Vigilantes & Biscuits

by John Creasey

  The blow didn’t connect: it was obvious that Rowlandes hadn’t intended it to. But the force of it brought the young P.D.C. lurching forwards, and for a second his lips were less than an inch from Gideon’s ear.

  “Hit back, sir. It’ll put me in good with this mob, see?”

  Gideon only just stopped himself from a very sharp retort. For a Commander to be ordered to take a certain course of action by a green-as-grass Detective Constable was startling enough. What was even more startling was the realisation that the cool young Rowlandes was absolutely right.

  By aiming that single blow at Gideon, he had almost certainly made himself the hero of the night with the yobs. But there was just a chance that one of them would have spotted how wide of the mark the blow had fallen; would suspect a trick.

  If he, the august Gideon, were to hit back with a real blow …

  Gideon grinned inwardly.

  “Right, young feller-me-lad,” he muttered, under his breath. “You’ve asked for it. You’ll get it.”

  Totally unmindful of the T.V. cameras, the watching crowd, the effect on the Gideon image if he indulged in public brawling, he delivered a swift uppercut direct to the young D.C.’s jaw.

  Rowlandes dropped like a stone, and lay still.

  The group of youths gasped. The air became blue with some of the choicest language Gideon had ever heard. But that wasn’t entirely because of what had happened to Rowlandes. The constables were arriving in the rebels’ row, with plainclothes men hard behind them. They were picking out the biggest trouble-makers and marching them off. Gideon heard that old, old phrase “are you coming quietly?” repeated again and again.

  Amidst all the confusion, Rowlandes lay white and still.

  Gideon clambered over the back of his seat and knelt down beside him. He had judged that blow very carefully, to put Rowlandes down for a count of eight or nine. But twenty seconds at least had passed the blow.

  Was he feigning unconsciousness, building up the drama? Or had something gone wrong? Had he cracked his head against the edge of a seat in going down, or –

  One thing became certain as Gideon looked closer at his young protégée; and the realisation of it made his blood turn to ice as he leant forward and gently felt for Rowlandes’ pulse.

  There could be no faking about that gaping mouth, those open, sightless eyes. It wasn’t a question of whether he was conscious or unconscious; it was a question of whether he was alive or dead.

  In two other parts of London, at almost exactly the same moment, almost identical questions were being asked.

  Two hundred and fifty yards across the Wellesley Estate, Marjorie Beresford heard a sound outside her front door. It was a terrible sound, halfway between a cry of “Mum” and a moan of agony.

  She raced the Detective Inspector and the policewoman to the door, and was the first to see Eric lying half on, half off the doorstep. The light there wasn’t good; the bulb in the porch had been smashed by vandals weeks before, and had never been replaced. But there was enough illumination to show that Eric’s shirt front was covered with blood; and there was no doubting this time that the blood was his own.

  Marjorie tried to bend forward, but her strength gave out, and she fell to the ground, taking with her into oblivion the most terrifying question of her life: was Eric, her son, alive or dead?

  Six miles away to the north, in Finchley, Dino Orsini had just closed his restaurant for the night.

  He and his wife Vittoria were standing over the till. Dino had no head for figures, and it was usually Vittoria who counted the night’s takings.

  He hoped she wouldn’t notice that every note and coin he handled became wet with the sweat of fear that was dampening his fingers. He wished he could silence the panicky questions that throbbed so persistently inside his skull.

  Would this be the last time that he and Vittoria worked together? Did anything together?

  Who could say how soon Rocco’s hatchet-men would get busy, once he had gone to that Soho pub and thrown down the gauntlet to the gang?

  This time tomorrow, would he be alive or dead?

  In one part of London, the question was not being asked, but answered.

  Inside that strange, near-derelict house in Dulwich, Gordon Cargill and Matt Honiwell had been sitting in eerie silence for more than an hour. During all that time, Jacob Brodnik – a frail, quiet-voiced man with a strangely commanding manner – had been lost in a trance-like reverie.

  He had asked them not to disturb him, and they hadn’t, even though the tension had risen to near breaking-point inside each of them.

  Now, at last, it seemed that their vigil was over.

  Jacob Brodnik suddenly, with a shuddering sigh, rose from his shabby armchair.

  “I have good news for you, Mr. Cargill. Your wife is alive. Though the signals I am getting are so faint that I fear I must add – ‘just’.” Brodnik’s voice became stronger, every word carrying a mysterious authority. “There is, however, no need to be alarmed. With the full co-operation of the police – such as I was given in Holland over the Van Este affair last March – I am absolutely confident that she can be traced in time.”

  Matt Honiwell had trouble finding his voice.

  “Wh-what exactly, Mr. Brodnik, would this full cooperation entail?”

  Brodnik shrugged.

  “A hundred – perhaps two hundred – men carrying out my instructions without question for a space of, perhaps, forty-eight hours.”

  Matt groaned aloud.

  Gideon’s words rang in his head, as clearly as though George were in the room.

  “No matter what the Belgians or the Dutch may do, I simply can’t allow the valuable time of valuable men to be expended on E.S.P. wild-goose chases …”

  Equally clearly, Matt remembered his own indignant rejoinder.

  “Do you really think I’d ask you to?”

  After such an exchange it was going to be impossible to detail even one man, let alone two hundred, to carry out Mr. Brodnik’s instructions.

  But Gordon Cargill’s eyes were shining with the first glint of hope that they had shown during all these weary weeks.

  And – for the moment, at least – Matt Honiwell could not bring himself to say, “That’s impossible.”

  7

  Blood Lust

  Gideon’s ear was less than an inch from John Rowlandes’ mouth when he first detected the faint sound of breathing. Hope – tremulous at first – began to burgeon in his mind, turning into a roaring torrent of relief as each breath became stronger. Suddenly the young D.C. gulped, blinked, and tried to sit up.

  “Easy,” said Gideon. “Easy does it…”

  He noticed a bruise, red but already beginning to blacken, close to Rowlandes’ left temple. So that was it: he had caught his head a glancing blow against a chair on the way down.

  Already, he wasn’t looking too much the worse for it. He was grinning shakily; but if there was a slight risk of concussion, there was a much stronger one that he might momentarily forget his role as a teenage tough, and revert to behaving as a D.C.

  Most of his fellow-toughs had been marched away by this time; but one or two – the ones who had not actually been violent – were still around, and within earshot.

  For their benefit, Gideon stood up abruptly, and roared: “Right. Get this young hooligan out of here, feet first. I want an ambulance at once, make-shift if necessary, to take him to hospital. The doctor there ought to run an eye over him – ”

  Two burly constables came forward; one seized Rowlandes under the arms, and the other took his ankles. Rowlandes suddenly remembered his role – that is, if he’d ever forgotten it. He put on a great show of struggling to escape, and snarled at Gideon.

  “Do you really think you’ve made a hospital case out of me, King Pig? Give me half a chance, and I’ll make one out of

  you …”

  “You’ve had all the chances you’ll be getting for today – and for many days to come, if you don’t
behave yourself,” Gideon answered curtly. “Take him away. Either to hospital or a police-station cell. The choice is his. But that’s the only choice he’s getting.”

  Exhausted with his brief bout of histrionic defiance, Rowlandes allowed himself to be carried out. Various hostile murmurs told Gideon that some members of the audience – probably women with strong maternal instincts – were turning against him again. No doubt he had sounded like a bully. Balancing this were other murmurs – probably from men – which sounded like grunts of approval for his toughness. That man had been right to call the crowd a “many-headed multitude”. Out of the corner of his eye, Gideon noticed that the T.V. cameras at the back of the hall were still focused on him. Anything and everything he did was liable to be shown on television before the evening was out. They already had his original punch-up in the can. But then, they also had his impassioned speech for public support for the police, and his carefully thought-out proposals for a police-directed vigilante “home guard”. Which Gideon image would be projected across the nation? The forceful leader, or the apparently irresponsible brawler? It would be for the backroom boys – the television news editors – to decide; and Gideon needed no telling which would be considered the more sensational.

  Still, it was too late to worry about that now. The important thing was to see that John Rowlandes had the maximum opportunity to capitalise on the incident.

  Gideon took Riddell aside, well out of the hearing of the remaining toughs, well out of range of those probing T.V. lenses.

  “Tom, can you get a message through to the hospital? Ask them – as a favour to the police – to keep Rowlandes under observation for at least forty-eight hours.” He corrected himself. “On second thoughts – make that as a personal favour to me. I know most of the staff there. I think they’ll play ball.”

  “What’s the idea, George?”

  Gideon prayed silently for tolerance. Riddell wasn’t usually as thick-headed as this. One had to remember how much this case was telling on him; what strain he was under the whole time.

  He explained as patiently as he could.

  “If the word goes out that Rowlandes has been put into hospital because of a fracas with me, he’ll be more of a hero to that mob than ever. Then, if I drop all charges against him – and the police keep clear – it’s a virtual certainty that he’ll get visits from members of the gang. It’s quite possible he’ll get an admiring crowd of them round his bed. And from such visits he might pick up a very great deal.”

  Riddell suddenly woke up, and started thinking very fast – almost faster than Gideon.

  “You’re right there. We must make sure he’s booked in under an assumed name. And we’ll have to give him a fake identity – one that will hold up however closely the gang checks.” His imagination started working overtime. “How about Frank ‘Fingers’ Fenton – a dangerous young criminal, just out of Pentonville after a two-year stretch for armed robbery? He could have been lodging on the Estate with an old aunt. I know just the woman who’ll play the part of aunt for us – she lives in – ”

  Gideon grinned delightedly.

  “Now you’re talking. Could you get all that laid on?”

  “In two minutes, George. I’ll be right back.”

  Riddell – suddenly confident again – headed for the doorway. Gideon watched his purposeful progress with a thoughtful sigh. If only Tom were always like this –

  His reverie was interrupted. Harold Neame was back on the platform, calling the meeting to order in his most head-masterly style.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he thundered, and might almost have been saying, “Wake up at the back there!” to the Fifth. “I must apologise for this interrupted meeting, but perhaps the interruption has served a purpose. It has brought us face to face with the ugly violence in our midst, and should strengthen our determination to take immediate and urgent action against it. May I remind you that, just before the uproar started, Commander Gideon was suggesting that if sufficient volunteers came forward, the first vigilante patrol could go out tonight. That was what you said, wasn’t it, Mr. Gideon?”

  Gideon stood up, aware that once again, all eyes – and both T.V. cameras – were on him.

  “That was what I said,” he stated flatly, “and that was what I meant.”

  There was a tap on his arm. He tried to ignore it, but the pressure increased. He turned impatiently, and saw that Riddell was back. That grab – and a certain wildness in his eye – told him that Riddell’s inner tension was building up again; but he was struggling hard against it, and his voice was surprisingly calm as he said: “Sorry to break in, George, but something’s happened you should know about. The Inspector at the Beresford house – his name’s Dunne – has just rung through. Mrs. Beresford went to the front door after hearing a cry – and found Eric lying on the doorstep with a knife in his chest.”

  Gideon’s exasperation gave way to a deep, cold dread.

  “Is the boy – ”

  “Dead? No, not quite. But he hasn’t much chance, I gather. The knife went in a tenth of an inch from the heart. They’ve had the ambulance there already. He could be at the hospital by now.”

  “And Marj – Mrs. Beresford? How’s she taking it?”

  “I gather she went out like a light.”

  “Best thing. Is she still unconscious?”

  “I should say not. There were sobs and screams in the background over the telephone. The doctor didn’t stop to give her a sedative – he was too busy dealing with Eric – ”

  “Yes. Yes, I can imagine.” Marjorie Beresford’s delicate, plain little face flashed in front of Gideon’s eyes. How many more times in her life would that poor woman be called upon to bear the unbearable?

  “Has Dunne rung off now?” he asked.

  “No. He’s hanging on in case you want to speak to him.”

  “Right. Then I’ll come.”

  Gideon glanced round. The whole hall had become deathly quiet. Probably very few of the people in the audience had managed to catch more than a word or two of this whispered consultation, but Gideon’s and Riddell’s expressions had told them clearly enough that some shocking incident had taken place.

  They might as well know the worst, Gideon thought. It had never been his policy to keep information from the public unnecessarily.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “I have just heard that there has been a stabbing on the Estate, perhaps a fatal one, involving a thirteen-year-old boy. Please excuse me for a few minutes.”

  He turned and strode out of the hall. Behind him, he heard people bombarding Riddell with questions. He caught neither the questions nor Riddell’s answers. All he could think of was Marjorie Beresford at the end of her endurance.

  A respectful constable led him into the foyer. The telephone was in a cubicle that functioned as a box office for the Community Centre. The inside was festooned with torn and dusty posters advertising discos and bingo sessions. All the dates on the posters were two months back; all had “Cancelled” slips posted across them, painful reminders of how long terror had reigned in Wellesley, how much time had passed since normal life had been possible here.

  Gideon picked up the telephone, and a moment later Detective Inspector Dunne was giving him full details of what had happened at the Beresfords’. Only one new fact emerged. A trail of blood had been found leading from the gate to the doorstep. Either the stabbing had taken place on the pavement, or, more probably, the boy had been knifed in a car and then dumped at the gate. Somehow he had managed to crawl the last few yards home.

  Suddenly the sobbing was there in the background again.

  “That’s Mrs. Beresford, sir, she’s – a little bit distraught,” Dunne said, in patient explanation.

  “So would you be, if you’d been through half what she has,” Gideon said sharply. “Is Sergeant Baker there? If so, put her on.”

  Sergeant Baker – a young and rather pretty policewoman – came on the line. It appeared that Mrs. Beres
ford was demanding to be allowed to go to the hospital to be close to her son.

  “Well, there’s no law against that, is there?”

  “No, sir – but she’s recently been in a dead faint, and is now on the verge of hysteria. In these circumstances, I don’t think it wise to let her go just yet. Of course, if you feel differently – ”

  Gideon grunted. He couldn’t deny that the girl was probably right. What Marjorie desperately needed was the comfort and company of someone she knew. Someone with a strong yet gentle personality who would keep her calm; accompany her to the hospital if she so desperately wanted to go; and see her through whatever happened to her son.

  It seemed an impossible problem, but the answer, when it came, was so simple that it stunned him.

  Kate would go like a shot. And she’d be perfect.

  What’s more, she’d never forgive him if he denied her the chance of doing all she could for a friend in such desperate distress.

  Within seconds, Gideon had rung Kate and explained. For a moment, she was speechless with shock at the news; then her only concern was to get to Marjorie as soon as possible. Gideon arranged for a police car to rush her to the Beresford house. The car would stand by to take her and Marjorie to the hospital, if required. It would be best to leave it to Kate to decide whether or not Marjorie was in a fit state to go.

  Gideon was on the point of telephoning the hospital to get a report on Eric’s condition when he was stopped by the sound of angry shouting coming from the hall behind him.

  He hurried out of the kiosk, and made for the swing doors leading to the auditorium. Just as he reached them, he hesitated, some instinct telling him to pause and size up the situation before entering the hall. The doors had two rectangular pieces of glass in them, criss-crossed by wires as a protection against vandalism; nevertheless it was possible to see through it.

  He could easily make out the bulky figure of Tom Riddell, still on his feet, and struggling to make himself heard. Gideon opened the door an inch, and could just make out Riddell’s words above the din.