by John Creasey
“She’s nice and jumpy, anyway. And we’ll pick ‘em up at Piccadilly tonight if Gee-Gee gives the word.”
“Why wouldn’t he give the word?” asked the professor, who had verified that the girl’s voice was the same as that they had heard before.
“Depends whether we’ve found Nina,” Lemaitre said.
Five minutes afterward Gideon’s telephone rang; it was Elliott Henderson.
Two things happened within minutes of each other, near the time that Gideon was talking to Henderson about Schumacher and the ransom.
Quincy Lee, who was staying with his only sister in a little house in Bethnal Green, opened the front door to a sharp knock and was surprised to see Maggie Barnett on the doorstep.
“Well, what a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “Come in, Maggie.”
“I’m coming in all right. I want a word with you,” said Maggie ominously.
Quincy, puzzled but unperturbed, took her into the front parlour and called out to tell his sister he wouldn’t be long. The aroma of rich beef stew filled the house.
“Now, what’s on your mind?” he demanded.
“I want an honest answer to an honest question,” Maggie said. She looked aggressive and sturdy as she stared at Quincy. “Are you or are you not doing a deal with my husband?”
Quincy looked her straight in the eyes.
“No,” he said, “I am not. Nothing would make me, Maggie. My nose has been clean for twenty years. I told Barney so flat - it’s no use.”
Maggie, still half-frowning, sounded puzzled.
“It’s a funny thing,” she said. “Ever since he heard you were home, he’s been acting Mr. Bighead. Has he said anything to you?”
Quincy answered quietly. “You know what it is, Maggie, don’t you? He wants to prove how smart he is, how easily he can look after the both of you.”
“I’d like to see him!” She gave an explosive and rather happy little laugh. “Well, that’s all right, then.” Suddenly she asked, “He hasn’t borrowed any money from you, has he?”
“He knows he’d be wasting his time,” Quincy answered. “Is he flush or something?”
“He said he was going to get my portrait painted by old Facey, and went on about Facey doing a job for an American. I don’t think he knows any Americans. He said anything to you about it?”
“No,” answered Quincy.
He went round to the nearest pub for an hour before lunch, and a divisional plainclothes man, off duty, was already there. The treatment meted out to Quincy had a prodigal-son savour. In return for a beer he told the story of Barney’s longing to have his wife’s picture painted, and the divisional man, aware of the call out for a painter, asked what artist he had in mind. Two or three other customers joined in the laughter, and one remarked that old Facey hadn’t been around for a few days.
The divisional man thought this worth reporting.
His divisional C.O. thought it worth telephoning Gideon; he settled for Lemaitre.
About the same time, the retired police constable who kept the newsagent’s and tobacconist’s shop opposite the now empty art shop suddenly remembered where he had seen one of the men who had been in the art shop lately; it had been in Petticoat Lane, Aldgate, doing lightning portraits for ten shillings a time. Immediately, the ex-P.C. telephoned the divisional station, and soon this information also reached Lemaitre, who checked with N.1. Division and made sure that Facey sometimes did lightning portraits - in Petticoat Lane among other places. Then Lemaitre put through a call to Gideon at the Faculty of British Industries’ office.
Gideon stepped into the impressive-looking office of the director of exports of the Faculty of British Industries and found three men there, not one. They all stood up. Fielding, who looked as if he was about to step before a television camera as a favourite uncle, shook hands and said: “My chairman and vice-chairman wouldn’t allow this occasion to pass without meeting you, Commander Gideon.” The chairman was vaguely like the Duke of Wellington of a hundred fifty years ago, the vice-chairman was a bronzed and youngish man, once a renowned cricketer. Gideon was used to the effect he - and any senior police official - had on other people; even the most sophisticated stood a little in awe. “Do sit down, Commander.”
“Plain ‘Mr.’ suits me,” said Gideon.
“But not your reputation,” replied the chairman. “What crimes have been committed in our name?”
“Before we find that out, there’s a call for Mr. Gideon - from a Mr. Lemaitre,” Fielding said.
Gideon thought with a rush of elation touched with dread: They’ve found her. He could not imagine Lemaitre interrupting this session with lesser news. He took a telephone, held on for what seemed a long time, then heard Lemaitre’s voice. The subdued tone of his “Sorry to worry you, George,” drove all elation away, and Gideon steeled himself against bad news. “Henderson’s just been on the blower. His missus did a deal with Schumacher, gave him what she called a down payment of thirty-five thousand quid, and . . .” Lemaitre related the whole story with a bluff downrightness which incidentally conveyed his opinion of Felisa Henderson. “We might be on to that artist, though.” He passed on a précis of the two reports, and went on with a brighter note in his voice: “Maybe Schumacher will be at Piccadilly Circus at six o’clock.”
Gideon said bleakly: ‘The girl will be, but he certainly won’t - he’s got what he’s after, he won’t take a second bite at the cherry. We’ve got to make sure he can’t get out of the country by air or sea. Arrange a watch on all airports, and–”
Lemaitre’s voice carried a squeak of protest. “But, George–”
“Have Piccadilly Underground Station watched too,” ordered Gideon. “Is anything else in?”
“Not a thing.”
“I’ll call before I leave here.” Gideon put the receiver down slowly, partly because he was so preoccupied with the news, partly because he needed a few seconds for the transition to the immediate business. For a moment or two his mind was a complete blank about it; then he thought: Ormeroyd, and the reason for his visit clicked into focus. He was aware of the three men watching him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I won’t waste any time with preliminaries, gentlemen, I’ll come straight to the point. In the course of investigation into suspected cases of sabotage of machinery we’ve come upon indications that a well-organized plan might be in operation, affecting exports to the United States. Cashmeres, biscuits, silks and shoes are among the commodities affected. We don’t know whether we’ve discovered all there is to it or whether we’ve only just touched the fringe. If it’s widespread it’s got to be stopped, quickly, and you’re the best people to help.”
He looked at each man in turn, and did not doubt that each was alarmed. The chairman even showed signs of positive consternation.
Fielding asked in a sharp voice, “Are you saying that this is an organized campaign?”
“I couldn’t prove it in court,” Gideon said. “I wouldn’t be here if the circumstantial evidence wasn’t pretty strong.” When no one spoke, he went on: “I’m hoping you can make a check among some of your members, get a sampling, say, of those who export to the U.S.A. And if you could get your exporting members to look out for indications of sabotage in machinery allocated to export orders, it might give us some answers.” He paused. “If it’s nothing much, we won’t do any harm. If it turns out to be big, we might save a lot of trouble.”
Their continued silence annoyed him. These people weren’t simpletons, so why should they behave as if they were?
“Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”
The chairman said gruffly, “Yes, indeed. Forewarned is forearmed.” He looked at Fielding. “You go on, Arthur, will you?”
Fielding smoothed down his thinning brown hair.
“Only yesterday we were told by the Society of British Industries that there were so many reports of damaged machinery and of damage to goods in transit to America that I suggested - half in jest - that it was almost like
sabotage. The incidence of damage is always far too high.”
Gideon was beginning to understand their attitude.
“How high?”
“Nearly ten percent,” Fielding answered.
“Where does it occur?”
“I should perhaps make it clear that we are an advisory board, with the scientific and technological development of an industry our main concern. In practice, of course, we are more than that - we are the eyes and the ears of British Industries, just as the Society might be called the limbs and the body. On these specific matters we have to be guided by our associate organization. From that, I gather that the loss occurs at any stage from the time it leaves the factory to the time it reaches the American port,” Fielding answered. “It’s spread pretty evenly over all kinds of consumer goods. We–”
“This is what we’ll do,” the chairman interrupted, until then he had given the impression that he wasn’t really listening. “We’ll telephone fifty companies in the London and Midland areas, and have a word with the chairman or the managing director - keeping it quiet, eh, Commander? Just a spot check. If there is sabotage at the factories on an organized scale, it shouldn’t be too much trouble to catch some of the saboteurs. Well, Commander? But before we took action, or asked you to, we’d have a quiet word with the union chiefs concerned. Associated Engineering Union, eh, Victor?”
Victor was the vice-chairman.
“And two or three others, yes. We can’t get this job done without them - as you well know, Commander. When should we get a cross section reaction? Tomorrow, eh, Victor?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Good. Commander, we’ll have a comprehensive picture by tomorrow - no, it’s Saturday; Monday satisfactory for you?” The chairman actually put a monocle to his left eye.
“Monday will suit us, my lord,” Gideon agreed.
“Good, good. Catching some saboteurs red-handed might be easier than tracing pilferage and sorting out deliberate from accidental damage on trains and ships. We’re most grateful to you. Eh, Victor?”
“Very.”
“Arthur?”
“We certainly are.”
“You’ll keep in closest touch with the Commander, won’t you?”
“I will indeed,” Fielding said crisply. “Can we call on you for help at short notice, Mr. Gideon?”
There was only one possible answer. “Yes. The more you’ve got for us to go on the better.”
“Oh, of course. Better for us to find out as much as we can first; anyhow.”
Ten minutes later Gideon left the building. He had not forgotten that he had promised to call Lemaitre, but preferred to do it from his car radio.
“Excuse me, sir,” said his chauffeur, on the steps of the building.
“What is it?”
“They told me you were on your way down. Mr. Lemaitre says they’ve identified the artist positively and know where he is, sir. He wants instructions as soon as possible.”
Gideon turned from the foot of the steps leading to the F.B.I. building and began to run; it was years since he had done so. The people in the crowded streets evaded him, and many turned to stare. He threaded his way along the narrow pavement until he reached his car, parked under the watchful eyes of a police constable.
“Not going to be there much longer, sir, are you?”
Gideon, puffing, did not answer, but squeezed into the car, lifted the radio telephone, and gasped: “Gideon. I want Superintendent Lemaitre.”
“Gideon” the uniformed man breathed.
“George,” said Lemaitre. “Thank God I got you. It’s old Facey - remember him. It was old Quin–”
“Never mind the details. Where - where is he?”
“You okay?” demanded Lemaitre. “Huffing and puffing–”
“Where is Nina?” roared Gideon.
“They think she’s in one of the arches at Hammersmith - above a cabinetmaker’s place. Facey’s there, for certain, and he took a big tool chest in the evening Nina disappeared. Wouldn’t let anyone help him carry it up the ladder to his loft. Must have wanted to do it himself when they’d gone home. Haven’t made any direct approach yet but the divisional chaps from Hammersmith and Chiswick are surrounding the place, Hobbs wants to know if he should close in.”
Gideon said, “Not until I get there or until there’s an indication of crisis. What does Facey do at the arches?”
“Paints a bit, makes picture frames–”
“Get someone there to ask him prices for picture framing get a talker, someone like Singleton. Then get all the dope you can on Facey - what he’s been doing lately, whether he’s been in trouble, whether he’s ever shown homicidal tendencies.”
“I can fill in the rest,” Lemaitre interrupted.
“Have it for me when I reach the arches. Tell Hobbs I’ll be at the corner of the street leading to them, I forget the name, in twenty minutes or so.”
“But how–” Lemaitre almost screeched.
“One more thing,” Gideon interrupted in his loudest “no nonsense” voice. “Tell Henderson to go to the arches.”
He put down the receiver as Lemaitre said, “I give up.” He was breathing quite normally now, and spoke as his driver got in beside him.
“Get me to Mansion House Underground, I’ll go by tube to Hammersmith. See that there’s a car there - no, wait a minute. See there’s a car at Turnham Green Station, that’s the nearest spot, waiting for me. Get a move on.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver swung out into an empty roadway. “The constable thought you’d be in a hurry and held up all the traffic, sir. Gives us a clear run.”
“He thought of that, or did you?”
“He did, sir.”
Gideon grunted, and the car sped on.
He was lucky. Two minutes after he reached the platform at Mansion House Station an Acton train came in, and it stopped only twice before Earl’s Court. Even then the journey seemed slow, but Gideon knew he would reach Hammersmith in half the time it would have taken by road.
He had time to think and had time to wonder why he had always felt there was an acute danger to Nina Pallon.
When he strode out of the station at Turnham Green, he found two police cars and greying, wise old Harry Naylor, one of the oldest divisional superintendents on the Force, waiting for him. Hobbs would be at the arches.
“Anything new?” demanded Gideon.
Naylor said, “Yes, George. He smelled a rat.”
Gideon felt himself go cold.
“Facey?”
“Yes.” They were getting into Naylor’s car. “There wasn’t time to send a Yard man so I sent one of my younger chaps, who wasn’t likely to be recognized. Facey wouldn’t let him search the place he calls a studio, but as he stood on a loft ladder the girl called out. Facey panicked, pushed our chap off, and the fall broke his leg. Then Facey slammed the hatch. He’s up there with the girl.”
Gideon asked, “So we’re absolutely sure she’s there?”
“He’s admitted it. He says he’ll kill her if we don’t let him go free. He’s given us a time limit of an hour, and twenty minutes has already gone.”
“Is Henderson there?” Gideon asked gruffly.
“He’s with Hobbs, and Hobbs has told him the odds,” Naylor answered.
22: The Arches
“Underneath the arches,” Gideon said under his breath, and the old music-hall song took on a sinister overtone. He turned the corner that led to them, a viaduct which carried the Great Western line of British Railways. There were seventeen arches in all, built of solid blocks of stone and cemented into place by the English and Irish navvies of a century ago. There was hardly a crack in any of the walls, but there was grime - thick black grime, ingrained so deeply it was now part of the cement and part of the stone itself. The grime came from the chimneys of a hundred thousand trains which had crossed here over the years; and from the smoke from the hundreds of thousands of chimneys from the homes of the neighbourhood.
&
nbsp; As Gideon entered the cobbled service road, a train roared over the viaduct, drowning all other sounds, even the voices of three newspapermen who rushed toward the car as it slowed down.
The sound muffled Nina Pallon’s sobs too; hysterical sobs born of her fear and the shock, and the look in Facey’s eyes.
The roar drowned his words, but she saw him mouthing at her; he looked as if he hated her.
“What’s on, Commander?”
“Is it true there’s a kidnapped girl in one of the arches?”
“What makes it rate your personal attention, Mr. Gideon?”
“Who is she?”
Gideon climbed out of his car. He had respect if not always liking for the press and often needed its help; surliness for its own sake was folly.
“Yes, a girl named Pallon is missing, believed kidnapped. She’s the daughter of Mrs. Elliott Henderson, an American visiting this country. There’ll be an announcement later.” Now Gideon was striding toward a knot of men, including uniformed policemen, standing about halfway along those grim, grimed arches.
“Any ransom sum named?” a man called.
Gideon pretended not to hear.
Fifty yards away the police had erected a barrier by parking, broadside on, a van marked The Arches Cabinet Works. The cobbled roadway was so narrow that nothing else on four wheels could get through. Two policemen were at the entrance, two others just in front of it.
“Commander!” One of the newspapermen hurried. “We’d like one or two good photographs.”
“You can get good ones from here,” Gideon said, and raised his voice. “No one but authorized personnel is to come in, eh, Superintendent?”
“No one,” Naylor confirmed.
They passed the barrier, which led from the walls of the arches at one end to a high brick wall leading to a disused railway track on the other. Several men and two youths, three wearing white carpenters’ aprons, stood near the high double doors which led to the cabinetmaker’s arch. The doors needed painting but the name of the firm showed up clearly enough. Someone said in a whisper: “That’s him. That’s Gideon.”
