by John Creasey
Spike Graham and Jack Riley, and one of the other men, heaved themselves off the bar counter and blocked his way, the pert Italian girl, with eager cries, egging them on.
Upstairs, Jack Rocco was shouting: “That’s right, get his arms. Twist them – break them if you can!”
Lemaitre heard both shouts at equal strength, one through his left ear and the other through his right. He began to feel dizzy, and remembered that the ears controlled one’s gyroscopic balance. People weren’t built to be in two places at once …
Then three things happened which were enough to clear anyone’s mind.
Spike Graham produced a revolver. Jack Riley picked up a beer bottle, casually smashed it against the counter, and held the jagged remnant within a foot of Lemaitre’s face. The third man was fingering a knife.
Lem was not unarmed. He had drawn a regulation 9 mm Walther automatic from the Yard storeroom before setting out for Soho. But he doubted if he would get a chance to get at it.
He had, in fact, only one thing to rely on: his agile Cockney wit. It did not fail him.
“Smile, lads,” he said breezily. “You’re on Candid Camera.”
And he opened the executive case, to show them the mass of electric wiring, the turning spools.
“Believe it or not, this gadget is relaying your faces and your voices direct to West End Central police station. They’ll be radioing an area car now. You’ve got less than a minute before it gets here – and no chance of avoiding a five-year stretch if you so much as lift a finger – ”
He broke off, letting a soft electronic whirring from the heart of the apparatus build up the plausibility of his story.
Startled panic crossed their faces. Even before he snapped the case shut, they had moved back out of his way; and a split second later, he was rushing the stairs.
There was one person he had forgotten, though: the girl behind the counter. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her press something. An alarm bell started shrilling in the room upstairs, somewhere close to the microphone; it sounded as though it was exploding in the centre of his head.
Transferring the executive case to his left hand, and holding the Walther in his right, Lem was halfway up the flight when he heard Jack Rocco issuing emergency instructions to his men. The last of these orders momentarily stopped him dead.
“Orsini mustn’t be able to say a syllable to the police when they find him. There’s only one way to be sure of that. Aim at the forehead – or better still, between the eyes …”
Lem pulled himself together; took the remaining stairs two at a time.
But he wasn’t fast enough, not by half.
Two shots rang out before he reached the top, and his right eardrum resounded to an earth-shaking thud – the fall of Orsini’s massive body, magnified by the effect of the microphone falling with him to the floor.
So much for the iron raincoat.
So much for the whole concept of a “recording angel” bodyguard, functioning at a distance.
So much for the oh-so-elegant Major Davison, and all his puffy theories.
And so much for him, Lemaitre, for behaving like an impressionable adolescent and believing them …
Lemaitre arrived at the top of the stairs feeling physically sick with a sense of failure and self-disgust. There was a strong smell of cordite everywhere; he could actually see blue gunsmoke coming from under a door directly across the landing.
Not much doubt, then, where Rocco and his hatchet-men were.
Lem crossed to the door, and putting the executive case down on the floor (it was useless now: the microphone seemed to have gone dead, with its wearer) tried the door-handle with his left hand. His right one still held the Walther. The door wasn’t locked, and the next moment, he had kicked it wide open.
Lemaitre’s appearance – less than ten seconds after the ringing of the alarm bell, barely two seconds after the shots – took Rocco and his men so totally by surprise that for an instant they were as motionless as a group in a waxworks tableau.
The hatchet-men – there were two of them – were still standing over Orsini’s body; they were still, in fact, levelling their guns at it, as though about to shoot again to make assurance doubly sure. Jack Rocco himself – a balding, effeminate-looking man in his late thirties, with cold, slate grey eyes – was standing behind them. Further back in the room, which was furnished as a small private bar, a fourth man was standing by a second door. He would be the soft-voiced manager, Ron Curtis, thought Lem; and that door probably gave on to a back staircase, which in turn gave straight on to the street. The perfect getaway route – only none of them would be using it now; if it cost him his life, he would make sure of that.
It was as though Lem was suddenly imbued with Orsini’s brand of fury. He scarcely recognised his own voice as he shouted at the two hatchet-men: “Drop those guns, laddies – or you’ll be getting it through the forehead – or better still, between the eyes …”
His hatred of them was so intense that he was almost disappointed when – literally gaping – they allowed their guns to clatter to the floor.
Only Jack Rocco spoke, his high-pitched voice a grating sneer.
“So, just one nosey policeman is enough to scare you! Don’t you realise we outnumber him four to one?”
“Try anything on, any of you – “ Lemaitre’s voice was almost shaking with anger “ – and you’ll find out quick just how much good that’ll do you!”
Partly to emphasise the point – and partly to halt Ron Curtis, whom he saw out of the corner of his eye was sidling towards the farther door – Lem fired the Walther twice.
A lot of things happened almost simultaneously.
Two bullets thwacked into the wall an inch above Curtis’s head. He started back with a choking cry. From out in the street came the sound of a police car pulling up, its siren wailing. Jack Rocco’s face turned a dirty grey.
Lemaitre followed Rocco’s eyes, and suddenly understood Jack’s feelings exactly.
Dino Orsini was moving.
“So all I can say, Gee-Gee, is handsome apologies and full marks to the bloody Major.”
Lemaitre was almost babbling into the telephone, but Gideon did not try to slow him down. To hear someone light-headed with relief, rushing out a tale of triumph, was just the tonic he needed on this most strenuous of days.
“You remember what he told us,” Lemaitre chatted on. “ ‘Gunmen instinctively go for the body first.’ How right he was. Rocco’s two choice specimens followed that instinct, in direct defiance of their boss’s orders. You can understand it, of course. You’d have to be a hundred degrees sub-human to be able to shoot a man between the eyes when he’s actually standing there, staring at you. Far easier to aim lower, at the chest or stomach, and leave the head shots, as a kind of coup de grace, to be pumped in later, when the victim’s already ninety per cent dead.
“Their body shots, fired at point-blank range, hit the iron raincoat so hard that Dino was paralysed with shock. Probably he also lost consciousness. He certainly dropped like a stone. I’d have heard his breathing in my ear, of course, but the lapel-mike got smashed in the fall and went dead. Looking back, I’m amazed I didn’t notice the absence of blood round his body, but – ”
“You had one or two other things to take care of, from what you’ve told me,” Gideon said dryly.
Lemaitre grunted. “The gunmen themselves weren’t entirely convinced that they’d killed him. They were about to fire again when I burst in on them, and probably would have aimed for the head this time. As the Major said, ‘The third or fourth shots may be aimed higher, but by that time there will be – ‘”
“ ‘Distracting action by the bodyguard’,” Gideon finished, chuckling. “Intentionally or otherwise, you certainly supplied that – and at very great personal risk. I’m going to see that that’s not forgotten, Lem.”
“All part of the service, Gee-Gee,” Lemaitre said lightly; but a certain tremor in his voice betrayed how moved h
e was by the tribute.
More briskly, Gideon went on, “Incidentally, where’s Orsini now?”
“In bed, cherishing his bruises, being nursed by a tearful Vittoria and all five of his bambinos,” said Lemaitre. “Finchley are manning the stake-out across the road from his restaurant, just in case Rocco’s got any stray henchmen still on the prowl. But I imagine Dino’s safe enough. So much of the evidence against Rocco is in the can, where no bullets can wipe it out.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Gideon said sharply. “Taped evidence isn’t usually accepted in court. Though in this case the mob was caught so red-handed that I imagine an exception might be made.”
“Rocco imagines that, too,” Lem said grimly. “I’ve had one interview with him in his cell already – and he was singing so hard that even his lawyer was deafened.”
Gideon burst out laughing as he replaced the receiver, feeling happier than he had done for weeks.
It was to be many hours before he would know such an anxiety-free moment again.
He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was nearly half past four; and he had not even completed the first draft of his report to Scott-Marie. It was certainly nowhere near the dictating stage. He had not yet “wanted – er, required” Sabrina at all, he told himself, with a fleeting grin that perhaps held a hint of regret.
Until Lem’s telephone call, it had been a depressingly – perhaps ominously – negative afternoon.
There had been little or nothing untoward to report on the Wellesley Estate front. Riddell had telephoned to say that tonight’s Gideon’s Force patrols were now organised in detail, the first two to leave the Wellesley sub-station at eight. Riddell added that he had interviewed Gerard Hopkins, who had remained vague and prevaricating over the list of schoolboy suspects. A man was now following him, but hadn’t much to report; Hopkins had had a full timetable of teaching, and had spent all day at Wellesley High School.
There had been an encouraging development at the hospital. Eric Beresford was showing the first signs of coming out of his coma. His heart was beating more strongly; they had decided against a second operation. He was still in the intensive care unit, Marjorie keeping vigil by his bed. Two uniformed constables were in constant guard outside the door. Since Eric was a key witness, there was always the possibility of an attack – a possibility which Riddell was the last man to overlook.
In another ward, Frank Fenton, alias John Rowlandes, was still being detained – officially “for observation”. During visiting hour that morning, he had had several reporters and photographers round his bed. Gideon was furious when he heard this – not because he feared the publicity, but because the presence of the newsmen would have prevented Rowlandes from having more interesting visitors. Perhaps they would come tonight. If not, he would have to review the situation. He couldn’t keep a perfectly fit Rowlandes in hospital indefinitely…
Just then, the telephone rang. It was Kate, wanting to hear the latest news of Marjorie and Eric.
When Gideon had told her –
“I must go down to the hospital again and see them,” she said. “The best time would be when the evening visiting hour starts at seven thirty. Penny’s going out somewhere, so I don’t have to consider her. Could you possibly manage to be home by seven for supper – or shall I leave you something cold?”
“I’ll be back, all being well,” promised Gideon, and Kate rang off, surprised and delighted. He’d probably get on with that report faster, Gideon told himself, if he took it home. That is, if he was left in peace – but some sixth sense told him that it was going to be anything but a peaceful night.
Some sixth sense …
His thoughts switched abruptly to the Cargill kidnapping case. There again the afternoon had proved disquietingly negative. There had been no more leads from seaside resorts, and he had heard nothing from Matt since –
As if on cue, the door burst open and Matt Honiwell came in. It was a Honiwell Gideon had never seen before. His face had weariness and frustration written all over it, but there was also something deeper – an ironic bitterness that came close to savagery.
“You warned me about E.S.P. wild-goose chases, George, and by gum, I wish I’d listened. I’ve just got proof positive that Brodnik, is a charlatan. He has had us all on a wild-goose chase – right from the word go!”
16
No Such Place
“Sit down, Matt,” said Gideon sharply. “And calm down.”
He did something that was unusual for him. He produced a bottle of whisky, and poured Matt a stiff drink – and himself a mild one.
Matt sank down into a comfortable leather armchair and emptied half the glass at a gulp.
“I certainly needed that,” he muttered. “Didn’t realise that it showed.”
“After a sleepless night and a day battling with the intangibles, you wouldn’t be human if something didn’t show,” Gideon said. “Tethers aren’t all that long. There comes a time when one gets to the end of them.”
Watching Honiwell empty the rest of the glass, it suddenly struck him that Matt’s hair looked perceptibly greyer than it had done at the start of the Cargill case, six weeks before. It was most probably a trick of the light; he hoped it was. Nothing took as much out of a police officer as a major kidnapping case, particularly one that ended in tragedy. And Matt was a little like Kate in one respect. He took the human side of things very hard.
Gideon finished his own whisky, and then said, briskly: “All right. Now just what’s happened to make you change your attitude to Brodnik so completely?”
“I followed your hunch and rang the Bognor Inspector,” Matt began. “I told him to give full priority to the investigation of the constable’s story. He put three men on to the job immediately; in two hours they’d tracked down and interviewed five local artists.
“One of them was an old boy of about seventy-eight. Name of Guthrie – Malcolm Guthrie. They showed him a radioed photostat of Brodnik’s sketch – and he nearly jumped out of his skin. The sketch corresponded in every detail with a picture he had painted years ago – in 1933, to be precise.
“And when I say every detail, George, I mean every detail. The cottage halfway up the hill; the church with the crooked steeple; the rocks; the sea; the signpost pointing to a place beginning with the letters ‘SW’ – there can be no question of coincidence. Guthrie’s picture was of Brodnik’s scene.
“The men became very excited. All they had to do, they thought, was ask Guthrie to take them to the spot he’d painted. But there they ran into just a little difficulty.” The savagely sardonic note was back in Matt’s voice. “There is, quite simply, no such place. The picture was called ‘Midsummer Day’s Dream’ and was intended to show an impossibly idyllic country view. Guthrie made the entire scene up out of his head! That church steeple is crooked because it was badly drawn in the first place. He left it like that because he thought it gave the picture its one touch of originality! There
isn’t even such a village as ‘SW ‘. The wording on the
signpost was never completed – just left as a surrealistic squiggle.
“I talked to Guthrie on the telephone myself. He was rather proud of this particular picture. He had some success with it back in the early thirties. Dozens of framed reproductions were offered for sale. It appeared on calendars, biscuit tins, and for all I know, on chocolate boxes. I thought there was something chocolate-boxey about it when I first saw it!
“So it’s obvious what’s happened. Brodnik must have come across the picture at some time or other, perhaps on some item in a junk-shop window. The picture somehow stuck in the back of his mind, and now it’s suddenly surfaced as an E.S.P. vision.” Honiwell laughed, a strange, hard laugh. “And I’ve been fool enough to have half the police of the country looking out for a place that could only be found on a few old prints and biscuit tins!”
“A very few, I should think,” said Gideon thoughtfully.
“Forty odd years is a long
time for artistic efforts of that kind to survive. There may not be more than one or two copies of that painting still in existence, in any form.”
Matt shrugged. “What does it matter if there are one or two or twenty-two?” he asked.
Gideon remained thoughtful. His hand crept into his right hand coat pocket, and began fumbling with the bowl of his pipe.
“Matt,” he said. “Something rather odd has struck me. Let’s suppose you are the prisoner of a kidnapper. Let’s suppose you are being shut up day and night in a small room – perhaps gagged and bound, perhaps kept docile by some kind of drug. And let’s suppose that your mind, under extreme duress, suddenly develops the power to transmit an image telepathically.
“Now answer me this. What sort of image would your mind transmit? It couldn’t send details about the location of the place where you’re being held – because you wouldn’t know them. You were probably brought in there unconscious or blindfolded. All you’ve ever done since your ordeal began is stare at the four bare walls of your prison.
“But if the walls aren’t entirely bare … if, by some chance, a picture has been left on one of them … then common sense suggests that that is the very sort of image that – consciously or subconsciously – you might transmit.”
Honiwell leaned forward.
“I thought you didn’t believe such things were possible.”
Gideon shrugged.
“As to that, I’ve had too many odd intuitions myself to swear positively one way or the other. In this case I think it’s more probable that Brodnik did have a vision, than that he should be led astray by something he once saw in a junkshop.”
Matt had slumped back in his chair, once again despairing.
“But still – where does that leave us? Now all we know about the kidnapper’s hideout is that it may possibly have a certain picture on the wall! How the hell can we hope to track it down in time? Don’t forget – according to Brodnik, we’ve only a few hours left at the most.”
“Steady,” Gideon said quietly. “Don’t let’s give up until we have to. We’ve already established that there are only likely to be one or two of these pictures about. And since Malcolm Guthrie is a Bognor artist, our best chances of finding one are in the Bognor area …”
