Gideon's Night

by John Creasey

  “Never mind him; we want to find who screamed.”

  They were approaching more slowly now, and thebeam of a torch lit up the wreathing fog. The padding footsteps of the Prowler were fading.

  A street door opened, and a man appeared with a woman just behind him. The two men were almost level with the doorway.

  “What’s happening?” asked the man from the house. “We heard …”

  “Someone screamed,” said one of the two men abruptly. “Must have been near here. You look for her; we’ll go after the swine who ran away.” He started to move quickly, but already the slither of padding footsteps had faded, and not far along Middleton Street there were turnings to the right and left, and not far beyond these, other turnings which led in several different directions.

  The men reached the first corner, and hesitated.

  The man and woman whose shadows had appeared on the blind of the house near Jennifer’s were now walking toward the spot where she lay, while other doors opened, other neighbours appeared and called out.

  The first neighbour saw Jennifer lying there, and his wife exclaimed, “Look!” He went to Jennifer quickly, shining the torch - on her legs, both bent, her skirt, which was rucked up, one hand, her face, her chestnut hair, which had come loose from the tight-fitting hat, and: “Look, that’s blood,” the woman neighbour gasped.

  6 The Con Man

  Gideon lifted the receiver of the ringing telephone slowly, and before he put it to his ear he finished reading one of the reports which had just come in from NE Division, which covered part of the East End ofLondon, and part of the riverside area. It did not really say very much, but the little was interesting.

  London did not have gangs in the accepted sense, but it housed several gangs which worked all the southern race courses, and they had been very quiet of late. Tonight, said the NE Divisional Report, the two largest, Melky’s gang and the Wide boys, were out in strength, and it looked as if there might be a clash. There was no indication yet of the place of meeting, and no certainty that there would be trouble.

  The irony was that the Divisional man asked if the Yard could find them additional men.

  “Would happen tonight,” Gideon grumbled to Appleby, who was reading a copy of the same report, and then he said into the telephone, “Gideon.”

  Appleby saw the way his great body seemed to gather, as if for a leap, and saw the glint in his eyes.

  “Where?” he demanded, and wrote swiftly.

  “Time?” He made a note.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “You contact the Divisional at once. I’ll send photographers, fingerprints and a D.I. Have the place ready for them; we want anything we can get. Wait. What colour was her hair? … Chestnut colour and wavy, good - tell the Division to send those scrapings over at once. … I don’t give a damn how difficult it might be!” he roared. “Get it here! … All right.”

  He rang off.

  Appleby looked across, grinning, as if about to make some crack; Gideon’s glare stopped him. “Who’ve we got in?” Gideon demanded. “Piper’s just back, from a false alarm in Grosvenor Square.”

  “”He’ll do.” He lifted the receiver again, said, “Ask Mr. Piper to come in at once,” and then rang off, but only to pick up another telephone. “Give me Laboratory,” he said, and as he waited looked across at Appleby. “Who’s on duty up there, do you know?”

  “Gibb.”

  “Thanks, hello … Gibb?… Gideon … Fine, thanks, but busy. Listen: I’ve got a Prowler job and we want something quick. Girl seems to have scratched his face, and we’re sending for scrapings from her fingernails. Have them put through the tests for blood group, will you? We might be glad of it.”

  “As soon as the scrapings come.”

  “Thanks,” said Gideon warmly. He put down the receiver again, and saw that Appleby was writing with more than his customary speed, as if he was anxious not to do anything wrong. Gideon smothered a grin as Appleby glanced up but didn’t speak.

  After a moment of almost startling silence there was a tap at the door. Chief Inspector Piper came in, big and fleshy and with florid skin - a man on whom C.I.D. ex-ranks seemed to be indelibly stamped. He had rather small, dark blue eyes.

  “Hello, Piper,” Gideon said. “Got a Prowler lead.”

  Piper’s eyes lit up.

  “Putting me on it, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Get two men from Fingerprints, two photographers for an outside job and any sergeant you like to fifty-one Middleton Street, Brixton,” Gideon ordered. “A girl named Jennifer Lewis put up a fight. Fingernail scrapings are on their way, but you might pick up a lot more to help.”

  Gideon paused and Piper looked as if he was bursting to get on his way.

  “Anything else, sir?’

  “Yes. A papier-mâché mask was found near the girl; one of those children’s Guy Fawkes things. We’ve suspected that he wears a mask for some time - either for disguise to frighten his victims even more, or both. That’s the lot.”

  “Thanks,” said Piper, and went out twice as quickly as he had come in.

  Appleby looked up, smiling openly this time.

  “Like offering a kid an ice cream,” he said.

  “Like offering you a nip,” said Gideon, and bent down, opened a cupboard in his desk and took out whisky, a siphon of soda, and two glasses. “Come and get it.”

  Appleby looked as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes, but he got up.

  Gideon called the Information Room again, and gave crisp instructions as Appleby, at a motion of Gideon’s hand, began to pour out.

  “Get moving on this,” Gideon ordered, while whisky was rippling and the instructions poured out of him. “All available men to close in to points within one mile of Brixton Town Hall. The Prowler attacked again near there. Now believed to be wearing a painted Guy Fawkes mask. He tried to kill this time; we don’t know whether he’s succeeded yet. Anyway, it makes him ten times more dangerous. Warn all women seen alone in the vicinity, make them go in pairs or with male escorts wherever possible… . Got all that?”

  There was a pause.

  “Okay,” he grunted, and put down the receiver. When he looked at Appleby it was almost a glare. “The swine will go to earth somewhere inside the cordon, or else he’ll find a weak spot and slip through.”

  “Take it easy,” Appleby abjured, almost spilling his whisky. “Not often you take a gloomy view.”

  “Just struck me that we’ve already got a hundred men within easy reach of the scene of attack. If we’d had another half hour to work in, we would probably have had the cordon closed before he had a chance to get through it. That looks like Prowler’s luck to me.” Unexpectedly Gideon grinned, and picked up his drink.

  “You’re right, though. When you’ve finished that drink, how about a walk?”

  “All right, I’ll go down to the Information Room and make sure that everything’s being done,” Appleby said dryly.

  He drank up quickly and went out.

  Gideon sipped again, lit another cigarette, and then picked up the telephone; this was one long series of talks and reports, and it wasn’t possible to give much concentrated thought to any one thing. That was the Commander’s cross; and the cross of the Chief Superintendent on Nights, too. From Superintendents down to detective officers, the men who went out on specific jobs had one thing only on their minds; thus, they could concentrate on it. They had to, or they would never get results. Sitting here like a spider trapped in the middle of his own web, it was almost possible to envy Piper. Gideon could see everything that was happening, every fly they were trying to trap, but he couldn’t concentrate. He had to be dispassionate, too, and so could sympathize if the NE Divisional Super cursed the Yard for saying “no” to the request for extra help; to that Superintendent, the fact that the gangs were out was the most important single fact of the night.

  “Get me NE Division,” Gideon said into the telephone.


  “Yes, sir.”

  Gideon put back the receiver again and glanced through a number of other notes and reports while he waited. The brown-clad sergeant came in, with three short typewritten memoranda from divisions. Gideon made more pencilled notes, and wondered whether anything was happening at Lemaitre’s home, and how Lem was getting on with Fifi. If there had been any trouble, word of it would surely have come in by now. He wondered about Mrs. Penn; why she had asked for him, and then rung off - or else been cut off but had not troubled to call again.

  Why did it nag at him?

  She lived in AB Division, and there was plenty doing there. Funny thing he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  There was nothing new about the baby hunt. The other two infants were still missing, and the woman Harris in her little kitchen was probably saying exactly the. Same thing over and over again, still blaming herself; and if her child was killed she would always blame herself for going next door for an hour and leaving it alone, asleep. The sturdy husband of hers probably had exactly the same dazed, almost stupefied look.

  It was an hour since Gideon had been told that the first baby had been found dead.

  The telephone rang, and his lift of the receiver was automatic.

  “Gideon.”

  “Your call to Mr. Hemmingway of NE Division, sir.”

  “Yes, put him through.” Been a long time coming, he reflected, and began sardonically, “Hello, Hemmy, been having a nice sleep?”

  Superintendent Hemmingway was one of the older men in the Divisions, and he preferred to work mostly at night, when his beat was always busier. Like Appleby, he was only a year or two off retirement. Like Appleby, he seemed to have more zest for his job now than when he had first taken over the Division. He didn’t mince words, and he was as familiar with his beat as Gideon was with London’s Square Mile.

  He knew the names, addresses, ages, friends, relatives and habits of the hundreds of small-time and big-time crooks who lived in his division. He knew just which of the stall-holders in the Sunday markets would handle stolen goods knowingly, and those who wouldn’t take a chance. He knew when a man was on the run and when one was having a rest. He was reputed to be able to say who had done any job in the division or outside it, from the trade-mark left by the crook, and there were those who said that although fingerprints were not his special subject he could look at a print through the magnifying glass that he always carried and, if it was known to him, identify it almost as quickly as they could in Records. Even allowing for some exaggeration, there was a lot of truth in all of this.

  On routine, and on general knowledge as well as specialized knowledge, Hemmingway was the best man in the Divisions. But he had a weakness, as they all had a weakness, and one of Gideon’s difficulties was that of making sure that it did no great harm.

  Hemmingway’s weakness was that he always took the short view; the long view was something he couldn’t see. He lacked not only imagination, but also the ability to look ahead and see what was likely to develop out of a crime or a series of crimes. He could tackle what had happened as well as any man alive, but he lacked the little something extra which would enable him to forestall the crooks’ next move.

  “Sleep,” growled Hemmingway. “How about those men I want, Gee-Gee?”

  “Wish I could,” said Gideon.

  “Talk sense,” said Hemmingway, his voice rising. “I’ve got to have them. There are twenty-five or thirty of the Wide boys out; thing like this doesn’t happen more than once a year. Looks as if they’re going to mix it. We’ve got to stop them from clashing.”

  “Hem, we’ve got two big jobs on - the baby snatching and the Prowler - and I’ve called every available man I can from the Divisions. Can’t you handle your own boys?”

  There was a moment of silence.T

  Then the door opened, and Gideon looked up and was startled to see Lemaitre come in.

  Lemaitre was as pale as he had been earlier in the evening, and his dark eyes were shiny and very bright. His lips were set tightly, and he looked as if he would gladly punch the nose of the first man who got in his way. He let the door slam, which wasn’t like him, and stood staring at Gideon, his yellow-and-black tie a little too bright and his shoes too light a brown.

  “Look here, George,” Hemmingway said at last, and it was obvious that he had been counting ten before speaking; his was not often the way of sweet reason. “You’ve got those two jobs covered, and if the worst comes to the worst you’ll fix ‘em in a few days’ time. We live with the gangs out here. If we can’t stop them from fighting tonight, every kid who’s got the strength will be thumbing his nose at our coppers for the next couple of months. I want twenty more men than I’ve got, and that’s half the number I really need. Fix it, won’t you? Just five carloads …”

  “I’ll send two,” Gideon said abruptly. “We’re stretched too far tonight, but I’ll send two.”

  “Listen, George …”

  “Be seeing you,” said Gideon, and added a mumbling “G’bye” before he put the receiver down. If he’d had his way he would have sent a dozen Squad cars, but far too much was happening. Whatever success they had against the gangs, there would be more trouble later; they were hardy animals. The Prowler and the baby snatcher were much more deadly now.

  Lemaitre was still standing there quite still, and his clenched fists were moving slightly, as if he was tensing his fingers all the time.

  Gideon took out another glass, poured two fingers, splashing in a little soda, and stood up and carried the drink to Lemaitre. Lemaitre took it, and tossed half of it down, without saying a word.

  Time was flying and time was precious, but this was a moment to take things slowly.

  “Hello, Lem,” Gideon said. “Everything’s happening.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Lemaitre. “I want something to do. Outside:”

  Gideon stared back as he sipped his own drink.

  He could let it go at that and send Lemaitre out, with his Fifi troubles burning white hot inside him, or he could try to make Lemaitre talk. Given half an hour, given even a quarter of an hour in which he could be sure of no interruptions, he would probably be able to work on Lemaitre, and help him; but there was no such certainty and Appleby would be back any minute.

  “Got two jobs,” he said quietly. “Hemmingway’s in a flap, Melky’s and the Wide boys are out tonight and he thinks they’re going to fight it out. He wants three times as many men as we can send him, and my name’s mud. If you go, he’ll probably think we’re really doing everything we can, anyhow.”

  Lemaitre said flatly, “What’s the other job?”

  “That Penn woman who’s worried about her husband. I want a man to go and see her. She called up again and then rang off before …”

  “Women,” said Lemaitre, between clenched teeth. “She probably drove him into the Thames. If I had my way …” He broke off, took out a fresh cigarette, lit it from the stub of the one he was smoking, and then moved to squash the stub out on an ashtray. “I’ll go over to NE.”

  “Tell Hemmingway I’ll send more men when I can,” Gideon said, paused, then added in the same tone of voice, “Of course, the real thing I want from you is an opinion on the situation over there. Hemmingway sees it just from his point of view, the biggest thing they have in the Division. But if you agree that it’s really - ugly, I’ll get more men over there.”

  “Okay,” said Lemaitre.

  “What’s it like out?” asked Gideon.

  “Could be worse - still quicker to travel by car than tube, but it won’t be if it gets much thicker,” said Lemaitre. “Okay, George, thanks.”

  “Forget it.” Gideon stood up. Appleby still wasn’t back and it might be a good moment to speak personally, after all. “What did you run into, Lem?”

  The reply came like a bullet.

  “She’s walked out on me.”

  “Oh, hell!” said Gideon, and for a moment he felt a surge of relief, tinged with understanding.
Sure?”

  “Just packed up and walked out, clothes, knickknacks, everything.” Lemaitre found a taut grin. “I know what you’re thinking; it will be a good thing in the long run. I might agree with you when I’m used to the idea, but I always thought that in spite of everything, at heart she …”

  He broke off.

  There was a bright sheen in his eyes, his voice was thick, and he couldn’t bring out the words “loved me”. He was a man in his forties and men didn’t come tougher; yet the wrong note now would have him blubbering.

  “Lem,” Gideon said.

  “Oh, forget it. There’s nothing you can say.”

  “Not so sure,” said Gideon. Blessedly, the telephones were silent and there were no footsteps in the passage. “It isn’t so long ago that I half expected to get home and find the same situation. Quite sure that the only thing that kept Kate home were the kids. When they were out of the puppy stage I thought she’d go. Instead, we’re - well, it’s in the past, Lem. This crisis could be the turning point for you, too.”

  Lemaitre’s face was working.

  “See what you mean,” he said jerkily. “Thanks, George. I’ll go and smack a few heads for Hemming-way.” He nodded and went out, letting the door slam, and his footsteps sounded loud and clear along the stone passage.

  Gideon moved slowly toward his desk and, without sitting down, picked up the telephone. He wanted a lot of time, but had very little; he had to be quick. He called for NE Division again and this time Hemming-way came through almost at once.

  “Found me another copper?” he demanded abruptly. The tone of his voice suggested that he hadn’t taken umbrage; he was too old a hand.

  “Yes,” said Gideon. “Hemmy, listen. Lemaitre’s coming over. I thought I’d warn you that he’s having some domestic trouble and he’d like to break a few bones. If it comes to a fight anywhere, try and get him into it. He’ll be worth half a dozen of your chaps, and …”

  “Not on your life. My coppers are as good as any who come from the Yard,” said Hemmingway. “But I’ll nurse him, George.”

  “Any change with you?”