Criminal Imports

by John Creasey

  Gorlay was almost too surprised to answer.

  “Come on, make up your mind.”

  “Yes,” Gorlay said, and gulped. “Yes, please.”

  “Don’t muck it up,” Chaff said, as if afraid that was inevitable. They went into the hallway, where the proud proprietor was almost beside himself.

  Chaff didn’t say a word to help; he did not intend to. As Gorlay walked up the stairs, he tried to remember every rule in the book. Walk by the wall so as to prevent stairs creaking. Knock lightly, so as not to startle or frighten the man inside. Try the handle very quietly, and push. If the door opens, fling it back and get inside quick.

  Chaff and another man were just behind him.

  He tapped with his knuckles and tried the handle with his left hand; it needed only trifling pressure to tell him that the door was locked. He prepared to put his shoulder against it as he had been taught, and he was completely unaware of the fact that he stood exactly as Gideon had at the arches.

  “Who’s that?” a man called. His voice was high-pitched.

  “I’ve come to check the gas, sir,” Gorlay answered. “There’s a leak somewhere in the house.”

  Silence followed; silence in which Gorlay’s tension built up, the two men behind him moved forward, he thrust himself forward for an attack on the door. Before he put his shoulder to it, the sound of movement came from inside the room. A bolt moved back, the door handle turned, the door opened.

  “I haven’t smelled gas—” Frank S. Mayhew declared. “I don’t—”

  He broke off and backed away, his mouth dropping open, all the colour draining from his face. Gorlay felt quite sure it was the rapist as he said flatly: “Frank S. Mayhew, it is my duty to charge you with ...”

  Mayhew stood there, gibbering; it was almost pathetically simple.

  “Yes, we got him,” the KL superintendent said. “It was easy, George. He keeps muttering he couldn’t help it, something made him. Want him at the Yard?”

  “Keep him there. We’ll send a doctor over,” Gideon answered. “I’ll get the Back Room busy, you’ll have all the newspapermen in London buzzing round you soon. Give them all the information you can, let ‘em have pictures of you and this chap Gorlay. We’ll go to town on this one.”

  When he rang off, he thought wryly, So it was easy. Such words came with almost dangerous facility. The whole strength of the Yard had stirred itself, thousands of pictures had been circulated, nearly fifty thousand men had been on the lookout for the man, and not one, not one, had seen him. The hotel owner had been alerted by police activity, of course, but the irony was that so much time, money, organization and man-power had to be used to catch a solitary man with a twisted mind, to avenge two girls, and to make sure that others were safe.

  Every now and again some crime brought home to him the true burden of his responsibility. With Mayhew on a charge there would probably be an abrupt end to sex crimes for a while; the fear of being caught was still the greatest deterrent. But there was no end to the war against criminals, only periods when the main fronts were quiet. This morning there was good cause for satisfaction, and at the moment only two cases preoccupied him enough to drive his personal problems into the background.

  The first was the Rite-Time watches job.

  The second was the sabotage of the export of goods to the United States. The possible extent of that, with corresponding political as well as economic significance, made it worrying. He must talk to Scott-Marie about it on Monday.

  There was a lot he had to talk to Scott-Marie about.

  When his internal telephone rang he was deep in thought and did not answer immediately. If Prudence was going to have a rough time with her baby she would need more money than she had. His son-in-law was earning about enough to keep going, which was all right for the youngsters, but in an emergency he and Kate must be ready to help out. And their youngest boy was still a heavy expense.

  The bell rang again; he had forgotten the first ring.

  “Gideon.”

  “There’s a Mrs. Klein here asking to see you, sir.” It was the front hall sergeant. “She won’t tell me what it’s about only that it’s urgent and she had to see you.”

  Klein? thought Gideon. Klein? The name rang a bell. Klein? No, he couldn’t place it, but there was no harm in seeing her; he wasn’t too pressed for time. He made another note to telephone and find out how Hobbs was as he said: “Take her along to the main waiting-room. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He rang off on the sergeant’s “Very good, sir,” and leaned back. Klein, Mrs. Klein. He pushed his chair back and stood up, went out along the half-deserted passages, and was at the door when the name dropped into place. Jerry Klein, the Soho jeweller who had had the Rite-Time watches stolen. He drew back from the door and stepped into an office next door; it was empty. He pulled the inter-office telephone towards him and dialled MacPherson’s number.

  MacPherson answered at once.

  “Mac, go along to the waiting-room annex and listen to what a Mrs. Klein has to say to me, will you? Don’t come in, two of us might overawe her.”

  “Jerry Klein’s wife?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Gideon said.

  He went back to the waiting-room, and opened the door. A fine- looking Jewish woman with magnificent brown eyes and a beautiful complexion was waiting for him. She was nervous. Her hands were raised apprehensively in front of her bosom; she wore a brown suit of which Kate would approve, and a small hat, perched decoratively on a mass of nearly black hair.

  “Hallo, Mrs. Klein,” Gideon said. He smiled, and held out his hand. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to come here worrying you, sir. I know you’re busy, but I just had to.” Words spilled from the glistening lips. “I’m so worried I hardly know what to do. My husband’s a jeweller, he sells costume jewellery and watches and a few good jewels, and his shop was raided the other day - a smash-and-grab raid, I mean. And ever since he’s been frightened, ever so frightened. And a man came to the house and made me and the children go out until Jerry came back. I didn’t want the children worried, so I did what he wanted but when I came back Jerry was white as a sheet, and he had a nasty cut on his hand. The man’s been to see him again, and I think he’s trying to make Jerry buy stolen watches. He has in the past. I can’t help it if that gets him into trouble, but I can’t stand by and see him frightened ...”

  There seemed no pause in the flow, which would be meat and drink to MacPherson. This could be the break they needed over Rite-Time, and it was by no means the first time that a frightened wife had given the Yard vital information.

  “... and you’ll do everything you can for my husband, won’t you?”

  “If he was forced to take stolen goods into stock, and can prove that in court, you haven’t much to worry about,” Gideon reassured her. “I think you’d better have a word with the superintendent who is investigating the smash-and-grab raid. Have you plenty of time?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, my mother’s looking after the children. She doesn’t know where I’ve come, no one does, but I just had to, and I’ve read about you in the newspapers, I always believe in seeing someone at the very top.”

  25: Gideon’s Wife

  When Gideon left the Yard, a little after one o’clock, MacPherson was as hopeful as he was ever likely to be, and confident too, which suggested that he had unearthed some other facts which he was not yet ready to report. Gideon put thought of the case out of his mind, although the picture of glowing-eyed, vital Mrs. Klein did not fade entirely until he was halfway home.

  Priscilla wasn’t in, but a casserole of lamb was in the oven, simmering, and a big bowl of fruit salad and a jug of cream were in the refrigerator. A note on the table, which had been laid, read:

  Gone over to see the Gordons, I’ll be back for supper, don’t wash up. Silla.

  He laughed.

  He cleared out the casserole to the last morsel, made deep inroads into the fruit, made himself a cup of coffee, an
d sat back for half an hour with the newspapers, but at the back of his mind he kept thinking of Kate, wishing she was there for him to discuss things with. Suddenly he remembered Hobbs, and he called his private number. It was a queer thing, but he would like to talk to Hobbs.

  A woman answered, and Gideon thought of Mrs. Hobbs, the lovely woman, paralysed so that she could not get out of her wheelchair unaided.

  “Hallo, Helen,” Gideon said. “George Gideon here. How is Alec?’

  “How nice of you to call,” said Helen, and then with obvious anxiety, “You don’t need him, do you?”

  “He’s free for the weekend, anyhow—I couldn’t call this morning to find out how his hands are.”

  “Not very good, I’m afraid,” answered Helen Hobbs. “I managed to persuade him to have an injection, and told him he should sleep for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “How bad are these burns?” demanded Gideon.

  “They could be worse, but the doctor says it will be two weeks at least before he can drive a car. George, he’s tired too. He’s been driving himself too hard.” She might well mean: You’ve been driving him too hard. “Is there any reason why he shouldn’t have some sick leave?”

  Gideon answered quietly, “No reason at all. We can get along. I’ll look in one day next week, when he’s on the mend.”

  “He’ll love that,” Helen said.

  When he had rung off, Gideon reflected almost ruefully that something always prevented him from getting to know Hobbs better. Then he thought, Those burns must be bad. I’ll send one of our medics to check with his.

  The news about Hobbs further clouded his mood until he went out and ran the mower over the lawn. There wasn’t much growth on it yet, but in a month it would need cutting twice a week. There wasn’t much to do in the garden at all; with the family away, Kate had time for the garden, and she had green fingers. And he couldn’t think of anything in the way of odd jobs in the house. So there was plenty of time to think of the nagging problem: what did he really want to do as a policeman? What ought he to do, as a family man?

  Gradually he realized something he had not seen before: there was conflict here between what he wanted to do and what he ought to do. As soon as he recognized that for what it was he realized that the issue was not simple. What did he want for himself? The prestige which only the assistant commissionership could bring him? Or the sense of involvement with the Yard’s work which he could get only as commander?

  Suddenly he thought, It’s no use, I’ll have to talk to Kate. I’ll go over and see her tomorrow.

  Kate opened the door of the tiny bungalow, one of a thousand other tiny houses almost identical in design. When she saw Gideon her eyes lit up. For a moment Gideon forgot everything else, and he knew that Kate did, too. They went in, and the everyday world closed about them. Gideon had been here only three times before. He felt absolutely out of place, for his head nearly touched the ceiling and he seemed like Gulliver in a modern land of Lilliput.

  The thing that most troubled him was the silence.

  “How’s Pru?” he asked.

  Kate said soberly, “She isn’t too good, George. She’s sleeping now, the doctor gave her an injection. He says she should be all right if she rests, but he comes in every day, so he’s not too happy about her.”

  “Where’s Pete?”

  “He’s doing some weekend work, to bring in more money. He’s a good lad, dear.” That was said almost defensively. “And they mean everything to each other.”

  Gideon conquered the impulse to say, But he can’t really afford to keep her. Now that he was there he could hardly do what he had really come to do: talk to Kate about his own indecision.

  “Can I see her?”

  “Of course.”

  He was startled by Pru’s pallor and by the thinness of her face as she lay on the double bed in a room only just big enough for it and overcrowded with a small wardrobe and a dressing-table.

  When he went into the kitchen, where Kate was preparing the vegetables, he felt sure what to do: Although the children were married they were not really off his hands, and probably never would be. There wasn’t any real likelihood that he would ever be able to bring himself to say, They made their bed, so let them lie on it. The odd thing was that he was almost tongue-tied with Kate.

  “Grass could do with cutting,” he said suddenly. “Think the noise would disturb Pru?”

  “George,” Kate said, “what’s worrying you?”

  “What a question to ask!” He was overvehement and knew it. “Prudence looks as if—”

  “It isn’t Pru. Has a case gone wrong?”

  He didn’t answer.

  They were so close to each other in the tiny kitchen that he had only to stretch out his arm to touch her, but he didn’t. She hitched up a high stool, and sat on it.

  “There’s something,” she declared, and then alarm flared up in her eyes. “None of the children have been hurt. Tell me!” She was up from the stool in a flash. “George—”

  “No one’s hurt badly,” he said. “Hobbs has some burns, but nothing serious.”

  She gave a funny little laugh.

  “For a minute you scared me.” She went on, “George dear, what’s worrying you?”

  He made himself smile, and then realized how absurd it was that he should have to, in the circumstances. He ought to be elated, he ought to feel as proud as a man could.

  He said, “Scott-Marie’s offered me the A.C.’s post.” He realized that he hadn’t given a thought to poor, doomed Rogerson since first hearing, and decided then and there to go and see Mrs. Rogerson that day. This was with one half of his mind; with the other he was concentrating on Kate, seeing bewilderment chase the pleasure out of her eyes. It was so like Kate that after a moment or two she should say:

  “And you don’t want to take it?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t have to, George, do you?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t need to ask why he didn’t want to; she was enough at one with him in mind and outlook to understand his reasons. She simply took the fact for granted; he did not want the job. In accepting that she pricked the balloon of prestige and made him see how very much he wanted to stay in his present job.

  “Then what’s worrying you, dear?”

  He said: “It’s worth two thousand a year more, and a much bigger pension. And it looks to me as if we can still use the money. When there isn’t one emergency, there’ll be another. Not much doubt about that, is there?”

  Quietly, half-smilingly, Kate answered: “The time might even come when we’ll be the emergency and the children will have to help us - but I don’t think it’s likely. Darling, I don’t want a thing more than I’ve got, and even if I did we’d be able to afford it, most of the time they’ll look after themselves. I don’t really know why you’re dithering. And I’m not really sure you’d make such a good A.C.”

  Gideon stared at her.

  Then he burst out laughing.

  It was a strange Monday morning for Gideon - a kind of anti-climax.

  On his desk were the usual reports and some simple memoranda - including one about the forthcoming Sports Meeting: Commander George Gideon will present the prizes. Another said: Reason to believe Barney Barnett is trying to work out a job with Quincy Lee.

  Lemaitre had scrawled “Nuts” across a corner.

  “What’s this about Lee and Barnett?” Gideon asked him.

  “Quincy told me half the boys in London want to work with him, and he’s not interested,” Lemaitre said. “Even if he was, Maggie would scare him off! Don’t give it a thought, George. We’ll get Barney again one of these days, wife or no wife. See the report on Lucy Green?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She’s come clean,” Lemaitre told him with satisfaction. “We ought to get Interpol busy on Schumacher. That reminds me, Henderson rang up. Will you and Kate have dinner with him and his wife tonight?”

  “Kate can�
��t,” Gideon said at once. “And I’m not sure I should. I’ll call him later. Anything else you’ve forgotten?”

  Gideon went through the morning briefing quickly. MacPherson didn’t report. Oliver was deeply involved with the West German marks problem, which was no longer the Yard’s baby, for the main investigation must now be on the Continent. There was the usual weekend crop of crime, the inevitable arrests. One of them was from Brentford, about a charge to be made that morning against a printer named Dunn, who appeared to have defrauded Kismet Cosmetics of several hundred pounds to help his wife, who had since died. The divisional superintendent had come up to see Gideon about it, an elderly, very conscientious man named Killin.

  “What’s on your mind?” Gideon asked.

  “The local people don’t want to prosecute but they’ve had instructions from the head office in the States to get their pound of flesh. I happen to know you’re in close touch with New York, George, and I wondered if you could put in a word.”

  “Getting soft hearted, aren’t you?” Gideon said. He felt almost like Lemaitre, who was busy at his desk.

  “It’s a very sad business. His wife was everything to him.”

  Gideon thought of Henderson.

  “Can’t do a thing with New York,” he said. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t pull all the strings you can to persuade this man Dunn to have a summary hearing. He ought to be bound over as it’s his first offence - it is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I daresay I can fix that. He’s had to apply for legal aid, and I know who’ll look after him. Just wanted your approval, George.”

  To the Yard it was such a trifling case.

  To the man Dunn it could be his whole future.

  At eleven o’clock Gideon entered Scott-Marie’s office. The Commissioner already had a brief report on the sabotage inquiry, and Gideon saw a letter from the chairman of the Faculty of British Industries on his desk; so that was moving.

  Scott-Marie looked less aloof than usual.

  “A very satisfactory ending to the Henderson and Mayhew cases,” he said. “You ought to congratulate yourself.” When Gideon didn’t answer he asked, “What do you want to talk about?”