by John Creasey
“What am I doing?” demanded Melcrino, and glanced up at Lollo and thrust out his chest. “Minding my own, that’s all. Pity other people don’t follow my example.”
Gideon just stared at him.
The man wasn’t really at ease, but he wasn’t worried either; he was completely assured of his position here, and he had sound legal cause to be. Hemmingway was probably having the same kind of interview with the leader of the Wide boys and telling himself that it was all a waste of time.
“Close the door when you go out,” Melcrino said, and this time half a dozen of his followers made giggly noises.
“Listen to me, Melcrino,” Gideon said, and stood so that he could see not only the man himself but also his wife who had pulled a chair a little closer. “If you start a fight tonight you’ll bite off more than you can chew. I’m warning you. Tell your boys to go home.” He paused, and he saw the glint in Melcrino’s eyes, and saw the way Lollo squeezed his hand; they thought they were so clever and yet were such naive fools. “Hemmingway’s giving the Wide boys the same orders,” Gideon went on. “If you two want to fight it out, choose somewhere else. This is my beat.”
“And it’s my business,” Melky said sneeringly.
Gideon was quite sure that the glint in his eyes and the squeeze from his wife meant one thing: satisfaction, almost elation, and elation could only be due to something he had said. All he had said was that the police assumed that a gang fight was in the offing.
“Don’t make us get rough,” Gideon said.
“You couldn’t hurt pussy,” Melcrino sneered: “Think we’re scared of a bunch of ruddy rozzers? Go and fry your face, Gideon, that’s how frightened I am of you.”
He moved his hand in a gesture which brought the loudest laugh so far. That was the moment when the music stopped, a moment when the situation could become ugly, but Gideon did not think it would be ugly just yet.
“All right,” he said, as if frustrated, “I’ve warned you. I came myself because I wanted you to know that we’re right behind Hemmingway. If you try to carve up the Wide boys, most of you will end up in the hospital or in the dock, and we’ll make every charge stick.”
“Peanuts,” said Melcrino, and so elicited a roar of laughter.
There was a moment’s pause; soon Gideon would retire with the jeers of the gang in his ears, and they would think that they had scored a signal triumph, that they could poke their noses at the police. It would really elate them and, when they came to act, it might easily make them careless.
Then Lollo Melcrino pushed her chair back, gave abroad, seductive smile, and stepped toward Gideon with her hands on her hips and her body swaying. She was the perfect subject for one of the illustrated tabloids, and in fact she was really quite beautiful; her shoulders and that part of her not covered by the dress were creamy and smooth and free from blemish. Her dark eyes glowed, and she just stood in front of Gideon, put her head on one side, and asked in a husky voice:
“Why don’t you hit one of your own size?”
She stood lower than his massive chin.
The laughter seemed to shake the walls.
“Didn’t get any change out of that,” said Lemaitre. “If we don’t slap them down after this our name will be mud.” There was unspoken reproof in his voice.
“Thick mud,” agreed Gideon. He didn’t hurry back to the corner, for Hemmingway would probably be another ten minutes; he’d had further to go. The sound of music faded slightly. Above their heads the stars shone, and not far along the river there came the sharp blasts of a ship’s siren; one of the smaller ships was about to leave the Port of London.
Gideon switched on the radio as he reached the car, and Lemaitre lit a cigarette and flicked the match moodily over the car’s roof.
“Give me Mr. Appleby.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hello, Cappen,” greeted Appleby, obviously at his brightest. “Not forgotten the old folks at home? How are things out there?”
“Ominous.”
“Well, we can’t send anyone else,” said Appleby. “We’ve had to rush the cars over to Hampstead; three burglaries on the Heath. Could be by the same man but it don’t look like it. Bit of trouble in Mayling Square, too. Looks like a peeress has run off with a chauffeur, taking some of the heirlooms with them, and his nibs tried to shoot the lights out of them.”
“Who is it?’
“Lord Addisal.”
“Don’t take any chances with that,” said Gideon urgently. “Who’ve we got on duty?… Send Morley. He …”
“He’s there. But we can’t keep it quiet; the Daily Wire’s there too.”
“Morley can handle it if anyone can,” said Gideon. “We don’t want a rap over the knuckles from the House of Lords, and …”
“Ever hear that fool story about one law for the poor and one for the rich?” asked Appleby brightly. “Ever hear such libellous nonsense? I’ve got M. Monnet here - well, not exactly here, but downstairs waiting. What time will you be back?”
“Say half an hour, but don’t keep him waiting too long.”
. “No, sir. That’s about the lot,” Appleby went on. “We’re getting all the routine reports from the Divisions now. I’m telling the sarge to go through them and pick out anything he thinks worth looking at.”
“Good,” said Gideon.
Appleby was making sure that there could not be any cause for reproach, and he was proving almost exemplary in handling his job. Well, why not? A man could behave like a clown and still be a first-class detective. Take away Appleby’s schoolboy sense of humour, and you had a man who ought to have been in or at least near his, Gideon’s, shoes.
Gideon rang off.
“How’s it going?” asked Lemaitre.
“Quietish. Trouble out at Hampstead,” Gideon said, and saw Hemmingway and his sergeant turn the corner, walking very briskly. They had been longer even than he had expected, although he hadn’t thought Hemmingway would spend a lot of time with the Wide boys. The two men came up. Hemmingway quickened his pace as he approached Gideon; the other man dropped behind.
“How’d it go?” asked Gideon.
“They just gave me a bit of lip,” said Hemmingway gruffly. “If you ask me, when I told them to pack up and go home because we wouldn’t stand for any gang fight, he was laughing up his sleeve. And do you know what I found out, George?”
“What?”
“The Marianne’s only waiting for her last load of cargo; It’s due here any time. Not very big,” declared Hemmingway, “just a few bags of mail. But some of the bags will contain registered packages, mostly British currency for banks in Belgium and Holland, a few containing commercial diamonds on their way to Holland.” The NE man sounded bitter. “Not surprising I didn’t tumble to it. The truth is that I didn’t know the Post Office had started sending notes this way. They were sent by air until two weeks ago, when there were those thefts at the Hook.”
“How do you think the gangs will play it?” asked Gideon.
“Why don’t you finish the job?”
“Don’t be a blurry fool. How do you think they’ll play it?” demanded Gideon.
Hemmingway repeated, “Blurry fool; didn’t you ever leave Sunday school?” and then his natural good humour asserted itself, and he went on more easily. “I think they’ll be tipped off as soon as the van’s on its way. They’ll probably get a phone call. They’ll start the riot then, but it’ll be phoney. They’ll stop the van close to the Marianne, I should say, while we’re sitting and waiting for them to cut themselves to pieces. At a signal they’ll all pack it in and shake hands.”
“Could be,” agreed Gideon. “Well, it won’t take much time to find out what route the Post Office van will take, and to make sure they don’t get away with it. I’ll have to leave it to you, though; I’m wanted back at the Yard. Going to stop and see the fun, Lem?”
“If you don’t need me.”
“Come and tell me how it goes when it’s over,” said Gideon. “
Sorry I can’t stop; there’s a Frenchie here from Paris, wants us to extradite a chap who’s just come, over.” He bent almost double so as to get into the car. “Mind Melky’s wife,” he said. “She’ll cause more trouble than the rest of the gangs put together.”
He heard their chuckles as he started the engine and drove off.
“If they come any better than Gee-Gee, I’d like to be there to see,” said Hemmingway.
“If they come any better than Gee-Gee, I’d throw my hand in,” Lemaitre said. “Better get cracking, hadn’t we?”
A little over fifteen minutes later two more Squad cars passed the end of Lassiter Street, which was silent, like the rest of London.
Curiously, a little fog hung about here, although now there were very few traces. Not far away, Gideon drove for ten minutes through the empty streets, where every light seemed very bright, until he reached the Embankment. Soon he could see Big Ben, and gave himself a little personal eye test; he was able to pick out the time when he passed Charing Cross underground station, and rated that as good. He was even more comfortable in his mind than he had been when he had started out, and was resigned to the loss of the Prowler. There would be the East End mock fight to hand out to the press, the Harris baby rescue and two or three other successful jobs. There might be a few back-handers about the Prowler, but that was all. He turned into the gateway of the Yard at precisely ten minutes to three. Three Squad cars stood waiting, with their crews ready; when the reserve cars were down to three it really meant a busy night. He had a word with two of the detective inspectors in charge, then hurried up the stairs, up the lift, and along to his office. As he neared the door, he heard his name called from the comer.
“George.”
He turned round, to see the lanky Gibb, from the laboratory, hurrying after him on his spindly legs. Gibb had taken off his white smock, and wore a baggy tweed jacket and a white collar which was several sizes too large for him. He had a theory that constriction of the throat by a tight collar and tie was a primary cause of early development of heart diseases.
“What’ve you got?” asked Gideon.
“That fingernail scraping, blood, Group O,” said Gibb promptly, “and all the dope on the hair. How’s the girl?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Gideon.
“Let me know,” asked Gibb. “I’m just going downstairs for some eggs and bacon.”
Gideon said, “Tell them I’ll come down later if I can,” and went to his own door and opened it.
His own French was fair, although he could understand others better than he could speak the language, but he wouldn’t win a schoolboy’s prize with his accent. As he opened the door two men were talking in French so fluent and flawless that it was hard to believe that they were not both Frenchmen.
One was M. Monnet, the other Appleby.
They were sitting on either side of Appleby’s desk, talking nineteen to the dozen, the Frenchman’s pale hands waving about all over the place, Appleby with one hand in his pocket. On telephone duty at Gideon’s desk was the sergeant who had been in and out all evening - and in an odd way he surprised Gideon; he simply didn’t register except as a piece of office furniture.
Neither of the men at the small desk heard the door open, but the sergeant jumped up.
Appleby was saying something; the Frenchman answered swiftly, then slapped his hands together and roared with laughter. Almost to Gideon’s chagrin, the two men began to talk, one against the other, so fast that Gideon just couldn’t pick out the meaning of what they said, only picked up a few words here and there. Then he realized that they were exchanging unfamiliar phrases - Monnet in Paris argot, Appleby translating Cockney rhyming slang fairly liberally, and trotting it out as if French was his native language. Monnet was capping every phrase.
Gideon found himself chuckling.
Appleby looked up, startled, and then scrambled to his feet.
“Hello, hello, didn’t see you! This is M. Monnet …”
The Frenchman got up nearly as quickly and bowed, a tall, immaculate young man with a smoothly clean-shaven face and, now, no hint of the laughter he had shown when talking to Appleby. He held out this hand.
“I am very happy to meet you.” There was a slight precision of phrasing; otherwise his English was as good as his French. “You are Commander Gideon?”
“Yes.” Gideon gripped a small, firm hand and waved to the sergeant. “Bring me up a chair.” He saw the wariness spring to the Frenchman’s eyes, and suspected that the man was uneasily aware that he might have annoyed Appleby’s superior. “Glad to see you, M. Monnet, and before we go any further I’ve got one request to make.”
The chair arrived.
“Yes, certainly, Mr. Gideon,” said Monnet, while Appleby watched also with a kind of apprehension. One truth about Appleby was that even so near the retiring age he had an inferiority complex.
“We’re going to speak English,” said Gideon. “Exactly one minute ago I stopped thinking I could speak French.”
Monnet relaxed, and threw up his hands, delighted.
“But it is not true, I have heard of your excellent French, Commander! But you’re very kind. I am anxious, because …”
“Give me a minute,” said Gideon, and looked at Appleby. “Anything in from Brixton Hospital?”
“No change.”
And no Prowler.
“Otherwise normal?”
“I should think so.” Appleby slapped a hand on a sheaf of reports. “I haven’t finished looking through the Divisional reports but if there was anything to worry about, they’d tell us.”
“Good,” said Gideon. “Now. M Monnet…”
Among the reports on the desk was one from AB Division - Fulham. It said simply that a Mrs. Russell, of 21 Horley Street, had telephoned at two o’clock because she was worried about her daughter, a Mrs. Penn, who still hadn’t returned home, although she would normally have arrived soon after ten o’clock. The report added that there had been no word at hospitals or police stations about a Mrs. Penn being involved in any accident.
14 M. Monnet
Spread out on Appleby’s desk were the documents which Monnet had brought with him. Most were in French, but all had translation notes attached, and Gideon read the notes rather than the originals. It was apparent that the Surete Nationale had long suspected Leslie Forrester of the murder of the English girl in the Hautes-Pyrenees, but there had been no firm evidence. At the request of the authorities at Pau, Monnet had been in charge of investigations. He had finally collected a number of statements and much evidence, including a photograph, that Forrester had been with the girl in Pau three days before her body had been found. Following that, there were some carefully prepared statements and documents showing a painstaking collection of the evidence. Through all this there were the indications that the Surete Nationale had made up its mind not to suggest that an Englishman was involved until they were absolutely sure. That evening, Monnet was to have charged Forrester.
The sergeant still acted as telephone boy, taking messages and not once interrupting Gideon.
Gideon looked up from the documents.
“Does Forrester know you’re after him?”
“That I cannot say,” said Monnet. “It is peculiar, pairhaps that he should leave Paris tonight, but also, perhaps not. He visits Paris on business four or five times a year, you see that, although only once had he been there this year, since the murder. His business, you will also see, is that of a commercial travelair; he represents a woollen manufacturair.”
“Ever questioned him?”
“No, sir. But I have talked to the patron of the small hotel where he always stays, near St.-Germain-des-Pres, and it is possible that the landlord has told him of the questions. That I do not know. What do you considair, Mr. Gideon? Is it sufficient evidence for Scotland Yard?”
“On the strength of this I’d recommend extradition,” said Gideon, “but we’d have to hear what the chap’s got to say for himself first
. You’d like to take him back at once, I suppose.”
“If it is agreeable, yes, but I shall be quite satisfied if he is undair detention,” said Monnet. His eyes were very bright; obviously he was delighted with his reception.
“Soon as I saw all this stuff I asked the airport police to bring Forrester up, under guard,” said Appleby. “He should be here soon.”
“That’s good,” said Gideon.
He could hear his name being spoken from behind him, and glanced round to see the nondescript sergeant looking as if he was willing his superiors to stop talking. The sergeant had the telephone at his ear, and now he covered the mouthpiece quickly and hissed across:
“Excuse me, sir. Superintendent Wragg on the line. He says it’s urgent. Can you …”
“Coming,” said Gideon, and heaved himself to his feet. “Scuse me.” He lumbered across the office, a little stiffly, for something had given him a cramp in his right leg, while the sergeant held the telephone out almost anxiously. In the back of Gideon’s mind there were all the things he had learned from Monnet, and the probability that Forrester had in fact killed the girl and buried her body under the rocks in the Pyrenees, doubtless expecting it to stay there for years. The severe winter of the previous year had uncovered the body, for ice and snow had caused a small avalanche, and first a skull had been found, then all the bones and the odds and ends of the girl’s belongings which the French police had painstakingly collected and pieced together. Forrester had probably thought his year-old crime almost forgotten.
Now Wragg.
Wragg of GH Division had not sent in any special reports after that of the second baby. He was a self-sufficient type, and if he made a mistake it would be from taking too much upon himself rather than trying to shift responsibility; no time waster, either.
“Gideon,” said Gideon into the mouthpiece.
“Thought you’d want to know this,” said Wragg. “We’ve cornered the Prowler.”
