Gideon's Night

by John Creasey

  Each gang had boasted of its size and strength.

  Each had grown stronger in the past twelve months.

  Recently, Melky’s gang had appeared on the same race courses as the Wide boys. That seemed the end of the unwritten agreement, and that was why Hemming-way was so worried about what might happen.. He knew - and Gideon knew - that if there was a running fight through the docks, enormous damage could be done to warehouses, stored goods and even to ships themselves. When gangs really got out of control, it was dangerous and could be deadly.

  Gideon caught sight of a policeman in a doorway as he slowed down in the street where he was to meet Hemmingway and Lemaitre. He stopped just in front of the corner and got out, aware of being watched, but seeing no one. There was no other car in sight. Just across the intersecting road there was the tall wall of a warehouse, and a hundred yards or so away there were the lighted windows of the old Dockside Club, in another nearby warehouse.

  A man approached.

  “That you, George?” It was Lemaitre, who sounded quite brisk.

  “Yes.”

  “Hemmingway’s gone round the back way to have a look at things near the Red Lion Gymnasium,” Lemaitre said. “He’ll be back in a few minutes. We’ve got all the streets sealed off, but there are between a hundred and a hundred and forty louts in those two clubs, and they’re all spoiling for a fight. You can tell it a mile off. We’ve got about forty men, and they’re spread thin.”

  And a hundred or more were waiting at bridges and other vantage points in the nearly forlorn hope of catching the Prowler.

  “We’ll get some more” promised Gideon. “Got the entrances to the docks covered?”

  “As far as we can,” said Lemaitre. “Don’t want to push you, George, but if you could send for those reinforcements you’d do me and Hemmingway a lot of good.”

  “Let’s fix it,” Gideon said flatly.

  They went to his car, and he leaned inside and flicked on the radio telephone, ignoring the noises as they came crackling in. As he waited for the Information Room to answer, he recalled the way he had been stopped at the bridge, told himself that it was idiocy to believe that the Prowler might still be trapped inside the cordon. It was after two o’clock! He ought to have had the reinforcements here an hour or more ago; certainly he ought to have trusted Hemmingway’s judgment.

  Even so, he was reluctant to give the order.

  He gave it.

  As he moved from the car, another approached along the street he had come along; it stopped behind him and Hemmingway got out, bustling.

  “You, George?’

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t …”

  “I have,” said Gideon.

  “’Bout time, too,” said the NE Divisional Superintendent, although obviously he was mollified on the instant. “I’ve just been round to the east-side gates - or where they would be if there were any! They’ve taken the actual gates down to let in some of the big stuff that’s due in by road, so all we’ve got up is a flimsy wooden barrier. The two night-duty gatemen have got the breeze up properly; they say they can smell this fight the way you can smell the eucalyptus a hundred miles away from the coast of Australia.”

  Gideon said blankly, “Can you?”

  Hemmingway chuckled, yet gave the impression that he was very much on edge.

  “I read it in a book,” he announced. “How much did Lemaitre tell you? There are all of a hundred and twenty rats waiting to mix it.”

  “Any idea why they’ve waited so long?”

  “One side’s waiting for the other to move,” Hemmingway said, “that’s all.”

  Earlier in the evening, Gideon had wondered whether this situation was as simple as it had seemed, but first Hemmingway and then Lemaitre had persuaded him that it was. Now his doubts came back. There had been fights before. He couldn’t recall that any of them had started in the small hours, although often the fights lasted until dawn, the protagonists splitting up into groups which grew smaller and smaller. Tonight’s behaviour was peculiar. Everyone on the spot seemed quite certain what was on foot, but -

  “Heard one rumour that could explain it,” said Hemmingway.

  “What’s that?”

  “After Melky’s boys wouldn’t stop poaching, the Wide boys tried to kidnap his pocket Lollo. They failed, but they said that if Melky didn’t call his men out of their grounds, they’d get her.”

  “Where is Lollo?”

  “In the old Dockside Club.”

  “Sure?’

  “She was seen to arrive, just before twelve o’clock, with an escort of six of the biggest members of the gang.”

  “Hmm,” said Gideon, and scratched the back of his neck.

  It was quite obvious that Hemmingway planned to seal off all the entrances and exits to the area, and then let the two gangs fight it out. If it worked that way, then probably each gang would be so weakened that the police could step in and finish things off, arrest the gang leaders on charges which should put them in jail for twelve months at least, and so put an end to their activities for a long time. It was the kind of clear-up that the police liked and which they were able to fix now and again on a comparatively small scale; but Gideon didn’t feel at ease over this.

  “What’s on your mind?” Lemaitre knew him well enough to sense his doubts.

  Gideon grunted noncommittally.

  In the distance he heard several cars, and realized that these were the first of the patrol cars which had come off the Prowler job; they hadn’t taken long. Well, that was over and done with, for tonight, and this now seemed the only urgent issue.

  “Give,” urged Lemaitre.

  “Dunno,” said Gideon, and looked at Hemming-way’s strong, big features. “Ever know them to wait for as long as this to start something? Don’t hear anything, do you?”

  “Bit of singing earlier, but it quieted down,” conceded Hemmingway. “But …”

  “All right, I’m stubborn,” Gideon said almost roughly, “but if there’s going to be a schemozzle between the gangs we usually hear them getting warmed up first - they get tiddly, then they get tight, they start singing and banging the piano about. Then they send out one or two scouts, to call the other side a lot of so-and-sos, and soon they can’t hold themselves in any longer and start with the razors and the knuckledusters.”

  Hemmingway almost jeered. “You must have been reading a book, too.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Elementary, my dear Gee-Gee.”

  “Why aren’t they drunk tonight?” asked Gideon.

  “Serious business afoot.”

  “As you said earlier, when they really get mad with each other they lose every bit of sense they ever had,” said Gideon. “Hemmy, know what I’d like to do?”

  “Listen, George, we can’t start the raid; so far they haven’t done a thing to give us an excuse. If we start it, they’ll be fresh and they’ll probably join forces against us, and our chaps …”

  “I’d like you to go and talk to the Wide boys’ chief, while I go and talk to Melky.”

  There was a startled pause. More cars sounded in the distance, for London at night was very quiet and no ships near this section of the docks were being worked. Some way off, floodlights shining on the spindly cranes on deck and the heavier ones alongside showed clearly.

  Even the river was now clear of fog, and there was a freshening breeze! Two cars turned the corner and came along slowly.

  “You crazy?” Hemmingway demanded at last.

  “Nothing crazy about it,” said Gideon. “We just tell them that we don’t like what they’re up to, and they’re to go home.”

  “Goddammit, George, they’re inside their own premises. You can’t even pretend you think they’re going to cause a breach of the peace; you wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on.” Hemmingway stared up at Gideon, who stood still and quiet and yet somehow dominant, by far the largest man in the little group which had been enlarged by the men now arrivi
ng from the Squad cars which had been at the bridges. “You really mean it, don’t you?” Hemmingway added in are signed tone. “But I’m telling you that it won’t make any difference.”

  “You may be right,” Gideon said. “Let’s go.”

  “Alone?’

  “If they’re fighting mad the sight of half a dozen coppers will just about set ‘em alight, but we’d better go in pairs. Lemaitre can come with me, and you take a chap. Send for him and then let’s go ahead,” added Gideon. He walked on, while Hemmingway gave an order, then hurried to catch up. Lemaitre and Hemmingway’s aide, a detective inspector, walked behind them through the gloom.

  Hemmingway was breathing hard, as if fighting back antagonism.

  “Got an idea I didn’t want to talk about in front of the others,” Gideon said to him. “If it’s any good, it’ll be better if it comes from you.”

  “It won’t, if it’s anything like the rest of your ideas tonight!”

  Gideon chuckled.

  Ahead, a little man who was watching from the corner moved out of sight, obviously to go and report to his boss that the two men were approaching. Gideon felt quite sure that the members of both gangs were fully aware that the police were concentrating, and that the little shadowy figure was one of several scouts. He didn’t go on at first, but their footsteps were heavy and clear in the street, and seemed to echo off the high warehouse wall.

  “All right, let’s have it,” said Hemmingway.

  “What ships are tied up at these docks?” asked Gideon.

  “Norda, registered at Oslo, Marianne from-Antwerp, Black Marquis from New Orleans, and a thing with a name I can’t pronounce, from Cairo. But what …”

  “They discharging or loading cargo?”

  “The Norda’s loading, ready to sail in the morning,” said Hemmingway. “I don’t know about the Marianne. Black Marquis has just arrived; so has the Egyptian ship.” Hemmingway scratched the back of his head, and they slowed down as they neared the corner. A shadow was thrown across the road telling them that a man was just round the corner, probably judging their progress from the sound of their approach. “Don’t ask me what they’re carrying; I’m not a walking encyclopaedia.” He sounded aggressive, and that was probably because Gideon had made him uneasy. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Both gangs out in strength, dock gates off and unprotected, suspicious quiet and a motive for a row which doesn’t stand up.” said Gideon.

  “You’re wrong there. Melky’s so jealous that …”

  “If anyone made a pass at his wife he’d try to cut them up without having a cold-blooded, full-scale gang war,” said Gideon, “and I think that this is a put-up job for us to swallow. I’d like to know what’s in the holds of those ships, or what’s going in.”

  “I can soon find out,” Hemmingway said, very slowly and uneasily. “I can call the dock police; they’ll know. Let’s get this job over quick. Sure you prefer to take Melky?”

  “Positive.”

  “You know he’s got a reputation for …”

  “He won’t use a knife on me or anyone else tonight,” said Gideon. “I’ll take Lemaitre, you take your chap.”

  They reached the corner. The scout just round the corner vanished inside the entrance of the gymnasium, and along the street were the lights of the other club. Not fifty yards beyond it, where a single lamp burned in the archway, were the “gates” leading to the docks; the opening was very wide, and the only sign of life was in a small gate office, where a light burned yellow.

  Just beyond this office a dozen policemen were out of sight.

  Lemaitre caught Gideon up.

  “Any special angle, George?”

  “Just see how it goes,” said Gideon.

  So he went in.

  At that very moment, some miles away, the Prowler hid in a doorway, near a tube station which was still open. He saw a police car, which had been standing there over two hours, move off at speed.

  At the same time, nearer to Gideon, Paul Devereaux and George Warren got into their respective cars and also drove off.

  At Scotland Yard, the Information Room buzzed with messages both in and out, the blocks of wood which represented patrol cars were being moved all the time, the greatest concentration being now about the East End and the NE Division. But news of burglaries, two with violence, of fires, of smash-and-grab raids, of streetwalking, of car thefts, of almost every crime in the calendar came streaming in. Appleby and a sergeant were in Gideon’s office, sending out instructions, sorting out everything that had to be done, assigning men to the various jobs on which the Divisions needed specialist help.

  Approaching Scotland Yard in a police car was M. Monnet, of the Surete Nationale, with a small black briefcase under his arm, a small cigar between his lips, a Homburg hat at the back of his head, a smooth-cloth coat buttoned tightly about him.

  At London airport the indignant - and possibly frightened - Leslie Forrester argued with the Customs, who were making a thorough search of everything he had brought with him, and yet were so pleasant and apologetic.

  And in the cellar at 11 Lassiter Street, little Netta Penn sat as if her body were turned to ice, with pain at her eyes and numb dread in her heart. She couldn’t even wriggle her fingers now, she was so cold.

  For the past hour, she had heard sounds of scratching and faint banging, and at one time she thought these were a long way off. In fact they were close to her - and she knew that Rikker was doing something to the wall of the cellar, on the other side of the door.

  She didn’t know what.

  In the space of fifteen minutes, seven Flying Squad and three patrol cars passed the end of Lassiter Street.

  13 Melky

  As Gideon stepped inside the doorway of the old Dockside Club, beneath a dirty, tattered banner which hadn’t been taken down and reading YOUTH FOR CHRIST CRUSADE , he heard music - hot jazz probably coming from a radiogram or a record player. Two members of the Melky gang were in the doorway which led to the main room of the club, where the lights were bright and the music was loud, and shuffle of feet suggested that a few couples were dancing. Someone began to sing the lyrics in a shrill flat voice. The two youths, dark haired, pale faced and wary, were dwarfed by Gideon as he approached them. They seemed ready to try to bar his way, but he walked as if he hadn’t noticed them; either he would bump into them or they would move aside.

  They moved.

  Gideon went into the big room first, and Lemaitre followed, also ignoring the two doormen.

  A few tawdry decorations including coloured balloons, many of them deflated, hung from the ceiling. At the end of the hall on a high stage was a girl in a strapless “gown,” which covered just about as much of her as a two-piece bathing suit, swaying in front of a microphone which obviously didn’t work. By her side were a record player and a youth with a shock of ginger hair swaying to the rhythm. The smell of tobacco smoke was thick and acrid. Three couples danced, hugging each other. Sitting at small tables round the walls were most of the members of the gang - nearly all young and sallow, some obviously not English, others as native Cockney as Bow Bells. Most of them were dressed in old clothes, and not to kill, which by itself was an indication that they hadn’t come simply for a good time. Most appeared to be drinking soft drinks, but in some of the glasses there was undoubtedly hard liquor. At one corner there was a snack bar, where a blousy girl wriggled and giggled with two boys who had come to “help” serve, and were pretty rough. Underneath smeary glass covers were sandwiches and sausage rolls, and attached to the wall was a steaming tea or coffee urn.

  About the middle of one wall, at the biggest table in the hall, sat Melky - or Antonio Melcrino - and with him was his Lollo. Her name was not Lollo - when Gideon had first heard of her it had been Maria - but she had a figure which matched the fabulous Lollo’s,and so had taken the name. She wore a tight-fitting, shiny black dress, obviously drawn tightly at the back to pull her stomach as flat as it could be, and to make her bust j
ust out so much that she looked more caricature than a real person. She had a mass of dark curls, fine, dark, glowing eyes, and full, red lips; she was really something, and it was hard to realize that she was the mother of three children.

  Melky sat beside her.

  He was third-generation London Italian. His mother and father kept a small cafe in Kensington, and had only one sorrow: the fact that their son had gone bad. He hadn’t visited them for years. He was short and thin, with a sharp-featured, sensitive-looking face. His hair was not particularly dark, and was silky and brushed straight back from a high forehead. If one saw him in the street and guessed what he did for a living, it would be easy to suggest that he was an intellectual or an artist. The only artistry he knew was with the knife. He could carve patterns on human skin and, when the mood took him, pieces out of human flesh.

  Now he sat, not really truculent, not sullen, simply wary - like everyone else here. His knife wasn’t in sight.

  The music stopped.

  Melky did not motion to the red-haired boy on the stage, but another record went on; and the singer swayed and rolled her eyes and began to sing again. This was prearranged, of course; they weren’t going to let the police think they could interfere or scare them.

  Gideon stopped in front of the big table.

  He glanced at Lollo, then took his hat off, a completely unexpected gesture, and he nodded to her as he might to any woman whom he met casually.

  “Tony Melcrino?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” Melky said, hardly moving his thin lips.

  “What’s going on tonight?”

  “We’re celebrating,” Melky said.

  “Bit late, aren’t you?”

  “My mother said I could stay up late,” said Melky, and there was a slight relaxation in the attitude of the people about him; one boy laughed. The dancing couples contrived to mark time near the table, and over by the bar the giggling girl was standing still, each boy with an arm round her, all three staring toward Gideon.

  “You can make it funny or you can take it straight,” Gideon said. “I don’t care how you take it, but if you know what’s good for you you’ll break this party up.”