by John Creasey
Chapter 4
GIDEON’S WALK
Gideon left the offices of the Daily News, caught his driver’s eye and beckoned him, and when the man came up, said: “Meet me along by Somerset House. I may be half-an-hour.” He was still glowing from much which Mesurier had said.
“Right, sir.”
“Any messages?”
“Not for you yourself, sir.”
“Anything noteworthy?” asked Gideon.
“There’s been a very big bullion robbery at London Airport, sir.”
“Hmm,” grunted Gideon, and turned left along Fleet Street and towards the Strand, while the driver went off to his car parked somewhere nearby.
Had there been any urgent need for him, Hobbs, his deputy, would have put out a call, although these days Gideon was needed less and less in the day-to-day running of the Criminal Investigation Department. Hobbs did a great deal of the briefing and liaising, which eased a little of the pressure off Gideon. The danger, he knew, was that Hobbs might do too much, but he was fifteen years Gideon’s junior and there wasn’t much danger.
Gideon simply wanted to walk.
His old manor was the West End, including Soho, and he had never known Fleet Street and the nearby area so well as the West End. Yet he knew it well enough, and associated it with the big national newspapers: the Telegraph, the Express and the Mail, the Sun of chequered history, the Mirror and, of course, the Sunday papers. The curious thing was that although he did know, on such a visit as this he always had to be reminded, that Fleet Street was no longer the street of the newspaper giants. Only those first two were actually housed here, while Fleet Street itself seemed to belong more to the provincial press. He walked past so many familiar names. The Wolverhampton Express and Star, the Birmingham Mail, the Sheffield Star, the Western Morning News – there they were, with tiny offices in this so-called Street of Ink, linking with all the major cities of the land; indeed, of all the world. There were thrice as many names unknown to him as there were familiar ones. In some windows and doorways the legend told of the Sydney Morning Herald and the Cape Town Argus, the Montreal Standard and the Westmoreland Gazette. From these, from the great agencies, the wires were buzzing, teletypes tapping, across the lands and across the oceans, carrying news from London and bringing it from the furthermost parts of the earth to London.
Yet the giants were not here.
He could walk down Fetter Lane, he knew, and come eventually to Holborn, where the Mirror and Sunday Mirror had their mammoth, modern homes. In the opposite direction and much nearer to St. Paul’s, though hidden from it, was The Times, in Printing House Square; the old Thunderer, as he could well remember it being called. Newspapers seemed often to scream and shout and bellow but seldom to thunder nowadays. Much further off, beyond the Mirror, was the Thomson Empire in Gray’s Inn Road, with the Sunday Times across the road, as it were, from the near Elysian fields of Gray’s Inn itself, close to the grass and the trees and the false peace; anguish and turmoil in the hearts and minds of so many people who went to the law to help them in their problems. And, closer to him as well as to Fleet Street, big old buildings between here and the river housed the Mail and the Evening News; and the News of the World and the People.
There were far fewer than there had once been, but still a goodly number.
And they might all soon be off the streets because of the strike.
As he walked with long deliberate stride, oblivious of the fact that many people moved out of his way, he found himself thinking again of the parallel he had formed in his mind that morning; between the newspapers and their cargo of words and the ships with their cargoes of food and goods and the wherewithal of life. Food for the body, food for the mind.
He gave a sudden snort of a laugh.
I am taking myself too seriously, he thought – I was even before Mesurier held forth and after him I need a new size in hats!
He shook himself free of these reflections, and, glancing across a traffic-free stretch of the narrow road, saw a man on the other side of the road who had been in prison until a few years ago; a very clever forger. Suddenly, Fleet Street was alive not with ideas but with people.
He saw one of the best-known columnists in England.
He saw Wilde, the Court photographer.
He recognised Tiffen, the crime reporter of some of the A.P. group and Raphael, managing director of one of the biggest advertising agencies.
This became not simply a street of newspaper names from home and abroad but of photographs in the windows – action photographs of film models, small homes and stately homes. It became a reflection not simply of news from all of the world but like one huge gossip column. He was smiling to himself now, fully aware of the fact that he had been enormously cheered by Mesurier’s reactions both to his need and to him as a person. Here were the hurrying crowds, the young and the old, the pictures and the newspapers, the—
“It is Commander Gideon, isn’t it?” A man said from behind him. He turned, to see a tall, willowy, long-haired man with very clear-cut features; and instantly he recognised Nigel Simply of the Globe, perhaps the most renowned of all the gossip columnists. “It is,” Simply said. “Do please tell me what you’re doing in Fleet Street, Commander.”
“What would you expect me to be doing?” asked Gideon, mildly.
Simply had beautifully-shaped and nicely-coloured lips. His complexion was nearly perfect; in fact appeared to have a bloom. His pale brown eyes smiled easily.
“Looking for bad men,” he answered.
“As always,” Gideon agreed.
“The non-committal Commander!”
“As a policeman I have to be non-committal.”
“Dare I ask if you’re after any particular bad man?” asked Simply.
Gideon answered, smiling faintly: “Yes, but I daren’t tell you who.”
“Commander—” The other’s voice took on a feathery tone.
“Yes?”
“Could you possibly spare time for a cup of tea?”
“And some questions?”
“Well, yes, but not forbidden ones,” Simply promised. “I haven’t had a policeman in the column for a long time – since Sir Giles Rook was appointed to the City, in fact.” Could that remark be more than sheer coincidence? “And do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever done a piece about you.”
“I hope you never will,” Gideon replied, half-smiling.
“Oh, come. I can be most rewarding.”
“Yes, I know,” Gideon said. “And devastating.”
“Only to those who attempt to deceive me. I’ve a club near here, a small one for select members of Fleet Street,” urged Simply. “At least come and have some tea with me. The—ah—image of the police could always be improved, couldn’t it?”
That was the moment when Gideon made up his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I haven’t time now. I’ve nothing against being interviewed, in principle.”
“You have to ask permission,” suggested Simply.
Gideon felt a flare of annoyance; felt, too, that this man was deliberately needling him, perhaps because he had almost fallen to the temptation of being written up in the ‘Simply Speaking’ column. But there was no point in showing annoyance and there might be a lot of good in parting on unbarbed terms. Simply was smiling a rather set smile.
“Well, of course,” Gideon said. “Anyone who is interviewed by Nigel Simply knows that he might be lured into indiscretions, so I’d have to get my absolution in advance – as well as ponder what I want to say.”
“You mean you will let me interview you?”
“Of course. If you’re serious.”
“You don’t know how serious, Commander! You wouldn’t like to say, off the cuff, what you think about the Fleet Street strike, would you?” S
imply asked blandly.
“It’s a great pity when any channel of communication is blocked,” Gideon replied easily.
Simply placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, said: “I do agree,” and walked back the way he had come. Gideon went on, more slowly. It was just possible that the question about the strike and the remark about Rook were in some way significant but he thought it much more likely that Simply had come upon him by chance and hurried up for a word.
Of course, he might have seen him come out of the Daily News office.
And supposing he had, Gideon thought to himself, what difference would it make? When one paid a visit in confidence it was easy to imagine all kinds of leakages. Just as Fleet Street was the place for news so it was the place for gossip and rumour, with Nigel Simply the most inveterate and often malicious gossip of them all.
Gideon tried to put the encounter out of his mind. His driver was waiting and he was back at the Yard a little before four o’clock. A note on his desk told him that Alec Hobbs would be in about half-past five, and as had become normal, Alec had put the files of various cases on his desk together with notes about them and the men handling each one. Gideon opened the first file, marked Smith P. J. – Murder. It was a gloomy record of a sad story of a man who had killed his wife and two sons and then gone on the run from the police. He hadn’t yet been found and Gideon and others at the Yard thought he had probably killed himself. So far, no body which might have been his had been discovered.
Gideon opened the file to see a note from Hobbs, attached to the photograph of a man who might conceivably be Smith – alive, very much alive. Hobbs’s note said: “Taken in Sydney, New South Wales,” and Gideon studied it with fresh interest. There was another note: “This photograph was taken in the Sydney Easter Fair by a newspaper photographer who noticed a similarity to a picture he had seen in an English newspaper eighteen months ago.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Gideon. There on the back was the photographer’s name as well as the approximate date of the English newspaper. Hobbs had added: “Am checking.” Gideon put this aside, feeling a sharp thrill of excitement. If it was the same man then they certainly wanted him! He picked up the next, much slimmer folder. Here were some reports from Division and some photographs of a bank safe which had been blown the previous night. So far there were no clues. Next was a very slim folder which carried only a note from Hobbs.
2.47p.m. First report from Heathrow Airport of a consignment of gold (bullion) from South Africa shipped on an S.A. Airways VC 10 and being hi-jacked after unloading. Airport, Hounslow Staines and ourselves collaborating. I may need to go to Heathrow myself.
That was probably where he had gone, Gideon reflected.
He picked up the next folder and went absolutely still, for the name on it was Entwhistle, a man who had served nearly four years of a life sentence for a murder he had not committed. The case had been re-opened and Entwhistle granted the Queen’s pardon.
Why was the folder back?
Gideon opened it and saw a photograph of a smiling Entwhistle and his three children, and on the back a note, signed by Entwhistle and saying:
We are off to Australia in a few weeks. I hope you will keep this as a memento. I shall never be able to begin to thank you.
Supposing he, Gideon, had not re-opened the case? Supposing . . . He closed the folder, slowly. As he did so, a curious thing happened: he seemed to see the face of Nigel Simply hovering in front of his mind’s eye. Immediately he was jerked out of the past and into the urgent, pressing present. Without a moment’s hesitation, he picked up one of the three telephones, the one connected with the Yard’s exchange, and ordered: “Get me Mr. Mesurier of the Daily News.”
“Right, sir.”
There was a long delay, and during it he reflected on what had happened during the day and on what he had done as well as what needed doing. Suddenly he thought: I should let Rook and Lawless know about this, but before he went beyond that, the exchange telephone rang.
“Mr. Mesurier, sir.”
“Thank you. Mr. Mesurier?”
“Yes, Commander?”
“This is a trifle but you might think it worth knowing,” Gideon said. “Nigel Simply caught up with me soon after I left you, and asked one or two questions which made me wonder whether, in fact, he’d seen me come from your offices, or else been told. Do you think it could have any significance?”
Mesurier did not answer at once.
It wasn’t lack of interest, Gideon was sure; and he felt equally sure that the news editor was looking straight ahead, eyes hooded, face expressionless, considering the question, refusing to respond until he was sure he had examined all the obvious and most of the hidden angles. The silence lasted for a long time before Mesurier answered: “With that man the most trifling incident can become significant, but in this case no one else can possibly know why you came to see me. Of course there is the possibility that when Simply sees the Stop Press and realises that you may possibly have been our source of information, he may put a note in his column. That would do me no harm. Would it affect you?”
“Provided it doesn’t concern the docks situation, no.”
“I can’t see how it can possibly do that,” Mesurier said. He paused again and when he went on his voice had changed slightly. “I’ve already briefed a man to go to the docks. One of our feature writers, not just a reporter. He will do a piece more or less along the lines of my outburst this afternoon. If there’s anything unusual going on, he’ll find out.”
“Good,” said Gideon, and stopped himself from saying ‘thanks’.
“Thanks for calling,” replied Mesurier, and rang off.
Chapter 5
OFFENSIVE WEAPONS
Malcolm Brill, of the Daily News, was frowning as he came out of the news editor’s office. He was a small, fair-haired, myriad-freckled man with innocent-seeming pale green eyes and it was often said that he had the look of an Irishman, although there was no known Irish blood in his ancestry. Perhaps because he was so small and fair he seemed young, and so made people talk much more freely than they intended. Many were astonished at how much they had said. There was, however, no spite and no malice in him and like all the best journalists, he was utterly reliable: if told a thing ‘off the record’ it was completely safe.
Some said this was why he had refused many offers from the giants, and stayed with the News; he was, in effect, his own boss there. It was not, however, his only reason for staying.
The second reason was his wife.
He loved his wife.
She was, to him, very beautiful. She mattered to him more than any other human being in the world, and that did not except their two children. On the staff of the News he could lead a more orderly life than on some bigger newspapers, where he would be – he thought rightly – at the Editor’s beck and call. In a way, of course he was at Mesurier’s beck and call, but the news editor used his authority with reason and understanding. Moreover, the paper could not afford to send him to the ends of the earth at short notice with a virtual carte blanche for an expense account. Consequently he could usually rely on being home at a reasonable hour, and in cases where he had to put in a late story, telephone it from home.
Only now and again did Mesurier give him a job which could keep him out late; that was why, when Mesurier briefed him on the docks job, there simply wasn’t any way of putting it off or asking for someone else. Mesurier had made it clear that he considered him the only man for the job.
So Malcolm Brill would spend the rest of the day at the docks, and as a ‘dock’ day really lasted twenty-four hours, there was no possible way of being sure what time he would get home; almost certainly after the pubs closed and he had wormed his last confidence out of a docker whose tongue had been loosened by too many beers.
He would have to telephone Rose and tell her he
couldn’t go to Covent Garden tonight. The Bolshoi Ballet was making one of its rare visits and its selection from the repertoire was to be Swan Lake. Only by exerting all his influence on the News’ performing arts critic had Brill been able to get tickets, carrying them home in triumph one evening last week. A sitter-in had been arranged, Rose had bought new shoes, a new evening handbag and evening gloves, for tonight was a very great occasion.
Now he was going to have to tell her he couldn’t go.
He flinched at the very thought.
A telephone call would be too cold and distant, he would have to go and see her. There was just time, although if he did the job as he wanted to, he would go straight out to the docks and have a breather about six o’clock. He couldn’t leave it so long as that to break the news. If there were only someone who could go in his place, it would solve the main problem. He wasn’t fool or vain enough to believe it would make too much difference if he weren’t there; missing the brilliant occasion would hurt Rose most.
He opened a door in the partition-type walls, and the noise became suddenly bedlam. Every inch of space at the News desk was in use. The ‘desk’ was set in a square, three reporters on each outside section, one sub on each inside section. Two assistant news editors, presentation-not-policy men, were at a large desk adjoining. Typewriters rattled like machine guns – except Maisie White’s. Maisie, young, lumpy, tow-haired, was the worst typist of them all but also as good a reporter as any. She had nice, big grey eyes, and they were raised from the old machine towards him. They focused. He waved a mock salute and passed on. His was one of six small desks at one end of the room, each with its own telephone, typewriter, filing cabinet, desk armchair, a chair for the features man and, at the far end, for a girl from the big typists’ pool. Only a very few top men at the News had their own secretary; and many in the pool were little more than copy typists. He sat down, still wondering: who could stand in for him?
