by John Creasey
It was certainly going to be a night to remember.
Gideon put down the receiver, three minutes after he’d had the news, and grinned broadly. Monnet was staring from the other side of the room as Gideon rubbed his great hands together. Sometimes it all went wrong and occasionally - not very often - everything went right, and this was the night of nights. Wragg was sure the cornered man was the Prowler. He had been seen leaving a tube station in Wragg’s Division, and Wragg-had been extremely thorough; he had not taken all his men away after the official finish of the great hunt. At the approach to all the stations, main bus stops and bridges in the Division, he had slapped white paint, thinned down so that it wouldn’t dry quickly, and his men had studied the footprints of every passenger.
One of the uniformed men had seen a heel print identical to that which he’d seen on a telephotograph.
“Our chap showed his hand a bit too early, and the Prowler realized what was on,” Wragg had said, “so they had a game of hide-and-seek up and down the station. Then the Prowler reached the street, but we had half a dozen men there by then. He got into a little park near the station, and hasn’t come out, but I thought you’d like to be at the finish.”
“You get him; I’ll come if I can,” Gideon had said, and then rung off, still grinning and rubbing his hand’s together. “Looks as if the Prowler’s in the bag, Charley,” he added. “How about that?”
Appleby gaped. “No!”
“Wragg says yes.”
“Must be personal magnetism,” said Appleby. “You want ‘em and they come. Perhaps I mean hypnotism. Look at the only known policeman who can mesmerize crooks, M. Monnet.” Monnet, realizing that there was a cause for rejoicing, rejoiced with them with bright smiles. “Forrester’s here in the waiting room,” Appleby went on. “I said you’d be right down.”
Gideon said more slowly, “Yes, I will.” He hesitated, while Monnet watched with obvious anxiety, hoping that he was to be present. Going down to interview a frightened man wanted for inquiries about a year-old murder was a kind of anticlimax, and Gideon would much rather be on his way to see Wragg, but if ever there was a case for entente cordiale this was it. “M. Monnet, if you’d like to come down with me you can see and listen to everything from outside the room while I talk to Forrester. Would you?”
“If you please!”
“Let’s go,” said Gideon.
It wasn’t going to take long.
Guilt was a thing which you couldn’t take for granted, no matter how tempted, and it revealed itself in a variety of odd ways. Sometimes it was so apparent that it seemed too good - for a policeman - to be true. That was the case with Forrester. He was a man in the early thirties, well set up, well dressed in light grey. A diamond tiepin flashed in his tie; his hair was immaculate; if he could have kept his nerve he would have created a very good impression. As it was, he paced the floor of the small waiting room with the window through which no one could see, but through which watchers could see in. As Gideon entered, he spun round, snatching a half-smoked cigarette from his lips.
“Look here, what the hell is all this? Who are you? Why am I being held here? I demand my rights, do you hear? I demand my rights.”
“And you shall have them,” said Gideon, very quietly. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Forrester.” Nine times out often the gambit he decided to use would fail, seven times out of ten it would be folly; but he had seldom felt more convinced that it would come off. His tone had silenced Forrester, and he went on quite casually. “What did you do with the money, the diamond ring and brooch which you stole from Miss Guthrie before you killed her?”
Forrester nearly broke down, but something stiffened his resolve and he spoke evenly enough. “I didn’t kill her. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Why not tell us the truth? We shall find it out in the long run,” Gideon insisted. “Where …”
“I know nothing about it,” Forrester declared, his eyes glittering. “I want to see my solicitor, at once - that’s if you won’t let me go.”
“I’m afraid it will take a few days. M. Monnet,” Gideon said soon afterward. “I hope you can stay in London; we’ll be happy to have you spend some time with us. Of course we’ll get everything done as soon as we can, but unless we can break down Forrester’s denials …”
“There is no urgent reason for my return,” said Monnet, “but I do not want to go back without him.”
“We’ll break him down if we can,” Gideon promised. “I’ll detail a Chief Inspector to work with you; just the man to wear Forrester down.”
Monnet was grateful, and Gideon took him along to a C.I. whose French was almost as good as Appleby’s. Then Gideon went back to his office. Appleby would already know the result of the interview, and he ought to know also whether Wragg had yet caught the Prowler. But Appleby was sitting at the desk writing, no longer showing any sign of excitement. It was nearly four o’clock, and he looked tired.
“He’s tough, then?”
“Yes. Anything from …” Gideon hesitated, and then added abruptly: “Hemmingway?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t slip up there, could he?” asked Gideon musingly, and found himself stifling a yawn. Appleby didn’t volunteer anything about the Prowler, which meant that there wasn’t any fresh news. It was hardly worth going to see Wragg now, though; inviting being met by a smug superintendent and a handcuffed prisoner. The Office, still warm, was untidy, indicating the amount of work which had been handled in the past eight hours. Long shifts, these night shifts. The sergeant in brown who didn’t register was not in the office, but the Divisional reports, with all of Appleby’s notes and comments, were on Gideon’s desk. He went to it, then realized that he was very hungry; he hadn’t had anything at all since a meal with Kate at about five o’clock, except a couple of stiff whiskies.
He sat down, rather heavily.
“Thought you’d go have a bite,” said Appleby. “No use neglecting the inner man, Chief.”
“Just thinking of that, too, but I think I’ll send for a sandwich.”
“Two minds,” said Appleby, grinning. “I ordered ham and beef, tea and coffee.” He waved a hand at Gideon’s smile of appreciation. “You know your trouble, George, don’t you?’ It was the first time he had brought himself to say “George” and even then it was obviously an effort, for he paused for a moment before adding. “You work too hard. Know what they say about all work and no play? Digs a copper’s grave next day. I don’t know what ticks with people with a metabolism like yours, I don’t really.”
The door opened and a uniformed man came in from the canteen with sandwiches, tea, coffee, mustard and some cakes coated with sugar icing.
“Thanks,” said Gideon. “Fine.”
He munched and drank as he looked through the reports. As he knew well from past experience, this was the night’s quiet time. If it followed custom, the telephone calls would become more and more infrequent, the sound of Squad cars returning from their different assignments would be clear outside, and soon the day would begin for the rest of London. The charwomen, the men on the way to stoke boilers banked up for the night, the workmen due to start as soon as daylight came would be on the move. As much work as possible would be done on the roads and on electricity, gas and water mains before the throngs began to descend upon the streets. Soon the first buses would approach Parliament Square from each direction, and all the tube lines would be busy again.
Most of the night’s crimes had been committed.
Not all, thought Gideon, as he flipped the pages over. In the city or a suburb men might still be drilling the safe of a bank or warehouse, men might be loading lorries at this moment with stolen goods, crooks might have done their job and be sitting in comfort at the scene of it, perhaps having a meal, so that they need not leave too early and so furtively. Any man wandering abroad between one o’clock and half past four was likely to be questioned by the police; after that, the police were likely to assume that he w
as about his normal business.
So it was not all done.
There was still no word from Wragg, and that worried him; none from Hemmingway or Lemaitre, and that puzzled him. There were other jobs that he knew little about, some that he knew nothing about - one, although he did not realize it, under his very hand.
This was the report from AB Division, and the note about Mrs. Penn and her anxious mother. It was near the bottom of the pile, because it had come in near the end, and Appleby was as methodical as an automat. Gideon glanced across at him and saw, now that the night was well advanced, that Appleby looked tired and old, with deep lines at his forehead and his eyes, others at his lips. All the brightness and the vitality seemed to have been drained out of him, but he sat working doggedly, sifting papers, jotting down notes, suggesting which crook might have committed this job or that, assigning men to inquiries, deciding which case could be left to the Division and which one needed urgent following up by the Yard.
It was very quiet in the office.
Gideon turned a report over, and saw the AB form, typewritten, ran his eye down the first page, which carried a brief and concise report of the baby kidnapping, and two reports of shops being burgled. On the next page was the report from Mrs. Penn’s mother. Gideon started to turn the page, seeing Appleby’s note on the shop burglaries: Looks like Pinky White, left-hand job, his usual means of entry: suggest pick him up.
That would be done in the morning.
Gideon flipped the page.
Sharp and stinging, the telephone rang. It was the first time tonight that it had surprised him, and he glanced up. Appleby had been shaken out of his mechanical movement of hand and pen, too.
“Gideon”.
“Mr. Wragg for you, sir.”
“Put him through.”
“Right away, sir… . Here’s Mr. Gideon.”
“What’s on?” asked Gideon, in a voice which betrayed his fear of bad news.
“I hope there’s a special bit of brimstone for the Prowler,” Wragg said, and Gideon thought with a sudden weight of depression that the man had got away. Then: “Climbed up to a top-floor room of a house overlooking the park. There’s a girl in the room. Says he’ll kill her if we don’t let him go. Sounds as if he’d do it, too,” said Wragg, who in turn sounded the most depressed officer in the Force.
15 The Desperate Men
Less than half an hour earlier, Marjorie Hayling had stirred in her sleep, in her one-room flat let at the top of an old house in a cul-de-sac in Earl’s Court. Stirring, she had shifted the bedclothes, uncovering her white shoulder and a little of her arm. A street lamp just outside the house threw a shadow into the room - the shadow of a man who was climbing in. It appeared on the ceiling and then, as he drew further in, on the top of the wall, a dark, moving shadow.
There were sounds outside, footsteps, men calling out, someone saying clearly:
“There he is!”
Another light, that from a powerful torch, had touched the man’s feet as he had hauled himself into the room. A small cabinet was close to the window, and he kicked against it and sent it rocking.
That woke the girl.
At first, all she knew was the fear of a fast-beating heart and quick, almost painful breathing, as if she had waked from a nightmare; but gradually the sounds had come into the room. Her eyes had focused on the man coming toward her with his arms outstretched. She could only just make out his hands and his face, although he was so near.
She tried to scream, and he pounced.
She felt his icy fingers at her neck, and struck at him, but her arm caught in the sheet and she could do nothing more to help herself. She saw the glitter in his eyes, then felt the choking pressure at her throat. Suddenly there was a tightness at her lungs, becoming worse and worse until it seemed as if her chest would burst.
Then she lost consciousness.
The Prowler felt her go limp, held on tightly for a moment, then let her fall. For a fleeting moment his hand touched her hair, and there was strange gentleness in the movement, but he heard more sounds below, as of a car drawing up, and he turned to the window, which was still wide open. He stared down, desperately. Fifty feet below were a dozen men, half of them policemen in uniform, most of them staring up. One man held a torch, two pointed, someone exclaimed:
“There he is!”
Another called in a deep, carrying voice. “Don’t give us any more trouble; you can’t get away.”
“If you don’t gel away from there and let me go I’ll kill her!” the Prowler shouted, and his voice was shrill and clear. “That’s what I’ll do, I’ll kill her.”
A man said, as if shocked, “There’s a woman up there.”
“I’ll kill her!” the Prowler screeched, and then backed from the window and slammed it down so that the walls of the room shook. He darted across the room and switched on the light. The girl lay limp on the bed, her dark hair against the white pillow, bare arms and bare shoulders all uncovered now. He opened the door into the “hall,” then the door leading to the landing, and, as he did so, heard a banging; that would be the police trying to get in at the street door. He spun round - all his movements were swift and darting - went into the bedroom and pushed an armchair on squeaking casters toward the landing door. It banged against the wooden panels. He turned the chair on end, and then slammed the room door on it. He could feel the pressure; the chair was between the two doors, and he had barricaded himself in better even than he had planned.
He was breathing very hard as he turned round, went to the bed, tore a sheet into strips and bound the girl’s hands together tightly.
The noises from the street were muted now, but he crept close to the window and looked out. More cars were on the street, and suddenly a much brighter light shone upward, making him dodge to one side. No one was attempting to climb up the side of the house, and he turned and studied the unconscious girl.
She was breathing very evenly.
He watched her,-his eyes narrowing.
He was a slightly built man probably in the middle thirties, with fair, receding hair, a little, pointed nose and rather thin lips. Not bad looking in a way; an ineffectual type if one judged by appearances, the nine-to-six kind of office worker, except that the cut and quality of his clothes were very good. His hands were very large in proportion to his body, and his fingers looked very strong.
He glanced about the room.
In one corner was a small gas stove, and above it some shelves, curtained off, probably containing pots and pans. Near this was a small larder, on a table. The whole of this corner could be curtained off, too, leaving the bed-sitting-room looking fresh and pleasant. It had been recently painted and papered, and the carpet, a patterned green, was new looking. On the small dressing table in the corner there stood a vase of carnations - six pink blooms. The whole room had the look of one who was house-proud.
A small wardrobe stood against one wall.
The man moved to it, and began to shift the wardrobe, gradually pushing it until it was wedged against the door. Now the only possible way in was through the window, and the Prowler seemed to relax when he realized that.
He went to the side of the bed, and touched the girl’s hair.
Then a booming voice sounded, almost as if it were in the room, and he made a darting move toward the window.
“Listen, you there! If you open the door and comedown, we’ll give you a fair deal. We won’t hurt you.”
He ran his hand across his forehead, and moistened his lips. Then he went close to the window, but he couldn’t see out properly so he opened the window a few inches. He was able to see much better. Five cars were in the cul-de-sac, now, and a man stood by one of them with a microphone to his mouth. The voice came again, loud and clear.
“We won’t hurt you. Open the door and come out.”
He leaned down and put his face close to the opening of the window, and called:
“If you don’t let me go I’ll kill her!”
/> “Don’t be a fool, you’ll only make it worse for yourself.”
“I’ve told you what I’ll do. I’ll kill her!” the Prowler screeched, and then he slammed the window down.
Marjprie Hayling’s eyes were wide open.
She had heard every word.
It was half past four.
A few miles away, across London, Rikker stood by the wall in the passage leading to the cellar of his little house. It was cold, yet he was sweating. His hair, face, shoulders, hands, clothes, everything was covered with a thick-film of dust. By his side were a small crowbar, a hammer, a cold chisel and several other tools. Heaps of powder from the cement and the bricks lay on the floor, and the air was filled with the writhing dust.
He kept coughing.
A dozen or so bricks, some broken, some whole, were on the floor just behind him. Chippings of bricks lay about, and now and again, as he moved, he crunched some under his feet. He kept wiping the sweat off his forehead, and his face was streaked with damp grime; there was a crust of dirt on his short, stubby eyelashes.
Suddenly he flung a crowbar down. It clattered noisily as he strode toward the steps which led upward. He had to pass the door which led into the main part of the cellar, where the woman was, and he looked inside.
There she sat, under the light, and he could not tell whether she was awake or unconscious; whether she was alive or dead.
She was still alive, but barely conscious.
Rikker went upstairs. His wife sat in an old saddle back chair, her head back, mouth open, uncanny white teeth showing. She whistled and squeaked as she breathed, her eyes were tightly closed, and he knew that she wasn’t pretending sleep. He made as if to wake her, but some whim changed his mind, and he went through into the scullery and washed his hands and doused his face in cold water. He dabbed himself dry, and returned to the kitchen; the running water and the sound of his movements hadn’t disturbed his wife. Rikker opened the doors of a cupboard, took out a bottle nearly full of whisky, splashed some into a thick glass, and went into the scullery and filled the glass with water. Then he drank deeply.
