Thugs and Economies (Gideon of Scotland Yard)

by John Creasey

  “You sure?” Ryman demanded.

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “Then stop yapping,” Ryman said, and his eyes seemed to dart to and fro as he read the story in the Globe. “Maybell was dead when they picked him up, I didn’t fall down on my part of it.” He was reading for something else, flung the paper aside and picked up another. “Anything there about Daw?”

  “No.”

  “Cartwright?”

  “No.”

  “That’s all that matters,” said Ryman. “They can’t get on to us anyhow; even if Si was still in the country they couldn’t get on to us, and they can’t get on to Si unless Daw or Cartwright is picked up.”

  Stone said: “You didn’t talk like that yesterday.”

  “I didn’t think we’d have Archer alive yesterday.”

  “What the hell difference does that make?” Stone stared into Ryman’s eyes, and began to scowl; and as Ryman glowered at him, Stone moistened his lips and said in a strange, almost whispering voice: “You don’t know what you’re doing, you’ve made a hell of a mess of this. I always knew you were too clever, and now—”

  He broke off.

  They stood glowering, the newspapers on a table between them. Helen came out of the bathroom, wearing a wrap which was painted with huge daffodils. She had on no makeup, her complexion was without a blemish, and a shower cap made her face a perfect oval.

  “What’s the matter with you two?” she demanded, looking from one to the other.

  Stone said: “He’s boxed the whole thing up.”

  “If you—” Ryman began.

  “Now, take it easy. Little birdies in their nest mustn’t disagree,” reproved Helen, and she went to Ryman and took his hand and smiled sweetly at Stone. “All you wanted to do was make that Gideon man and the police busy so that you could handle the bank job without much trouble. Right?”

  “Right,” agreed Ryman. “And that swine Gideon—”

  “I had just a peep at the newspapers and I should say the cops are going to be very busy,” Helen said. “So what are you worrying about? The only one who might be able to put a finger on you is Si Mitchell, and he’s in France. We’ve just got to keep our heads, and collect that baby; then we’ll be right on top. And I’m going to drive the kid away – no one will look twice, then. There’s no need for me to be at the bungalow.” She gave Ryman a little push, and asked: “Do you want me to get you cornflakes and milk, or shall we send down to the restaurant for a real breakfast? I’m hungry.”

  Three hundred yards away, Mrs Mountbaron was looking in at the nursery, where the baby gazed up at her, and then gave a quick, almost convulsive smile; its hands began to wave with sudden eagerness.

  Gideon read the newspapers as he ate a hurried breakfast, a little after nine o’clock; he had not reached home until four, and had had exactly four and a half hours’ sleep. Kate was the brisk and competent housewife; he could hear bacon sizzling. The reports of the attacks on the police did not greatly interest him, and he searched for mention of the two arrests, but found none. He had asked that no mention be made of the arrests and the newspapers were being helpful. There were diverse comments, including letters in two of the newspapers. One said:

  We are now finding out the bitter truth of the assertions made by Commander Gideon of Scotland Yard about the deplorable situation in the Metropolitan Police. Whether Commander Gideon was wise to make his statement so publicly is immaterial. The brutal fact is that the greatest police force in the world is in danger of being reduced to impotence . . .

  Gideon folded the newspaper, handed it to Kate as she put his breakfast in front of him, folded another paper to a column headed: Crisis at the Yard, and read:

  An axe can be a two-edged weapon. The economy axe which is being held like a sword of Gideon, if we may be allowed a metaphor, is most certainly two-edged where the Metropolitan Police Force is concerned. It may save the taxpayer a few hundred thousand pounds, but it will certainly cost him much more as a private citizen.

  Sooner or later, the brutal savagery of such crimes as those committed last night will bring this home to the authorities, who can hardly have forgotten the two weeks’ old murder of another detective who was carrying out his duty.

  Gideon read that between mouthfuls of sausage, bacon and egg, and saw that Kate had finished the other leading article. He put his newspaper down, and picked up his teacup. Kate had only done her hair roughly, and hadn’t made-up, but her eyes were as bright as ever.

  “I don’t know whether you’re going to win,” she said, “but I’m beginning to feel sure that you’re not going to lose.”

  She was just about on the mark, Gideon thought, hopefully. He picked up the receiver of the downstairs telephone, asked for the Yard, and inquired about David Archer. “No change,” he called out to Kate. “I’ll try not to be late, dear.” He hurried out to his car, passing two neighbours on the way, each anxious to stop and have a word, each making a point of using the title Commander. He drove more quickly now than he had during the night. The Yard was a different picture altogether; dozens of men were on the move, there was much briskness and bustle – not really unusual, but not quite typical. He caught the prevailing excitement, which stimulated him as it would nearly every man here. He hurried to the lift, eager to find if there was anything new in. Men saluted, nodded, smiled, and called out greetings. He thrust open the door of his own office, and four men glanced round at him.

  Bell was there, looking chubby and very bright-eyed; Sergeant Culverson was big and rather like a good-natured bear. Lemaitre hadn’t gone home, but looked as if he could fall asleep on his feet.

  And Scott-Marie was standing with his back to the window: it was the first time Gideon had ever seen him in this office.

  “Good morning, sir. ‘Morning all.” Gideon hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry that the Old Man was present; it might stifle informality. But it did not seem to have affected the others yet, and Lemaitre said: “’Morning, George. Glad some people have got time to sleep.”

  A telephone bell rang, and Bell answered it.

  Gideon joined the Commissioner.

  “Anything I can do for you, sir?”

  “Came to see you, and found the others coping,” said Scott-Marie. He looked pale and thin-cheeked, was a little thin-voiced, too; judged from his appearance and manner now, he was a man without enthusiasm or strong feeling. “You don’t know that Superintendent Lemaitre discovered that this man Mitchell flew to Paris yesterday, did you?”

  “Sure?” Gideon flashed to Lemaitre.

  “No doubt about it this time,” Lemaitre said, with deep satisfaction. “A flash came in just after you left, didn’t think there was any need to keep you out of bed any longer. I happened to know that Lodwick’s in Paris on that currency job, he went over again yesterday morning, so I asked him to have a word with the Sûreté. They traced Mitchell for us, and Lodwick’s bringing him over. They’re due at London Airport at ten o’clock. That might be a call from the airport to say they’ve got in.”

  “Well, I think I’ll go back to bed,” Gideon said. “Things get done when I’m not here. Did Mitchell come willingly?”

  “Apparently. There was no time to get an extradition order, anyhow. Not much doubt about the facts now, George.” Lemaitre had the gift of being completely natural, whatever the circumstances. “Mitchell put Daw and Cartwright up to the jobs they did, and there isn’t much doubt they were to be framed for the attacks on our chaps.”

  “I’d like to know what’s behind it,” Gideon said. He felt a little out of place, without having his chair to go to, and with Scott-Marie also standing. “No point in anyone without a grudge wanting to kill a couple of our fellows for the sake of it, and you can be sure there’s a pretty big reason for it.” He rubbed his chin. Bell had finished on the telephone, and was making a note; so it wasn’t very important, just the inevitable reports coming in. “Been thinking about that since I got up,” Gideon said to Scott-Ma
rie. “It was pretty obvious that there was a big motive. Only one thing I can think of.”

  “Damned if I can think of one,” interpolated Lemaitre.

  Bell asked: “Have you got something?”

  Scott-Marie was looking at Gideon with a curiously intense smile; as if he was really stirred at last.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The idea is to draw us off,” said Gideon. “We’ve got to take the rough with the smooth, and some of the rough about the publicity I’ve been getting is that everyone knows how tight we’re stretched. Wouldn’t put it past someone to toss a couple of smoke bombs, metaphorically speaking, so as to get us on one foot. If that’s what’s happening, then biggish things might be planned. These chaps would be pretty sure that we’d be kept so busy today that it would seem the best time.” He turned to Scott-Marie. “You agree, sir?”

  “You’re the detective,” the Commissioner said. “It certainly makes sense to me.”

  “What’ve we got?” Lemaitre demanded, rubbing his eyes. “What happens Friday? Any bullion movement out to the docks or the airports? Any special movement of jewels? Any—”

  “Joe, get the file marked ‘Friday’ out of my right-hand drawer,” said Gideon. “No, never mind, I’ll get it.” He hurried across, and as Bell opened the drawer, took the necessary file out, slapped it on the desk, and opened it. “This was planned down to the last dot,” he said, “and that means they’re after something that happens every Friday, or else something we’ve had plenty of notice about for today.” He found that Scott-Marie had moved with him; all except Culverson, who was watching from the small desk, crowded round him. “Morely’s auction,” he read. “Movement of bullion to and from the Bank of England from these points.” He pointed with a pencil at a map. “Small consignments and all very strongly protected, I wouldn’t think anyone would have a cut at those. Geramino’s jewel auction is every Friday. The post office carries a lot of soiled notes from most of the provincial banks to the Bank of England, it’s clearance day. Hmm.” He stared at the details about the soiled notes. “If that’s it, the problem is to know where to start. There are four main collecting centres in the City, and all the money is sent out to the destruction plant in one van from the Bank of England. Always did think it should be destroyed at the Bank, but—”

  He broke off.

  “Can’t take anything for granted, but I wouldn’t mind putting my money on a used notes job,” Lemaitre said softly. “Hasn’t been tried for five or six years. Up to a hundred thousand quid for the taking. What are you going to do, George?”

  Bell and the others were asking the same question, silently.

  Gideon said: “I’m going to draw a dozen men from each of the Divisions which can spare them, and protect all the banks concerned in this. And I’m going to have a special guard on all the other vulnerable places, like Morely’s, Geramino’s, the main post offices and the big banks. If they raid a bank or go for any of these places and we haven’t taken precautions, we’d kick ourselves.” He had almost forgotten that the Commissioner was present. “Wonder if Mitchell’s on his way yet.”

  The telephone bell rang almost on his words; the sergeant lifted the receiver, and a moment later said: “Yes, sir, he’s just leaving London Airport. Should be here in half an hour, and if he knows anything—” he broke off. “Mr Lodwick and Mr Chappel are with him.”

  “Thanks,” said Gideon, and dropped into the chair which Bell had vacated, picked up another telephone and said: “Gimme Information.” He waited only for a moment. “Vic, connect me with the car Lodwick and Chappel are in, somewhere out at London Airport . . . yes, I’ll hold on.” He looked into Scott-Marie’s eyes now. “If Mitchell’s come willingly he might have decided to turn Queen’s evidence, no reason why he shouldn’t be questioned on the way here . . . Hallo, that you, Chappel? . . . Lodwick, yes, you’ll do. Now try to find out from Mitchell . . .”

  “Don’t think I’m nagging,” Mrs Mountbaron said, “but do be careful crossing Park Lane, Nanny. I always hold my breath while I see you cross, the cars come so fast.”

  “Clarissa won’t come to any harm with me,” the girl assured her, and smiled. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’d rather get run over myself.”

  “I really think you would,” said Mrs Mountbaron. She bent down, kissed Clarissa’s forehead, and then opened the door to the passage. The Nanny pushed the perambulator out into the passage and along towards the lift. Mrs Mountbaron busied herself for three or four minutes and then, unable to keep away, she went to the window; Nanny should be downstairs by now.

  Helen sat in the small saloon car, near the side street along which the nursemaid would come. The car was grey, there were thousands of identical models in London, and the registration number plates would change at the touch of a switch. The rear door was already open an inch, it had only to be given a single pull to open it wide. Stone was standing near the corner, and Ryman was in his own car on the other side of the street.

  The nursemaid came wheeling her charge in a pink and white perambulator with a pink and white hood, to keep the sun out of its eyes. The nursemaid, rather thin and not particularly attractive, was pushing the pram steadily and bending forward, making chuckling noises at the child. She did not notice Stone at the corner, although he was only ten yards away. She did not see the car as it started off noisily; and suddenly she stopped pushing, for the car came straight across the road towards her, and for a moment it looked as if it would mount the pavement.

  “. . . fool!” she snapped. “Why don’t you—”

  She broke off, as the car stopped. The driver, with an eye-mask covering the top of his face, sprang out of it so swiftly that she had no time to shout. He struck her viciously on the back of the head. As he did so, she was just aware of another man racing from the corner.

  She tried to scream.

  She felt another sharp blow, and staggered, letting the pram go and gasping for breath, terror deep in her.

  She did not see the man snatch the baby from the perambulator and go racing to the corner, carrying it as he would a rugby football. She was collapsing as the car drove off. She did not hear the second car, round the corner, as it started towards Park Lane, with the baby lying on the back seat, looking up at its own pink fingers.

  Stone squeezed into Ryman’s car while it was moving. He saw a man some distance away, and a taxi approaching the main entrance to the block of flats; that was all.

  “We’ve done it,” Ryman said, in a hoarse voice. “What did I tell you, we’ve done it. All we’ve got to do is go back to my place, treat ourselves to a drink, and then get ready for the afternoon job. Helen will give us a ring when she gets to the cottage.” He was grinning excitedly as he swung round the next two corners, and drew up quite near the block where he had his own flat. He and Stone had been away for twenty minutes in all; it was as easy as that. He parked the car, and went striding along, shoulders back, handsome and devil-may-care looking, with Stone less assured by his side. As they turned into the main entrance, a car moved behind them, and two big men stepped from the entrance lobby.

  There was a moment’s horrified pause, then: “The police,” Stone gasped.

  “Keep your head,” Ryman said savagely, and he managed to keep up a semblance of a smile. “Want me?” he asked the nearer man.

  “Are you Keith Ryman?”

  “I am. What business is it—?”

  “I am a police officer, and it is my duty to charge you with complicity in the murder of Police Sergeant Herbert Maybell on the night of . . .” the man began.

  Ryman swung round.

  Stone was standing absolutely still, a little polished dummy of a man. Two more cars had drawn up, there was a ring of policemen and detectives; and neither Ryman nor Stone even had a chance to run.

  There was Mrs Mountbaron, panic-stricken; the nursemaid in an ambulance on the way to hospital; the police, watching every danger-point of Gideon’s Friday list. There was Helen driving the
little Austin along towards Barnes, snatching a glance over her shoulder every time she was forced to stop at lights, to see that the child was all right. She reached the riverside cottage in three-quarters of an hour, quite sure she was safe. But as she drew up, men appeared at the sides of the cottage and others appeared from the far side of the road. Before she could utter a word, the car was surrounded.

  “Child safe and unhurt,” Gideon said, rubbing his empty pipe with his big thumb. “Both men and the woman in the lock-up.” He used terms like ‘lock-up’ when he was in an expansive mood. “Stone’s ready to talk, like Mitchell; it looks as if the only really dangerous man was Ryman. Neither he nor Stone has a record. It’s time we put that right.”

  The Commissioner, now with Gideon in the Assistant Commissioner’s office, was looking at him with his head on one side, and that almost unwilling smile on his lips.

  “You forget that Stone informed us that the soiled Treasury note van was the key objective.”

  “I didn’t forget,” said Gideon, and looked at the Commissioner thoughtfully, then went on: “Mind if I say something blunt?” Scott-Marie nodded. “Whenever we get wind of something like today’s job, we’re on a sound thing. We’ve got every trick any crook ever tried down on our list, and I’m lucky, because I’ve got a good memory. I know most of them by heart. But I’m only one of hundreds, the job starts down on the beat. Every man in uniform knows the weaknesses and the strength of people of his own streets. He knows the householders who always leave windows open, the people who leave keys dangling on a piece of string at the letterbox, the people who leave a key under the front-door mat, the shopkeeper who hasn’t troubled to buy a safe – he knows the lot. He has to. And what he knows is passed on to the CID in his Division. They all know the most vulnerable houses and shops worth breaking into, the men in their manor most likely to do a certain job. It goes up from them to the Divisional DDIs and upwards. Our chaps know the Metropolitan area so well no one would believe it if they didn’t have the evidence before their eyes. I just happen to be at the top of all the Divisions, but I came up through all the others. The general knowledge, the tricks, the—the expertise of these chaps is the nearest thing to a living miracle I’ll ever see.”