by John Creasey
Gideon looked down at the papers and oddments which had been taken from the Prowler’s pockets, and which a sergeant was examining. He was putting the money and impersonal things to one side and pushing those which looked interesting toward Gideon and Wragg. They were in a downstairs room at the house where the Prowler had taken refuge and the things from his pockets were on the deal-topped table.
The Prowler himself, handcuffed to a detective, was already on his way to the Yard.
He hadn’t said a word.
Gideon picked up a crocodile-skin wallet, felt it, looked at it, and said:
“This isn’t plastic; it’s the real stuff.”
“Look at that,” said Wragg, and lifted a slim gold cigarette case.
“Monogram on the lighter,” Gideon said, and opened the wallet. “Stuffed with notes.” A curious kind of tension came back into the room, even when it had looked as if this would be a kind of anti-climax. He took some papers out of the wallet, and read in the same almost startled voice, “The Hon. Alistair Campbell Gore, twenty-nine Moniham Square, W.I. Hear that, Wragg? He’s young Campbell-Gore, he …” Gideon’s voice cracked.
“What do you know?” said Wragg weakly. “Chap inherits half a million quid one year, and starts going on this kind of prowl the next! It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s going to make the biggest noise we’ve heard for a long time,” said Gideon. “I thought I’d seen him before, that pinched little nose and - well, that’s it, now I’ve seen everything. Get it all ship-shape, will you?”
“I will!”
“And let me have reports on Cobley.”
“I will. Where you off to?”
“The Yard,” said Gideon. “Home from home.”
He left the house at once. A small car had just drawn up near the police cars, and he wondered if this was the press. He turned in the other direction and crossed the road without, apparently, being recognized. That way it took him more than two minutes to get to his car, but better that than to stand and talk to the newspapermen; and if he just brushed them off, they wouldn’t like it and it wouldn’t do anyone any good. His car was far enough from the end of the cul-de-sac not to attract any particular attention, and he got in and drove off. Now a steady stream of people was heading for the tube station, and groups of three or four were waiting at all the bus stops. What time was it? Nearly six. Well, it hadn’t taken, long, but at one time it had seemed unending. It would be a long time before he forgot the way his heart lurched when Cobley had started his daring leap.
And the Hon. Alistair Campbell-Gore -
“I give up,” Gideon, said, and then flicked on the radio. They had caught the Prowler, but no reaction of triumph had come with it, and he realized that the tension of the last scenes had added to his tiredness. If he had his way he would put his head down for a couple of hours, and there wasn’t a chance. The only big job outstanding was the gang trouble out at the docks, and he was half inclined to believe that it would die a natural death. In spite of the truculence, the gang leaders might have decided that it wasn’t worth risking a clash with the police. “Hello, Charley,” he said.
“Strewth, you haven’t half missed a birthday party, you have,” said Appleby, and his voice seemed to be filled with genuine excitement. “It’s still on, too, if you get a move on you ought to see the last act. All the world’s a stage, and …”
“Never mind Shakespeare, what’s happening?”
“The Melky gang and the Wide boys,” said Appleby. “Dunno what went wrong, but something did. Hemmingway fixed the van. When Melky and Jacky Wide opened the doors at the back, half a dozen of our chaps jumped out, and they didn’t mind using their truncheons. That was soon over. But the Wide boys were just tearing into Melky’s gang. They were about even in number but the Wide boys simply cut them up. That Jacky Wide seems-“
“What else has come in?”
“Only unusual thing’s from Willesden. Chap’s dug up some human bones in his back garden. I sent Piper over. Nothing urgent.”
“I’ll go straight to NE Division,” said Gideon. “Don’t tell ‘em I’m coming.”
He had to drive past the end of Lassiter Street.
He saw a car standing halfway along it, and two heavily built men standing by the car; that was the Flying Squad, and they didn’t seem to be in any great hurry or to have anything much on their minds.
Gideon was half a mile from the two clubs when he saw the first evidences of the fight: two ambulances, coming away from the scene of it. Driving through the little mean streets as a grey light filtered into the sky, he saw more. Here and there a man crept along the pavement by himself, one holding his arm up as if it hurt, another with a bloody head, a third limping. Two police cars, each carrying two of the “boys” and two policemen, passed. Nearer the clubs, there was the noise of shouting and scuffling. At the corner where Gideon had waited earlier, four men were struggling - two “boys” and two plain clothes policemen. Round the corner and nearer the first club were three or four other struggling groups and several men on the ground, but the thing that worried Gideon most was that the police were involved in each of the struggles; there was no question here of the Wide boys fighting Melky’s gang. He couldn’t drive along this street, so he left the car in the middle of the road and hurried toward the corner, for the worst of the fighting would probably be in the street between the two clubs.
It was not.
There were signs of a fight, though. Battered hats, caps, sticks and, like a litter of paper, little pieces of potatoes, some whole potatoes, and, sparkling in the lights from the street lamps and the clubs, the brightness of steel. He only needed a glance to tell what had happened.
Two policemen were outside each of the clubs, and he asked the same question: “Mr. Hemmingway here?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir,” the second man said, “they - Mr. Hemmingway and Mr. Lemaitre, that is - they went to the docks.”
“Right,” said Gideon. “Thanks.” It was a long walk from the gateway just ahead to the quayside, and he didn’t want to tackle it, but there was no car in sight. He walked as briskly as he could toward the gateway, and saw several police cars coming toward him; three in all. He recognized Hemmingway in the first, but not Lemaitre. Hemmingway slowed down; he looked bitter and angry.
“Room for me?” asked Gideon.
“Hop in.”
Gideon got in.
“How’d it go?” asked Gideon.
“First time I’ve ever felt like throwing my hands in,” Hemmingway said roughly, and he looked vicious and angry. “This is my beat and I ought to know how their minds tick, but Jacky Wide fooled me.” He glanced sideways at Gideon. “He fooled you, too, and he fooled Melcrino. We picked up one of the Wide boys - one, out of that mob - and got bits of the story out of him. Widey was after the stuff from the van all right, but it wasn’t his first objective; he didn’t mind if he let it go. He made a deal with Melcrino to stage a mock fight to fool us, while some of the gang was holding up the van. Melcrino thought he was on the level, and started to fight with the gloves on. Jack Wide didn’t. His boys used razors, knives, and knuckle dusters, and the Melky gang didn’t have a chance. I don’t mind telling you that for once I felt almost sorry for them. We’ve picked up about twenty of them already, and sent them to the hospital, and there’ll be as many being nursed at home. Take it from me, George, the Melky gang doesn’t exist any more. The few who didn’t get hurt will rat on Melky and go in with Jack Wide. And the Wide boys …”
He broke off. This was the thing that really hurt, the thing that Gideon wasn’t going to enjoy hearing.
“Well, let’s have it.”
“The Wide boys had it all laid on. That’s the truth. They’d pretty well finished the Melky gang before we weighed in. They knew we were coming, and what did they do? They went through this gateway here like a lot of rats. They’d chosen a night this week because the gates were down. They went straight to the docks, w
here four old motorboats were tuned up and waiting - pleasure boats being prepared for next summer; the dock police didn’t know that the men working on them were Wide boys. They did a darn near perfect job, George - even had two fake warehouse raids up the river that held the River Police while they headed for the Surrey bank. Made it, too. We could see ‘em scrambling up on the other side; the tide was pretty high and they didn’t have any trouble. They’ll all get home without a scratch, and Jacky Wide will be cock o’ the walk for a hell of a long time to come - and ask yourself where we’ll be?”
“Take it easy,” Gideon said quietly, “and get the word put around quickly that the Post Office hold-up job was Wide’s idea, and we stopped him and drove him and his boys across the river. That might help a bit.”
“Oh, it will help,” agreed Hemmingway, “but the truth’s the truth, George. Jacky’s ten times as strong as he was, and we’re going to have a lot of trouble with him in the future.”
Of course, he was right. Not only in the Division but in the neighbouring Divisions, there would be a time of tension and setbacks. The police would make as-big a smoke screen as they liked, but wouldn’t be able to hide the truth.
“Any news of Melcrino?” Gideon asked.
“We’ve got him, and he’ll cool his heels for six months or so,” said Hemmingway. “Funny thing, though - they didn’t touch his Lollo, just told her she wouldn’t be hurt, and she could go home to her kids. She went, too. That’s what I mean about Jacky Wide,” the Divisional man added bitterly. “He’s smart, and I mean smart. Letting Lollo go free is just the right touch. Wide would put most people against him if he’d hurt her, but now he’ll be a kind of whiteheaded boy.”
“You’ll find a way to black his nose as well as his head,” Gideon said.
Then he yawned.
On his way back, along roads which were much thicker, with traffic, and where every other vehicle coming toward him seemed to be loaded with vegetables, fruit and flowers from Covent Gardens, he told himself that this was one of the worst setbacks Hemmingway had ever had, and he, Gideon, couldn’t escape blame. They hadn’t given Jacky Wide enough credit for being smart. A really capable organizer in the East End could be a Divisional and a Yard headache for years. Well, you couldn’t have it all ways. When he’d got the Prowler and saved the Hayling girl it had looked as if practically everything had gone “right that night; but it seldom worked out that way.
Anyhow, the night was over.
It was turned half past six. The light in the sky was the real dawn, although it took a long time coming, and there was a haze overhead as if the fog was coming back. The wind had dropped. He was glad that driving wasn’t difficult, and found himself looking forward with something near repugnance to the task of getting all the reports signed and prepared for the fresh men in the morning - but he would have to make a good job of it. He and Lemaitre usually took over together and, if they had poor or patchy reports from the night-duty men, the air was always blue.
He didn’t switch on the radio.
He went by a different route, missing Lassiter Street this time, and driving along Throgmorton Street where the light had been on at the window last night. It would be months, perhaps years, before he had the slightest suspicion of the crime being planned when he had driven past that night.
It was a quarter to seven when he reached the Yard. The atmosphere was quite different now. More cars were about; several of the day men were already in, men who were fresh from their night’s rest and walked with enviable briskness. Gideon squared his shoulders and put a spring into his walk, and played with his pipe as he went into the lift with two Chief Inspectors, who wanted to know what kind of a night it had been. He told them about the gang fight, and that the Prowler was now being questioned, then hurried along to his own room and Appleby.
Appleby looked every week of his age now, thin and grey and pale, but his eyes were still bright and he gave a ready grin as Gideon stepped into the room. By his side was a mammoth pile of reports, and he slapped a hand on them and said:
“All ready and correct, sir, just want your okay. Only one job outstanding as far as I can tell, and I don’t mean the NE fiasco or the Prowler.”
“What is it?’ asked Gideon.
“That Lassiter Street inquiry,” said Appleby. “Mrs. Penn called there last night, it seems, and she hasn’t been home since. Neighbours say there’s been a lot of noise going on. Shall we have a go, or wait until the day staff arrive?”
He looked almost longingly at the clock on the wall.
18 Night’s End
Here was the thing which people forgot, Gideon thought tensely as he looked at Appleby: the human factor, the fact that coppers got tired. You could get over physical tiredness, but if you got a touch of mental fatigue it could lead to serious trouble. Probably that was the reason for Hemmingway’s failure to grasp the full significance of what was happening in his Division; as likely, it was the reason why he himself was so dispirited. He, George Gideon, had been ready to sleep on his feet when he had walked along the passage, but that feeling had gone, and he knew one thing for certain: mental weariness hadn’t yet caught up with him.
He wanted to send Appleby home, he wanted to go to Lassiter Street, and he didn’t want to leave anyone else in charge here.
There were footsteps outside, the door opened, and Lemaitre came in briskly. He raised a hand in greeting, took out cigarettes with an almost automatic movement, put one to his lips and said perkily:
“All ready and correct, sir, reporting for duty.”
“What’s cheered you up?” demanded Gideon.
“Got mixed up with a couple of Melky’s boys and proved to myself that I’m still as good as any three of them,” said Lemaitre. His eyes had a rather hard, shiny look, but he was fifteen years younger than Appleby, and a night without sleep wouldn’t do him any harm. He had been able to work off his despair, too, and probably it wouldn’t hit him so hard again in future; when his Fifi had walked out on him, she might have done him a lot of good.
“All right, you take over from Charley,” said Gideon promptly. “I’m going to Lassiter Street.”
“That Penn business?”
“Yes.”
“Ten to one there’s nothing to it,” said Lemaitre airily. “Ready to go, Charley?”
“Won’t take me long to hand over,” said Appleby, “but I want to nip along to the end room for a minute.” Odd thing, thought Gideon, Appleby could be as coarse and vulgar as any man, but always used the euphemism “end room.” Gideon clapped his hat on the back of his head and went to the door, where Appleby joined him quickly, and they walked briskly toward the lift and the head of the stairs. “As a matter of fact,” said Appleby, “I just wanted a word in your ear, George.”
“Eh? Well, go ahead.”
“Until tonight I always had a bellyache about still being a C.I.,” said Appleby very slowly. “I always thought you Supers were damn lucky, you most of all, and that I was passed over because of my accent, not lack of ability. This is where I want to say I was wrong. Been a pleasure working with you, George, and I couldn’t get anywhere near the standard you set even if I had my time over again.”
He was staring straight ahead.
So was Gideon.
They went on for a few paces in silence, and then Gideon said gruffly:
“I’ve got fifteen years here yet, Charley, if I don’t get pushed out earlier, or get knocked over by a bus, and what you’ve just said is one of the things I’m going to remember as long as I’m here. Thanks.” He could have said that Appleby had opened his eyes too, showing unsuspected qualities, but this wasn’t the moment; it would look like words for words’ sake. There was a much better way, for they reached the lift, and he stopped and said, “Good night, Charley. Like to come on to day duty?”
“Just between you and me, I wouldn’t mind,” said Appleby. “These jam sessions at night take it out of me.”
“I’ll fix it,” promised Gide
on, and then held out his hand. “Good night, Charley.”
They gripped.
Then Appleby grinned and turned toward the door marked Gentlemen, and said with a waggish air of flippancy:
“Thanks Gee-Gee. Now I’m here, I might as well pop in for a Jimmy Riddle.”
Gideon chuckled as he vanished, and as the lift came up. He was still smiling when he reached the Yard. Different men were on duty in the hall, more men were about, a little group of girls on the office staff was coming in, there were charwomen in the passages and in the offices where doors were propped open. He went hurrying to his car, throwing “Morning,”
“Morning” right and left, and drove out into the brightening day. He had a fairly clear run to Lassiter Street, and on the last five minutes he wondered exactly what “a lot of’ noise going on” implied. With luck he would soon know. He turned into Lassiter Street and now found two Squad cars waiting, a uniformed man on duty, and a little crowd of early-morning watchers. A milkman was rattling his bottles and a newsboy came cycling along, whistling, and as he drew level with Gideon he shouted:
“Better look out, lot o’ coppers along there!”
Gideon drew up behind the cars. The front door of Number 11 was open, and he could see the broad shoulders of a Flying Squad man just inside, and thought he heard a woman’s protesting, whining voice. In the distance he heard the ringing of a fire engine or an ambulance. The constable recognized him and stood aside, and he went hurrying. .
“I tried to stop him,” the woman was saying in a thin, nasal voice. “You can’t blame me, I tried to stop him, that’s Gawd’s truth, everything I could, I did.”
Stop what?
“What’s on?” Gideon asked sharply.
The Squad man turned round. The woman, with her wispy grey hair and thin, dirty face and drab clothes, was cringing back against the wall. There were sounds from below Gideon, and a door below the stairs the door leading to the cellar - was wide open, and electric light shone out.
