Vigilantes & Biscuits

by John Creasey

  brothers-in-law, now dead from the bullets of Jack Rocco.

  How long would it be before Dino joined them? Not long, the clock seemed to say, its ticking suddenly sounding deafening across the silent room.

  There was no other sound, except for Dino’s breathing beside her – such heavy breathing. Thank God he had gone to sleep at last. Until now, he had been endlessly tossing and turning, and that hadn’t been the worst of it. Every now and then he had started shivering, his huge body shaking the mattress down to its smallest spring.

  Vittoria hadn’t said anything; she didn’t know what to say, what other arguments she could bring up to confound him, and so had simply pretended to be asleep.

  “Maria, dear Mother of God,” she prayed now. “I have a husband with the body of an elephant, the brain of a donkey, the courage of a mouse – and yet, with all that, the obstinacy of a mule. Guide and guard him tomorrow, I beseech you. Nicholas and Mario – perhaps, in the judgment of Heaven, they deserved to die. But Dino doesn’t. He really doesn’t. Holy Mother … save him … make him see sense.”

  “Two o’clock,” thought the kidnapper of Barbara Cargill.

  The hour had been tolled by a clock in a church tower which did not have a crooked steeple. The chimes had rolled out across Bognor Regis, a bustling holiday town which lies on a flat plain between the South Downs and the sea. The sound was faint by the time it penetrated the walls of Barbara’s prison: the back bedroom of a secluded bungalow to the west of the town. The bungalow, an un-picturesque modern building, was far from any village street. The only road that came close to it was a private sand-and-pebble track leading down to the beach.

  The kidnapper stood in the bedroom, staring down at Barbara, checking the church chimes with his watch and asking himself, for the thousandth time, how many hours of life the girl could possibly have left.

  He had just given her a powerful injection of morphine: enough to keep her weak and helpless, and incapable of much in the way of thought or movement, for another twenty-four hours. He could easily have made it a lethal injection: one or two grains more would have done the job. But Leonard Lacey had begun his confused and dissolute career as a doctor, and could not quite accept the thought of actually terminating a life.

  It was crueller, of course, this way. The six weeks’ hell of fevered helplessness which his injections had inflicted on Barbara could have been spared her, had he not lacked the nerve actually to kill.

  But then, all through his life, failure of nerve had been Leonard Lacey’s downfall. If he had not suddenly funked going out and collecting that ransom money, everything would have been different. He would be richer by thousands of pounds, and would probably be living it up in South America. And if he had not shilly-shallied with Alec, Cliff and Stewart – the other members of the kidnapping gang – they would not have run out on him the way they had; would not have left him, so to speak, holding the baby.

  How long was it since they’d gone? Three weeks, four weeks, five? He had very little idea. Since then, he’d been almost as much a prisoner as his victim, going out only once a day for food, and spending the rest of the time simply watching and waiting for Barbara to die.

  It couldn’t be long now. She hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for twenty-four hours. She hadn’t spoken, and had hardly moved. She didn’t even seem to be frightened of his presence any more. Indeed, she hardly seemed to be aware of it.

  She just lay staring at a picture hanging on the wall on the far side of her room. It was a sentimental scene, typical of a free-gift calendar, showing an old thatched-cottage with a flower-filled garden.

  Savage, thwarted, undecided, Lacey clicked off the light and withdrew.

  Barbara gave a faint moan of anguish as darkness blotted out the picture from her view.

  12

  Hunch

  Gideon awoke to the sound of one newspaper after another being pushed through his front door letter-box, and then thwacking down on the mat. That sound could only mean one thing: he had hit the headlines in a big way. Normally Gideon only took two morning papers – one, a paper of quality, the other a popular tabloid. But the newsagent, who was by way of being an old friend by now, always sent along with them a copy of any paper with a Gideon story on the front page. And it seemed as though this morning he had been accorded that dubious distinction by them all.

  Donning slippers and dressing-gown, Gideon stumbled downstairs. He had been right. There was a formidable pile of newsprint waiting for him.

  He picked up three papers at random. “GIDEON’S HOME GUARD AGAINST CRIME” sprawled across one. “C.I.D. BACKS VIGILANTES – Bold Proposal by Gideon of the Yard”, announced another. “YARD CHIEF IN VIOLENT PUNCH-UP”, reported a third.

  This third paper – a sex-and-sensation tabloid – seemed to be definitely against him. Under a lurid picture showing him apparently gloating over Rowlandes’ unconscious body, it asked, “Is this the way to bring back law and order?” And it heavily stressed the fact that Rowlandes had been detained in hospital, adding in a slyly suggestive manner, “When asked how serious his condition was, the hospital spokesman said ‘No comment’ and cut off all communication.”

  Gideon winced, and turned with a shrug to the other two

  papers. These seemed to be playing down the fisticuffs, and applauding him for the originality and initiative behind the whole “Gideon’s Force” concept. Slightly cheered, he walked into the kitchen, then filled and switched on an electric kettle. It was a rare thing for him to be up before Kate. Why shouldn’t he make the occasion rarer by taking her up a cup of tea?

  Long before the kettle boiled, he heard Kate coming down the stairs. This was followed by a pause. So, she was glancing through the papers. She came into the kitchen just at the moment when Gideon was filling the teapot, her eyes glowing.

  “What a press you’ve had! Praise in paper after paper – and you deserve every word of it.”

  Gideon said dryly, “One paper took a slightly different view.”

  “Oh, but that was because of the fight. When it comes out that that was a put-up job – ”

  “It’ll be bouquets all the way? I doubt it, love. Fleet Street thrives on controversy, and it won’t be long before it occurs to someone that Gideon’s Force is the most controversial project in years. Think what they’d be saying if Tom Riddell had been right, and there had been a sudden ambush, a bloody massacre, last night. I can’t deny that, through me, civilian lives were put at risk. And they’ll be put at risk again tonight. And every night, until this wretched Wellesley business is over.”

  Mention of this “wretched Wellesley business” put Kate immediately in mind of Marjorie Beresford and Eric. She wondered aloud whether seven a.m. was too early to ask the hospital for news.

  “I hope nothing terrible’s happened. I had awful nightmares about Marjorie last night.”

  “It was a night for nightmares,” Gideon said, and was on the point of telling her about his Brodnik dream and his two a.m. telephone call to Matt. But he stopped himself. There were limits to the number of his troubles that he could fairly unload on to Kate. Human problems haunted her far more intensely and persistently than they did him; and she had enough on her mind at the moment, what with this Marjorie affair – and the biggest wedding in Gideon family history getting nearer every day.

  “I’ll ring the hospital,” he volunteered. “You go ahead getting breakfast.”

  He walked into the hall to telephone, leaving Kate to carry on the usual morning routine. When he returned to the kitchen, two minutes later, his face was grave.

  “I’m afraid Eric’s condition has ‘deteriorated’, as they call it. There’s been some unexpected complication, and he’s lapsed into a coma. They may have to operate again today.”

  “Oh, my God! Poor Marjorie. If – if Eric dies, that woman’s going to go clean out of her mind. I think I ought to go down there straight away.”

  “Steady,” said Gideon. “There’s no immediate dang
er, and the operation won’t be until much later. I spoke to a staff nurse: they’ve got Marjorie lying in bed in a spare ward, and are taking as much care of her as though she were a patient herself. If you went there now, you’d merely be in the way.”

  Hands deep in his dressing-gown pocket, he stood, staring down at the preparations for breakfast, his mind far away.

  With Eric in no position to name his attackers, the only hopes of a quick breakthrough in the Wellesley case now centred around John Rowlandes.

  Or were there other leads that he ought to be following up? Supposing, for instance, he paid a call on that odd schoolmaster, Gerard Manley –

  Gideon suddenly started.

  What was he thinking about? He wouldn’t be paying a call on anyone! His emergency take-over of the routine side of the Wellesley police investigations had ended. Riddell was back in charge today, and if he knew Tom, he’d be round at the Estate already, checking up on the patrols.

  Thoughts of Riddell occupied Gideon all through breakfast. Curiously enough, it was the second breakfast running that he had been haunted by the Riddell problem. Which meant that he had been dithering for more than twenty-four hours over whether or not to leave Tom on the case; and if there was one thing of which Gideon disapproved, it was dithering. He had to make a decision, once and for all.

  But it still wasn’t a simple decision.

  On the one hand, it was undeniable that Tom had been a major hindrance to him last night. Not only had he become neurotically obsessive about-the mysterious enemy on the Estate; he had seemed violently opposed to the whole concept of Gideon’s Force. And, as Chief Detective Superintendent on the case, he’d be required to organise that force night after night. Wasn’t that an unanswerable argument for having him replaced?

  On the other hand, over the last three months, Tom had poured more effort, energy and determination into this case than ten other men put together. To take him off it now would deal his confidence a blow from which it might never recover. And as for his critical attitude last night – well, his grim predictions might have come true, might still come true. It would be a sad day when dedicated men were turned off cases just because they had the guts to speak their minds …

  Gideon continued to agonise over the question all the way to Scotland Yard. But as soon as he got to his office, the issue resolved itself in the most satisfactory way possible.

  Within a minute of his entering the room, the telephone rang, and it was Riddell on the line, ringing direct from the Wellesley sub-station. And before he had heard more than a few words, Gideon knew that he was talking to a very different Tom Riddell from the haunted, nervous wreck of the previous evening.

  Perhaps it was having yesterday afternoon off, followed by an early night. Perhaps it was relief that nothing, after all, had come of his gloomy warnings. Perhaps it was a feeling that the end of the Wellesley case might at last be in sight. For whatever reason, Riddell was suddenly his old calm, confident self, with his brain – basically one of the shrewdest in the C.I.D. – functioning with greater clarity than ever.

  He began by giving Gideon a crisp, incisive analysis of how he would like to improve the patrolling system the following evening. He suggested that the first patrols of the night should run from eight to twelve; that each patrol should carry at least two walkie-talkies; that they should be able to liaise by radio directly with the patrolling area cars, as well as with the police station; and that at least one member of each patrol should carry a truncheon. He had also worked out a slightly improved route for the patrols to take, which would mean less walking yet at the same time give more effective coverage of the Estate.

  Hardly able to conceal his relief, Gideon gave these proposals his immediate approval. Then: “Oh, there’s one other thing,” Riddell said. “All through the early part of last night – until approximately two a.m. – Gerard Hopkins was constantly spotted by the area cars, visiting various houses. He was noticed because he was the only private individual walking around on the entire Estate. I’ve checked up on the houses he was seen calling at, and I’ve compared the list with the Wellesley High School register which Harold Neame allowed me to see. Every house belongs to a parent of one of the boys at the school.”

  Gideon tensed. He had had an idea earlier that Gerard Hopkins’ behaviour might need looking into. Now he was sure of it.

  “What do you reckon he’s up to?”

  “If you ask me, he’s conducting a private, one-man inquiry into who attacked him last night.”

  “H’m,” Gideon said. “You could be right. And a man like Hopkins wouldn’t have the slightest desire to bring any of the culprits to justice. It’s more than likely to be a kind of peace and love mission, an attempt at understanding.” His tone sharpened. “But if he gets to understand too much, from the enemy’s point of view, I doubt if they’ll react in quite the same way.”

  “So do I,” Riddell said. “I was thinking of having him tailed from now on, partly for his own protection, partly because we might learn something. Do you agree?”

  “Wholeheartedly,” Gideon said. “And – Tom.”

  The change in his tone indicated clearly that something personal was coming. He could almost hear Riddell tensing on the other end of the line.

  “Yes?” he asked, nervously.

  “I’d like you to know,” said Gideon, slowly and deliberately, “that I think I’m very fortunate to have you on this case.”

  He replaced the receiver with Riddell’s startled thanks still ringing in his ears, and thought wryly what an overstatement that remark would have been, had he made it only ten minutes before.

  The Riddell problem off his mind at last, Gideon turned to the files which Alec Hobbs had placed on his desk – files of cases demanding his urgent attention.

  There were only two of them. One was labelled “ORSINI” and the other “CARGILL”.

  The Orsini case. Ah, yes, l’affaire Lemaitre, he told himself, smiling at the memory of Lemaitre’s volatile personality. He had promised him the previous morning – just twenty-four hours, though it seemed at least twenty-four weeks, ago – that he would contact Special Branch, to see if a way could be found of giving Dino Orsini total protection, while not interfering with his determination to be a human bait. Gideon had, in fact, telephoned the Special Branch Commander half an hour after Lem had gone. But the Commander, a smooth type called Ryan, was an expert in hedging, stalling and diplomatic brush-offs. On this occasion, he had asked Gideon if he could ring him back, and then had simply forgotten to do so. A furious Gideon had telephoned his office four times since, but on each occasion Commander Ryan had been out. All Gideon had been able to do was explain the situation, fully and patiently, to a Superintendent who appeared to be Ryan’s assistant, and stress that a man’s life very probably depended on the Special Branch coming up with something at least adequate.

  The Superintendent had not sounded impressed.

  “The lives of presidents and prime ministers regularly depend on our decisions,” he had said blandly, and had promptly rung off, leaving Gideon in a state of impotent fuming.

  It seemed, though, that his efforts had borne some fruit after all.

  The “ORSINI” file contained a brief typewritten memo from Alec Hobbs.

  Special Branch rang 5.25 p.m. They are sending their senior protection consultant, Major Davison, to see you tomorrow (Wednesday) morning at 11.30 a.m., if that is convenient. They add that he will have “positive proposals” to make re the Orsini situation.

  “I should ruddy well hope so,” growled Gideon to himself.

  But he was secretly pleased. To have stirred Special Branch into action on a criminal, rather than a political, case was no small diplomatic achievement, even for the C.I.D.’s Commander. Blood had been wrung from the stone. He hoped Lem would be duly appreciative.

  A thought suddenly struck him, and picking up the phone, he asked to be put through to Lemaitre, at the headquarters of the North London Division.


  He explained about Major Davison’s visit, and added, “It would save a lot of time if you could be there too.”

  “Well, well,” said the irrepressible Lem, “a miracle at last. Suppose I bring Dino along with me? I’d like you to see him, anyway. Then you’ll know just what I’m up against: seventeen stone of quivering, suicidal mania.”

  “With – from what you tell me – a streak of the rarest kind of courage,” Gideon said. “Yes, Lem, I’d like to meet your Dino. See you both, then, at eleven thirty sharp. Don’t be late.”

  “What’ll you do if I am? Call out Gideon’s Force?” asked Lem innocently.

  Gideon decided he had no answer to that, and grinning, slammed down the phone.

  His grin faded as he turned to the file labelled “CARGILL”. At the very sight of it his mood became confused and darkened. It contained a copy of Matt Honiwell’s urgent request for information, circulated at two fifteen a.m. to all seaside police stations, and clipped to this was a photocopy of Brodnik’s sketch of his “vision”: presumably Matt had had it delivered to the Information Room in the small hours, and it had been transmitted, along with the message, to all the seaside stations equipped to receive a radio picture.

  Gideon stared hard at the sketch, and tried to compare it with the cottage he had seen in his dream. He found it an impossible comparison to make; in memory, the details of his dream were too blurred. He had a feeling that there was some detail wrong – the church steeple bent in a different direction, the village street winding in a different way – but he couldn’t be certain. Even the attempt to be certain gave him a feeling of unreality.