by John Creasey
“Morning, George! Bit of all right, getting a day like this today instead of yesterday.” He took his hat off. “Ought to nip along to the cloakroom with these. What do you think of the Tottenham job?”
“What job?”
“Haven’t you heard? Busted a bank during the night, got away with forty thousand nicker. I looked in on my way here, that’s why I’m late. Clean as a whistle. Looks like a Snider job to me.”
“He can’t be in two places at once,” said Gideon.
“Eh?”
“Nielsen’s booked him.”
“Well, how about that?” rejoiced Lemaitre. “Bit of smart work that was, George, even though I do say it myself.” He opened the door. “Old Uncle Charley at Tottenham’s had quite a night. There was a break-in at a jeweller’s in Edmonton High Street, the thieves got away with about seven hundred quids’ worth of loot - including six Rite-Time watches. How about that?”
Lemaitre ducked out.
Gideon made a note on the report about the report from MX Division, which was in the north of London. These American watches had now been found in three places, which suggested general distribution. He went to the files and took out one dealing with this: it contained a photostat copy of the request for information from Nielsen back in March, and details and descriptions of the watches and the factory in Buffalo, New York, from which they had been stolen. The inquiry had been handled on this side by Superintendent MacPherson, a Scotsman fairly new in seniority and who had been promoted very rapidly; he had had the breaks, and Gideon believed that a lucky man should be given every chance to play his luck. MacPherson had reported after two weeks. “No Rite Time watches appear to be on the British market.” Two weeks later he had sent in a similar report. A month had passed before a laconic note had come in: “Rite-Time still negative.” The last time the Scotsman had put in a negative report was two weeks ago, just before he had gone on holiday.
Lemaitre came in, dry, spruce, smiling.
“When’s MacPherson due back?” Gideon asked.
“Next Monday.”
“By then he should have quite a file waiting for him on Rite-Times,” Gideon said. “Who’s waiting?”
“Dog’s Collar.”
“No one else?”
“Not yet.”
“Anything reached you about Mayhew alias Mason?”
“Nope,” answered Lemaitre. He seemed just to prevent himself from adding ‘Not likely to, either.’
“Want Parsons in?”
“Yes,” said Gideon.
Parsons came in, wearing his almost habitual clerical grey. His forehead was puckered, but he gave Gideon a quick smile and raised a hand to Lemaitre.
“Sit down, Vic,” Gideon said.
“Thanks.” Parsons sat on the arm of a green leather chair. He took it for granted that Gideon would be au fait with the situation. “Can you see any objection to letting Mrs. Lucci have her husband’s body flown home tomorrow?”
“Not if you can’t.”
“The autopsy was positive. We don’t need the body even if we do find enough for a murder charge. The woman looked like death when she left for Milan last night. Mancelli was going with her, but changed his mind for some reason. I’ve seen Percival White,” added Parsons. “He came straight back to London when he heard Mrs. Lucci was here, and they had a session together - not very friendly, I’d say. I saw White immediately afterwards, and he was properly on edge. The whole case bothers me, George.”
“Any particular reason?” asked Gideon. “At first sight I thought White might have murdered Lucci so as to be able to blame him when the case broke. He hasn’t blamed him for anything, only the managers have. They could be lying to try to save their own skins, but the thing which gets under my skin is that White seems genuinely shocked and surprised. George–” Parsons was pressing the tips of his fingers together.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to go to Milan.”
Lemaitre glanced up and asked:
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Now?” asked Gideon. He began to think about other cases related to northern Italy which might justify a visit there, while he waited for Parsons to answer.
“Yes,” Parsons said.
“For the funeral?”
Parsons wrinkled his forehead again.
“Right in one,” he confirmed. “And I’d like a word with the Milan police, tell ‘em exactly what happened, and find out what they can tell us about Lucci’s local reputation and activities. I’ve been doing my damnedest to think up a good supporting reason for going, but I can’t. Mind you, we go good and hard for Italians in Soho, and once or twice I think the Milan chaps have resented it. This could be the time for a bit of rapprochement.”
“Backslapping, you mean,” interpolated Lemaitre.
Parsons was looking hard into Gideon’s eyes, ignoring the second-in-command, who rolled his eyes resignedly and turned back to his desk.
Gideon said: “All right, Vic. Authorize the removal of the body, and fly to Milan. Handle it as a public relations job. Take the attitude that we’re all worried about the murder of a man we now believe to have been innocent. Don’t be more than three or four days. How about some travelling money?”
“If you’ll okay the chits when I get back I’ll draw on my own account,” Parsons said. He was already on his feet, looking like a highly gratified cherub. “Thanks, George!”
“Give my regards to Nocci and Angelo,” Gideon said.
Parsons nodded from the door. Lemaitre waited for it to close, then blew his cheeks out like a balloon, leaned back, exuded a long, slow breath, and said: “Your week to play Santa Claus, George?”
Gideon felt a flash of annoyance. What did Lemaitre think? That he’d been sent to Southampton and Parsons was going to Milan solely for the good of their health? He saw Lemaitre’s grin fade and knew that he had realized his gaffe. So he should. The good mood inspired by the news from New York had passed, but before either man had time to speak two telephones rang on Gideon’s desk simultaneously - the internal and the outside line. He lifted the outside one, and grunted, “Hold on.” He picked up the nearest telephone. “Gideon.”
“Hallo, George.” The voice was that of Ray Fox, the Deputy Commissioner of the Uniformed Branch. “Doesn’t sound the right moment to ask you a favour.”
Gideon forced a laugh.
“Try me.”
“Will you present the prizes at the Annual Sports Day next month?” asked Fox. “The Commissioner can’t get there, and if we pick any one of the Assistant Commissioners we’re bound to cause mortal offence.”
“How about the other commanders?”
“That’s easy. You’re senior.”
“If you really want me, count me in,” Gideon said.
“You’re in,” declared Fox, sounding not only pleased but elated.
The invitation was gratifying, for Sports Day was one for wives; Kate would love it. Gideon was back in a better humour when he picked up the second telephone.
“Gideon.”
“Commander Gideon?” The voice was American, but with a curious overtone of Cockney.
“Yes.”
“Risen in the world, Gee-Gee, haven’t you?” the man said.
“Who’s that speaking?”
There was a pause; then: “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr. Gideon. As a matter of fact I wondered if you could spare me half an hour some time. I expect you’ll remember me. My name’s Quincy Lee.”
By the time Lee had announced himself, Gideon had realized who the caller was; and he had to smother a laugh.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. “Give yourself up?”
“Always one for a joke, weren’t you?” Quincy Lee retorted. “You wouldn’t hold anything against me for a quarter of a century, even if I’d done anything I shouldn’t - which of course I never did. Don’t mind me calling you, do you?”
“Glad to hear from you,” Gideon said. “I was told you were in town.”
Gideon chuckled. “Tonight suit you?”
“Just name the place.”
‘The pub in Cannon Row?”
“Now show a bit of imagination, Gee-Gee,” protested Quincy. “That place has unpleasant associations for me.”
“I daresay,” Gideon conceded, and then suddenly realized the obvious thing to do. “How about coming to my place in Fulham, Quincy? Eight o’clock, say. We’ll have more time.”
“Now that’s a real gent speaking.” Quincy, like Fox, was delighted. “I’ll be there. Same place?”
“Same place.”
“Eight o’clock on the dot,” said Quincy. “See you.”
As he rang off Gideon saw Lemaitre’s expression before his assistant averted his face. But for the flash of annoyance Gideon had shown a few minutes ago, Lemaitre would have made some crack. Instead, he tried to pretend he had heard nothing.
“Lem, how about coming to my place tonight and having a drink with Quincy Lee and Santa Claus?” Gideon invited.
It was Lemaitre’s turn to sound as pleased as Punch.
“Tell you what, George - Quincy might be able to tell us something about the man Schumacher,” he said later. “There were a hell of a lot of crooks on that ship.”
“Yes. What’s in about Schumacher?” Gideon was suddenly acutely conscious of the fact that he had not given the American much thought. “I had a word with Central,” Lemaitre told him. “Schumacher and the Hendersons are as close as two fingers, but I don’t see what we can gain by having Schumacher watched. If he finds a way of robbing or defrauding Henderson, we know who to go for. We can keep tabs on him if he moves from the Bingham, but I can’t see any point in having him followed. All he’s done so far is show Nina Pallon the sights of London.”
Gideon deliberated; and then he made a mistake he was going to regret very, very much.
“All right,” he said. “Get the hotel detective to let Division know when he leaves and when he comes back.”
‘That ought to be plenty for Schumacher,” Lemaitre said with deep satisfaction.
8: Three in Danger
Nina Pallon had not been particularly pleased that morning, believing the rain would spoil sightseeing, but soon after breakfast in the suite, Schumacher had telephoned.
“I think this is a day for the picture galleries and maybe some museums,” he had suggested. “Would you like that?”
Nina hadn’t felt sure.
“Why don’t you tell him you’ll call back?” her mother had advised. When she had done so, Felisa had added: “Would you like to come shopping with me, honey? I’d love to have you along.”
“I’m not sure that would improve her education,” Henderson had said dryly. “Which would you prefer to do, Nina?” He would prefer her to go to the exhibitions, but didn’t say so; he was going as a prospective buyer to Sotheby’s, where there were two sixteenth-century Dutch collections for sale, and for that he wanted to be alone.
Nina dithered. She knew what a day in the salons with her mother would be; fun for an hour, boredom after that, although Felisa’s enthusiasm would last all day - all week, for that matter.
“I think I’ll go and see the art galleries,” she decided. “Dad do you think there is any modern art in London?”
Henderson laughed.
“Picasso fetches better prices here than in New York.”
Nina’s dark eyes brightened. “That sounds wonderful”
“That’s wonderful!” said Abel Schumacher when she called his room. “Shall I come up for you or meet you in the lobby?
“I’ll be in the lobby in fifteen minutes,” Nina promised.
When she met him, she thought it was a shame to make him go out, he looked so tired. But apparently he knew the London art galleries well, and took her straight to the Tate, where there was an exhibition of paintings by Ritschl and abstracts by Baziotes. It enthralled her.
“You certainly like the abstracts,” Abel remarked.
The form and the colour certainly get me,” Nina said. “You obviously know a lot about them. Don’t you like them?”
“I can have too many,” Schumacher said. “Would you like to see some by up-and-coming Continental impressionists who haven’t reached big exhibition stage yet? You’ll like the colouring if nothing else.”
“It sounds interesting,” Nina said. “Surely.”
“How far is it to walk?”
“Twenty minutes, I guess.”
“Let’s walk,” decided Nina.
The drizzle had slackened by the time they left the Tate Gallery. It was almost impossible to see across the Thames, and tugs hooted, as if smothering London in melancholy doom. At least a dozen people were waiting for taxis, and a policeman was controlling the traffic. Nina was glad they had decided to walk. She went with a spring, hardly aware of the fact that Schumacher had difficulty in keeping up.
Soon, they approached a small shop in a narrow street in a part of London which seemed as depressing and grey as the weather. A milkman with an electric float was a little way along, and an elderly man was approaching from some distance off.
Half a dozen indifferent impressionist paintings were in the shop window. Schumacher smiled at Nina’s expression.
“They’re better inside.”
“Is this the place?”
“There’s a big shed at the back - an old studio turned into a gallery,” Schumacher told her. He opened the shop door, and a bell clanged. They went into a shop smelling of oils and paints; more indifferent abstracts and a few third rate impressionist paintings hung on the walls. The street door closed. A girl about Nina’s build, a little taller and with a fuller figure but with the same kind of glossy dark hair which fell to her shoulders, came out of a back room.
“All ready?” asked Schumacher.
That seemed to Nina a strange question to ask, and it puzzled her. The girl’s answer puzzled her even more.
“You’re late.”
“A few minutes won’t make any difference,” Schumacher said.
Nina hadn’t the faintest idea why, but quite suddenly she felt scared; perhaps it was the way the other girl looked at her - almost as if she was frightened, too. Nina turned to Schumacher.
“Isn’t the exhibition open all the time?”
“Why, sure.”
“I don’t understand,” Nina said. “Why does it matter what time we arrive, then?”
“It doesn’t matter at all.” Schumacher took Nina’s arm. “Lucy’s talking nonsense.” He thrust Nina toward the inner door through which the other girl had come.
Nina pulled herself free.
“Please don’t do that.” She stood outside the door, looking from Lucy to Schumacher; in those few seconds she felt dreadfully sure that something was wrong. Schumacher’s eyelids no longer drooped and his light-grey eyes seemed almost sinister. “I don’t think I want to see this exhibition. I’ve a headache, and I would rather go–”
Schumacher’s left hand dropped to her arm, twisted, and thrust her forward. She screamed - a cry of sheer panic, not of pain. Schumacher swung his right arm and clapped his hand across her mouth so savagely that her lips were bruised against her teeth and tears of pain nearly blinded her. There was only terror in her mind.
Two people in Gulliver Street, Chelsea, heard the scream. One was an elderly man, walking at leisure, who had paused to glance at the paintings. The other was a young milk roundsman a few yards ahead. They stared at each other, and then at the shop.
“Did you hear that?” the elderly man asked. “Heard something,” said the milk roundsman. “Dunno what it was, though.”
Then a woman came hurrying from a doorway, calling him shrilly, and he grinned.
“Sounded a bit like her.” He went toward the woman, a crate of milk bottles rattling in his hand.
T
he older man stared at the curtain behind the paintings, which cut off the inside of the shop. Then he walked on.
Nina Pallon still felt absolute terror.
There was pain at her mouth and pain at her arm, and tears stung her eyes. There was the awful realization that some dreadful thing was happening to her. There was the violence with which Schumacher hurtled her into the room beyond, while keeping his hand over her mouth.
There was another man inside.
“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded.
“Where’s the needle?”
“If she screams again–”
“Give me that needle!”
Nina kicked wildly, caught Schumacher on the shin and heard him gasp with pain. Another voice sounded suddenly: Lucy’s.
“There’s a man outside.”
“The little bitch!” Schumacher rasped.
“Quiet!”
Nina struggled wildly, fear giving her strength. Suddenly Schumacher snatched his hands away, only to fling his arms round her, one at the waist, one at her breasts, hurting terribly. He squeezed. He seemed to mean to squeeze the life out of her. She could no longer struggle or kick, she could hardly breathe. She was aware of the man in front of her. His hands moved, something glistened.
The needle!
In her brain, Nina screamed, “No, no, no!” but no sound came from her bruised and swelling lips.
The girl muttered, “He’s gone.”
“Take her arm.”
“Can’t you—”
“Take her arm!”
Nina was half-fainting, only just aware of all that was going on, yet sufficiently aware for terror to reach a new peak. The girl pulled her arm straight and pushed up the loose sleeve of her sweater, the glittering thing sparkled, sharp pain stabbed in the crook of her arm.
Darkness came upon her, quickly dulling pain and fear. She did not know she was lowered to a couch, and her scarlet skirt and loose-fitting black sweater were pulled off. She looked so tiny in bra and lacy panties. Neither man seemed to look twice at her. They lifted her, one holding her feet, one holding her shoulders, and placed her into a coffin-shaped black chest. She did not know that the lid was closed on her, and secured with a padlock.
