard, ready to race off, some plain-clothes men were walking across to Cannon Row, with a handcuffed man between them. Gideon recognised an old lag, Larry Day, who must have done a job that evening and been picked up at once. It was still broad daylight, and most of the crimes were only in the minds of the men who were going to commit them; Gideon knew that almost every form of crime and vice was going to take place during the next twelve hours. It always did. That was the reason for his forthrightness and for his anxiety; this constant, bitter war. Unless you were in it day after clay and sometimes hour by hour, you did not realise how ceaseless it was, how dangerous and how deadly.
Deadly?
Whether Syd Taylor lived or died, whether murder was committed anywhere in London tonight, did not really matter. Murder was the crime that caught the attention and won the newspaper space; that and the big holdups, the sensational robberies; but they were only a fractional part of the war. If he wanted to be pompous he would say that crime was gnawing continually at the walls of society, and kept breaching those walls. It was impossible to estimate the number of criminals in London, but safe to say that they had doubled in fifteen years; far too many people committed first, second and even third crimes without being caught, and so emboldened themselves and others.
