by John Creasey
Going back, he kicked accidentally against the door, and it slammed. His wife started, her eyes flickered, and she struggled more upright, her lips working as if she was as thirsty as Rikker himself, or else caught by sudden fear.
Her eyes were strangely round and brilliant.
“You done it?” she asked in a gasping voice. “Have you?”
“Lot of use you are,” Rikker sneered. “I thought I told you to bring me a drink an hour ago.”
She started to struggle to her feet.
“I’ll get it, I’ll get it!”
“Siddown. I helped meself.”
She was quite upright now, staring at him almost as if in horror.
“You - you done it?”
“No.”
“I - I thought …” She glanced at a little alarm clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s half past four! You said you’d be finished by three, you said …”
“Well, I ain’t finished yet,” Rikker said roughly.
“W - w - why?”
“The wall’s like concrete, and I can’t make the hole big enough. Can’t make too much noise, can I?”
“How - how much longer will it take you?”
“How the hell do I know?” Rikker demanded. “All I know is I’ve been working all night, and I’m tired out, see?”
“Can - can I do anything?”
Rikker leered at her.
“You can have forty winks while I do the work,” he said roughly. He picked up the glass and drank as if the contents were beer, not whisky. He looked tired, and the dust, now caked on his face and especially round his eyes, made it appear as if he had a mask on. “Yeh, you can come and help; I’ve got more bricks nearly loose now.”
She got up eagerly.
“Got to get it finished quick,” Rikker went on, almost to himself. “Got to get her inside and the wall patched up again, but …”
“What are you going to do if you can’t - can’t get it finished tonight?”
Rikker growled, “I’m thinking, ain’t I?’
He nodded abruptly and then went downstairs, walking very slowly and carefully, so as to make no noise. It was the noise which drove him almost to desperation. He picked up the crowbar, and then his big, heavy boots crunched on the brick chippings. As he prised at some of the bricks he had laid bare, they moved much more easily than they had a few minutes ago, and his shoulders seemed to brace themselves and he worked with great eagerness. His wife picked up a screwdriver and prised more bricks away, and she was able to work almost as quickly as he.
“Looks as if the worst is over,” she said. “They’re movin’ easier.”
“Could be.” Rikker began to chip at the cement between the bricks, and this was something which took more time and which really needed much more force; but too much force would make a noise which would be heard by the people next door, and that was the one thing which Rikker was desperately anxious not to do.
Then, cement began to crumble.
“Got another soft patch,” he said, and there was a glitter in his eyes and he began to work more quickly.
The piles of bricks grew, and the hole in the wall grew. It was a sturdily built cavity wall, as he knew from grim experience.
“Nearly got room already,” Mrs. Rikker wheezed, and the dust which had now gathered on her eyes made them shine like polished glass. “How much more room do you want?”
“Not much. But I want a rest from this. I’ll go and mix the plaster now,” said Rikker. “There’s plenty leftover from last time. You start tidying up, and use plenty of water, or that dust’ll be the death of me.”
He went into the large cellar. His victim raised her head very slowly, and looked at him with dulled, pained eyes. He scowled and averted his gaze, and went hurriedly toward the corner where there was a small bag of cement and a heap of sand. He shovelled some sand onto a plaster board, picked up the cement and a hand trowel, and began to work.
His wife was coming downstairs with a broom and a bucket of water. “Get a move on,” he called. “This job’s giving me the creeps.”
At half past four, Tony Melcrino got up from the table, where he had been sitting for so long that his legs ached, and looked down at his Lollo. She was lying back in the armchair, her legs up on a smaller chair, and his thick, belted overcoat round her shoulders. There was no way in which Lollo could look anything but beautiful, not even like this.
She was breathing softly, her lips pouting and quivering, pouting and quivering.
He beckoned” several of his boys; they walked across the dance floor, their footsteps echoing. The music had been stopped for a couple of hours, and the members of his gang were sitting round the walls, many of them asleep, a few playing cards. The giggly girl at the bar was lying behind the counter with one of her two boyfriends, both fast asleep. The garish room and the dingy festoons and decorations looked even worse. So did the sign that hung so low that it almost touched Melcrino’s head.
Youth for Christ Crusade.
Melcrino didn’t look his twenty-two years, and might easily have been taken for eighteen or nineteen, partly- because he was so small.
Two guards were at the front door.
“See any cops?” Melcrino asked.
“They’re quiet.”
“Sure they ain’t gone?’
“They’re around.”
“Spike still at the corner?”
“Yeh.”.
“With Widey’s boys?’
“Yeh.”
“’Kay. Bert …” Melcrino turned to one of the men who had come from the dance hall with him.” - go and tell Widey I want to talk to him.”
“Sure, okay, Melky.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Okay, Melky!” Bert hurried out, and then ran toward the other clubhouse, which was so near and yet was often out of bounds, for the two gangs seldom mixed. Two or three of the Wide boys watched as Bert approached, and word was sent back to Jacky Wide, who was not only leader of the gang but had given it its name.
Bert sent a cryptic message, and the answer came promptly: “Sure, Melky can come.”
“He didn’t say he’d come here, he said …”
“Widey’ll talk to him but he won’t come and lick his shoes,” a Wide boy said. “You go and tell Melky that. If he wants to talk, okay, he can come.”
Melky was still in the doorway when he got the message. Obviously he didn’t like it; as obviously, it didn’t surprise him. He put his hand just inside his trousers waistband, where he kept a knife with a sheath which was kept well greased to facilitate, quick movement.
“You ain’t going to let Widey tell you what you’re going to do,” Bert protested roughly. “You’d be crazy.”
“So the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, so what does Mahomet do?” asked Melky, and gave a little grin which many people had learned to dislike. “Two of you come with me.” He stepped into the dark street, looked right and left, and then walked quickly toward the Red Lion Gymnasium. The guards at the door let him in without question. He and his two bodyguards were led across the dance floor in this club to something he hadn’t got himself - a comfortable living room with easy chairs, a television set and a cocktail cabinet.
Widey had two men with him, small, thickset, very tense looking. Widey himself was taller than most of the members of either gang, not a bad-looking man with a shock of black hair, pale features and a pointed chin; his head was shaped rather like a pear with a very flat top. His eyes were dark blue, and he watched Melky narrowly.
“Want to talk to me, Melky?”
“That’s what I said. You know what time it is?”
“Four thirty.”
“It’s nearly five o’clock,” Melky said. “You think that van’s coming?”
“It’ll come.”
“Listen,” Melky said, “you wouldn’t have had that van stopped before it got here, would you?”
Widey looked so startled that his very expression carried conviction. The
n he gave a quick grin. He could be very attractive when he grinned; there was a bold air about him, something almost piratical, and a swagger, too.
“That would have been a brain wave, Melky, only I never thought of it!”
“So long as you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” said Widey. “So what’s next?’
“Do we still wait?”
“You can go home, but I’m going to wait,” said Widey, and his voice became harsher. “We’ve got the cops drawn off nicely; we don’t have anything to worry about. We let the van go through the gate, and then we start the fight, and while the cops are laying for us we take the stuff off the van. That’s the way it will be. If you’ve got cold feet, okay, my boys can fight among themselves. They’ll make it look convincing.”
“Who said anything about cold feet?”
Widey grinned. “Maybe you have good reason for wanting to go to bed.”
“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t agreed to string along with you,” said Melky, his lips drawn very taut. His right hand was moving close to the favourite spot at his waistband. “Sometimes I think I’ll be glad when …”
“Listen, Melky,” Widey said, suddenly quite earnest, “if the cops think we’re going to war they’ll sit back and let us fight it out, see? They’ll expect us to cut ourselves up. So that’s what we let them think. But you and me, we’re too fly for that. A few of the boys are nabbed and maybe they’ll get six months, so what do we do? We look after them when they come out, no one’s any the worse off. The cops think we’re going to sit back and lick our wounds, and that’s how much they know, the flickin’ so-and-sos. We’ll have it all our own way for weeks before they get round to realizing that we ain’t dead yet, and then we’ll have a rest, see, and they won’t be able to pin anything on us. That’s the plan we agreed, Melky, what’s the matter with keeping it that way?”
Melky didn’t speak.
“But just say the word,” said Widey, “and I’ll go it on my own. I …”
A sharp ringing sound cut across his words, the ringing of a telephone. The phone was behind him, and he turned round swiftly, leaned forward and grabbed it.
“Who’s sat? …”
“Whassat?…”
“Okay!”
He put down the receiver very slowly and turned to look at Melky, his head on one side, his lips twisted in a grin which told its own story. He didn’t speak immediately, but seemed to enjoy keeping Melky on tenterhooks. Then he announced:
“The van’s on the way. Okay?”
“Okay,” breathed Melky. “It’ll be here in ten minutes. Okay. No knives, no razors, nothing to do any serious harm, that okay?”
“That’s the way we planned it, and that’s the way it’s going to be,” said Widey. “You ever known me go back on my word?” He held out his hand. “Shake on it?”
They shook hands.
“Okay,” breathed Melky, and turned and hurried out with Bert and the other member of his gang to start the mock fight. In five minutes the “battle” would be at its height, and in five minutes the Post Office van carrying a small fortune would pass through the gateway of the docks.
When he had gone, Widey grinned broadly and evilly, and very slowly took out a double-edged blade fitted into a handle so that-it could cut nastily, but not go dangerously deep. Then he went outside to a big barrel by the door and whipped the cloth off the top. It was full of potatoes. His men came hurrying, each dipping into the barrel and picking out two of three potatoes. They looked like ordinary unpeeled potatoes, but buried in each was a double edged razor blade. Many of the men had ugly, spiked knuckle dusters on their hands already.
“So Melky fell for it,” Jacky Wide said. “He fell for it good and hard. After tonight there won’t be any Melky gang left.”
16 Gideon Moves
Gideon heard Wragg’s telephone go down, and replaced his own. As he did so, he stood up slowly, and the button of his coat caught the Divisional report he had been reading, and pushed it to one side. The page above that which reported Mrs. Russell’s anxiety about her daughter, Netta Penn, fell slowly, and so hid the paragraph from sight. As he moved again, he knocked the report off the desk and stooped down to pick it up.
“The Prowler’s shut himself up with a girl and says, he’ll kill her if we don’t let him go,” he said to Appleby, quite flatly.
Appleby said, “Gawd, no.”
“I’d better go over,” said Gideon.
He didn’t go to the door at once, but lit a cigarette and deliberated. Appleby pushed his chair back, his eyes brighter, the look of an aging man vanished for a moment.
In fact Gideon was trying to make up his mind about his own motives for wanting to go to Earl’s Court at once. The Prowler was his primary reason for coming on duty tonight, and above everything else was the man he wanted - but was it necessary for him to go in person? He knew all the arguments. When a man barricaded himself in and had a hostage, it could be very ugly, for only desperate men did that. There was nothing to suggest that the Prowler had a gun, but he didn’t need a gun to kill that girl. If the police had to lay siege, it could last for a long time, and that would mean real trouble in the morning, with the Home Office involved, big newspaper stories inevitable. If he didn’t go, and if Wragg didn’t get the Prowler while saving the hostage’s life, then the Assistant Commissioner, the Commissioner himself and probably the Home Secretary would want to know why the senior official on duty hadn’t taken charge.
This wasn’t just a question of wanting to finish the job off himself.
“You’d better get over there, quick,” said Appleby. “You certainly know how to pick nights, George.”
“The Prowler was almost a cert,” said Gideon, and he glanced down at the report which he had picked up ready to throw it on the desk. By chance, the page which fell open was the one with the note about Mrs. Russell’s report, and he glimpsed the name “Penn.”
He read the paragraph quickly.
“What’s on now?” asked Appleby.
“That Mrs. Penn,” said Gideon. “Remember she rang me, but didn’t hold on long enough?”
“Ridgway sent a man round to see her, didn’t he?”
“Yes, she wasn’t home. Now there’s a report from her mother that she wasn’t back by two o’clock,” said Gideon. “What’s worrying me is why she didn’t wait to talk to me.” He was scowling now. “If she took the trouble to ask for me, why didn’t she hold on?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“It smells,” said Gideon. “Charley, have a Squad car go round and see Mrs. Russell now, find out all they can from her and if she’s got any idea where her daughter went. Follow it up. Tell the chaps in the car that it’s a special from me.”
“Gee-up, from Gee-Gee,” quipped Appleby.
As he went outside, Gideon shook his head and through his clenched teeth said, “The blurry fool!” and then he began to hurry. The annoyance with Appleby lasted only for a few seconds, and he realized that his own hesitation about what he should do was due to one thing only: he was tired. His eyes were heavy and there was the feel of sandpaper in them, telling its own story. Except for a couple of hours that afternoon he hadn’t slept since six o’clock yesterday morning, which meant that he’d been on the go for a straight twenty-four, and he wasn’t used to it. Give him three or four such stretches in a row, and there would be nothing to worry about.
It seemed brighter out in the courtyard, and the stars were pale, but it was false dawn. Half past five. Gideon caught a glimpse of a bus passing on Parliament Street, its passenger lights very bright and glittering. Six or seven cars were waiting now, and one of them was beginning to move. Had Appleby been as quick as that, or was it another job? Gideon got into his own car and pulled out, and the squad car drew level.
“You going to Mrs. Russell, at Fulham?”
“Yessir.”
“Quick work, keep it up.”
Gideon saw the driver’s fleeting smile of satisfaction, and let
him draw ahead; seconds weren’t likely to make any difference at Earl’s Court. Why the hell had they let the Prowler get away, anyhow? It was all very well to slap a copper on the back for being observant, but of all the men to let through their fingers! - a brute who had proved only tonight that he would rather kill than be captured.
That reminded Gideon of another job he’d meant to do. He flicked on the radio, and as soon as he was answered he asked:
“How’s the Lewis girl out at Brixton?”
“Last we heard, no change,” Whittaker told him from Information, “and with that kind of injury if they can hold on for a few hours it often works out all right.”
“Yes, good thanks.”
“Pleasure. Going out to Wragg?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a man who’s kicking himself,” said Whittaker. “Don’t tear him all to pieces.”
“I’ll leave a bit whole,” said Gideon, and rang off.
Talking to Whittaker reminded him again of Matthew, and the boy waiting for him outside the garage, the only place where he could rely on having a word with him without his mother knowing. Bad thing to let him think that one parent might take sides without the knowledge of the other, but it had showed him more clearly than he’d ever seen before how little time he really spent with his family, except the Sunday “jam” sessions. He smiled. When he called them “jam” sessions, Pru immediately flew off the handle. To her, music was something almost sacred; her violin was a kind of altar. The thoughts flickered through his mind as he drove fast through the streets, which were gradually coming to life; the occasional bus, the occasional cyclist, here and there a private car. Probably he was passing men with their loot in their pockets, men who wouldn’t get picked up for tonight’s job, but sooner or later would end up in court.
He’d have a hell of a lot to do when he got back to the office, preparing reports for the men who would takeover. The Golightly woman would have to go before the beak; she would have an eight day remand, or course. Forrester would have to be tackled. The four Hatton Gardens men would be up at Bow Street; the hundred and one -
