by John Creasey
“George is after someone’s blood,” he remarked to the empty room. “I don’t want it to be mine!” He gave all the necessary orders and then checked that they were being put in hand at once. It would take half-an-hour to surround the houses, he judged, but longer to lay on the buses or coaches. There was just a chance that a small firm of car and coach hire people, not a stone’s throw from here, would have two spare coaches for an hour.
He called the owner, and explained his problem.
“Got just the thing for you, skipper,” the man said. “Two single deckers, just come in for a spring clean and a paint job, general overhaul. They’ll be just right. From where to where, did you say?”
“Quill Street to Mickleson Hall,” Lemaitre replied. “Shouldn’t take much more than an hour. Have the buses there in half-an-hour, will you?”
“No problem at all,” the other assured him. Lemaitre rang off and rubbed his hands, very satisfied, but aware of one weak link in his chain. Mickleson Hall was part of a youth club complex and was equipped with foam rubber mattresses, chairs and emergency supplies, and was used for emergency evacuations. Twice it had been used when fire had swept crowded tenement areas, once when a high rise building in a new apartment complex had threatened to collapse. It was used for a variety of purposes during the day and evenings.
He called the warden of the club.
“How long will you need it for?” the man asked.
“Well, I dunno – could be overnight, could be two or three days.” Lemaitre was already prepared for objections, equally prepared to use Mickleson Hall for a few hours while he rustled up a place for a longer term.
He heard a rustling of pages before the man said: “We’ve two club groups there tonight and one tomorrow but I can shift them. Otherwise it’s available for the weekend. Will that be long enough?”
“That’s the ticket!” exclaimed Lemaitre. “Thanks, Charley. If we have our party there in an hour, say. Will that be all right?”
“Yes,” the other replied. “They’ll need some food, and—but leave that to me.”
Lemaitre rang off, now jubilantly convinced that Gideon would be delighted; it was almost as if Gideon could see and hear him now. He got up and went downstairs, checking with his Chief Inspector that the cordon was either in position or would be very soon.
“Then let’s go!” cried Lemaitre, clapping his hands with a bang.
“Are you coming, sir?” The Chief Inspector looked astonished.
“You don’t think I would miss this, do you?” Lemaitre demanded.
Winfrith’s man David, with the phosgene containers safe in his pocket, knew that he had only just time to get the job done and make his escape. He wore a peaked cap and a suit that was too large for him, and with an expertise born of long practice, had stuck on sideburns and a moustache, which made him look very different from his usual self. He had no fear at all of being recognised; the only problem was to get to the ventilator grille out of sight of the police. He was trained in guerilla warfare and had a physical courage, or indifference to danger, which probably explained why he held the life of others so cheaply.
The three small houses were in a terrace which had been condemned, and the cellar had been converted to hold a lot of people; the ventilation holes were at the back, approached over rubble of what had once been other houses. Close by was a new estate, all about it narrow roads of terraced houses, like these, from which the police watched.
David picked his way towards the shaft.
Lemaitre and his Chief Inspector pulled into the end of the street as the two coaches appeared at the other end. The police, only watching until then, began to move in.
David realised that the raid was coming more quickly than he had expected, and he broke into a run. Where most men would have given up, he became more determined than ever to ‘fix those black bastards’. Several police started after him but no one at first worried about him – he seemed just a man loitering and like many in this part of the world, nervous of the police.
It was Lemaitre, watching, who said sharply: “That chap’s up to no good! He’s heading for the houses.” The Chief Inspector, only a second behind his chief in sensing the same thing, swung off the road and on to the rubble. The tyres crunched and rumbled, the springs creaked. David turned his head and saw the car heading towards him when he was only twenty feet from the ventilation hole. Other police, on foot, now began to run. He pulled the two containers out of his pocket, and hurled one towards the ventilation hole but he missed by a foot. As the car slowed down and the door opened, he hurled the second one at the man who got out: Lemaitre. Lemaitre wasn’t in a position in which he could duck, or do anything to protect himself and the fragile container struck him on the chest.
But it did not break.
Two policemen converged on David, who now simply tucked his elbows into his sides and ran. Lemaitre, struggling to his feet, saw gas creeping out of the other bomb, keeping close to the ground; he saw two of his men kicking at the thing. It wasn’t until after he had sent an S.O.S. for gas masks that he realised they were getting the container away from the ventilation shaft.
The men who had been smuggled in did not even get a whiff of the gas, which was easily confined to a small area because there was no wind.
They were appalled by the fact that they were suddenly in the hands of the police, and even the comforts of Mickleson Hall and the food and ministrations from a local colony of Pakistanis did little to soothe them.
Chapter 16
S.O.S.
Gideon sat back behind his desk, smiling faintly. The interview between him and Nigel Simply had become in a way a battle of wits, Simply all the time probing, Gideon fending off questions which he did not think could be answered effectively. The other man, wearing a puce-coloured suede suit, a flowing psychedelic tie and a pale pink shirt, looked an exquisite; but he would have made a brilliant barrister.
He said, after half-an-hour: “Now that I know the subjects you don’t want to talk about, Commander, do tell me what you would like me to print. I promise not to quote you in self-praise but show you personally in a good light! However, I do need spice, and you have been masterfully evasive in comment about the structure of the Yard, its hierarchy and its methods. There must surely be something which you feel could be improved.”
Gideon said: “At least, changed to advantage!”
“Very well: changed to advantage. Won’t you commit yourself at least to one fantasy dream you would bring to reality, if you could do so by waving a wand? And I don’t mean doubling the establishment or trebling the pay or improving working conditions. Buying the most up-to-date equipment for your laboratory and photography departments, for instance, which I am told are somewhat antediluvian. Or even the somewhat anachronistic habit of calling all senior officers ‘sir’. Don’t you think the homage to rank can be overdone these days?”
“Respect for and homage to are different things,” Gideon replied, but he was looking very intently at the other man now, and sensing a change in his mood, Simply made no comment and asked no question. “Yes. There is one thing I would do, if I could wave a wand.”
“Ah!” breathed Simply. “Why don’t you wave one and see what happens? And may I quote whatever you are about to say?”
“Yes,” Gideon agreed flatly. He paused, so as to phrase his words with great care. “The police in general have too many borderline cases to deal with. We are often not really sure what is within our province and what isn’t. Society has changed enormously in the past twenty or thirty years, but the police haven’t been changed to cope.” He was aware that he was groping for words after all and began to wish he hadn’t committed himself. He pushed his chair back and moved to the window, in that favourite aid-to-thought position. After a few moments he went on: “Perhaps this is the best way to put it. We have a dual task, of crime detection
and crime prevention. For the most part we can and do handle the detection side of it reasonably well. We could do an infinitely better job if much more time was available to concentrate on methods of crime prevention. We, as a police force, aren’t really equipped to do this. It is a matter first for the Home Office and then for the local authorities. Social conditions can and do breed crime. I don’t simply mean poverty and slums, which, except where some areas in which immigrants are the victims, are mostly things of the past. I mean such things as excessively permissive attitudes to drugs, to sex, to smuggling, to tax evasion. There is, I am sure, a direct relation between certain kinds of crime and the high rate of tax. The conditions for all of these social conditions are created by society – by politicians, if you like. We, the police, too often have to deal with the consequences. Over five hundred police were at or near the docks today, with twice as many in reserve, and I’ve no doubt at all that crime such as shoplifting, housebreaking, the breaking open of telephone meters, all leapt up in the rest of London. We aren’t really used simply for crime detection, or prevention, however. Either would be comparatively easy. We have to try to hold a line where our society has broken down. And once the public and for that matter the politicians know that, the more the police will be seen in their right perspective.”
During this, Nigel Simply sat absolutely still. Gideon was aware of him but had a sense of understanding; of this man being simpatico. When at last he stopped, he felt satisfied that he had said what was in his mind in the best way he could. He believed it had needed saying. He moved away from the window to the desk, groping in his pocket for the big-bowled pipe which he never smoked. He took it out and smoothed it in his palm.
At last, Simply stirred.
“Commander,” he said. “Thank you. I am completely committed to helping you in whatever way I can.”
He stood up, and shook hands and went out, as if, there being nothing else to say, he did not want to linger. Gideon was reassured, in fact as warmed by this man’s words as he had been by Sabrina Sale’s. He closed the door on him, wishing he had phrased the peroration differently and changed the places of emphasis, but these were trifles. Before long he heard the direct external telephone ring; almost at once the instrument which was connected to the Yard’s exchange rang. He picked up the external one, said: “A moment, please,” and then picked up the other. “Gideon,” he announced.
“George,” Lemaitre said, “some bastard tried to kill them. Used some World War I phosgene. We stopped him, though. They’re all dossed down at Mickleson. But it shook me to the guts.”
“What happened to the man?” Gideon demanded.
“We’ve got him in the cells here. Won’t give his name, won’t talk, won’t do a flicking thing. Want to see him yourself?”
“Possibly,” Gideon said, thoughtfully. “But you and I will talk before long, I’ve another call waiting. Are you all right yourself?”
“Never been better,” Lemaitre assured him.
Gideon said mechanically: “Good. I’ll call you back.” In fact it was not until he had replaced the receiver that the full implications struck home. “Some bastard tried to kill them. Used some World War I phosgene.” Good God, what was happening? He almost forgot the other call, actually began to replace that receiver, and heard a voice coming from it. Hastily, he put it to his ear.
“Gideon.”
“It’s Honiwell,” said Honiwell, in a voice that seemed charged with tension. “I heard most of that –it was Lemaitre, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Was he talking about some Pakistanis who came in last night?”
“Yes.”
“George,” said Honiwell, “four more bodies have been washed up along the coast here. There’s no trace of the S.S. Breem, the ship which was standing off last night. What I want is an air-sea search, and the local C.C. is agreeable if the Yard is.”
After a brief pause, Gideon said: “The Yard is. I’ll call Colonel Starr.”
“I knew you wouldn’t waste any time,” Honiwell said, with obvious relief. “There are still a few hours of daylight left.” He paused while Gideon picked up the telephone from the Yard exchange and said: “Get me Colonel Starr of the Defence Ministry at once.”
“Thanks,” Honiwell said. “I—Geo—sorry. What’s really happened in London, sir? All kinds of wild rumours are flying about here.”
“The attack on the dockers was a flop,” Gideon said. “We made over eight hundred arrests and special courts will sit this evening. Lemaitre found where the men off the Desdemona had been taken – but you heard that. Now my other phone’s ringing, and that’s probably Starr. Where are you?”
“Lowestoft Police Headquarters, with Superintendent Cressy.”
“I’ll call back or arrange for a message,” Gideon said, and then his voice rose. “No! Hold on. If this is Starr we can save time.” He plucked up the other receiver, and schooled his voice to be less peremptory, just saying: “Gideon here.” It was Colonel Starr, a recently appointed liaison officer between the military and any help that was needed by the police or Home Office. Starr listened to the straightforward request, and said: “It can be arranged from Mildenhall and Great Yarmouth. You can be sure it will be started at once, Commander. What did you say your man’s name is up there?”
“The man you want is Superintendent Cressy. My chap is Honiwell.”
“I know Honiwell,” said Starr. “Don’t worry, Commander.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Nonsense!” Starr said gruffly. “On a day like today we begin to understand more of what we owe to you chaps.”
As if half-regretting the compliment the liaison officer rang off, leaving Gideon smiling faintly. He could not remember a day when praise and compliments had come so freely and from such unexpected sources. He must be careful, pride still came before a fall. He put his lips closer to the other telephone and asked: “Did you get that, Matt – it’s in hand.”
“I got it,” Honiwell said. “I’m glad you put him on to Cressy, who’s a good chap but a bit conscious of his position. I’ll be in touch,” he promised. “Goodnight.”
Gideon said: “Goodnight,” and glanced at his watch as he put down the receiver, then realised the other one wasn’t back on its platform. He replaced it noisily. The time was six o’clock, there was still an hour or more before he need start for Mesurier’s place, and he toyed with the idea of going home and changing. He decided against, took a clean shirt and a different tie and two handkerchiefs out of a drawer in his main desk, and placed them near the telephone; he would go up to the washrooms and change soon. Sabrina Sale had not yet brought back the report and the letter, he probably hadn’t allowed her enough time. Hobbs wasn’t back, and he would have liked a report. He rang for the other man just in case he was in his office but there was no response; of course Hobbs would tell him the moment he returned.
The exchange telephone rang, and Gideon answered mechanically: “Gideon.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been back, Commander,” Hobbs said, his tone telling Gideon that someone else was with him. “The job of sorting out the wheat from the chaff as it were is taking longer than we expected. Can you spare half-an-hour, by any chance?”
In spite of what had happened, in spite of the chorus of praise, in spite of his realisation of his changing role in the affairs of the Yard, Gideon’s heart leapt. To his dying day there would be nothing so good or so satisfying as participation in any kind of actual police work; and there was real pleasure in the thought that he might be useful; and so, needed.
“Where?” he asked.
“Whitechapel,” Hobbs said. “The old Regality Cinema. About two hundred men were brought here from the docks, the roughest and most difficult to handle. The dockers who have their Union cards are being sent to the special East London sitting and they’ll
be bound over. But most of these aren’t dockers, and carry no identification. Willis Murdoch, the Union leader, has taken a close look at them and swears they’ve never been at the docks as workers. The Mirror photographs are here, and where we can identify a man who jumped out of a van or climbed the walls, we’re holding him overnight for the morning court. But – well, you and Lemaitre will need to decide which are the Strike Breakers and who got mixed up by accident. Lemaitre’s on his way.”
“I’ll come,” Gideon said. “I won’t have much time, but I’ll come.” He put down the receiver with a bang and looked at the shirt and oddments on the desk; there wouldn’t be a chance to change now, in fact he would be late at Mesurier’s. He moved towards the door as it opened, and backed from Sabrina Sale, who carried a sheaf of papers. “Just the thing I need,” Gideon said, moving back towards the desk and speaking before she put the papers down in front of him. “Will you telephone the Daily News and make sure that Mr. Mesurier knows I’ll probably be late? Not very late, but a little. Tell him we’re in a tangle over the special courts in the East End, and I’m helping to sort it out.” He sat down and skimmed through the letter to Scott-Marie while she thumbed a telephone directory for the News number. By the time he had signed the note she was asking for Mesurier; obviously she got him. The letter said exactly what he meant to say to Scott-Marie but it gave him second thoughts about what he had said to Nigel Simply. If Simply used that – well, in for a penny, in for a pound! He turned to the door as Sabrina Sale rang off, and asked: “Don’t you want these?”
“These what – oh, the shirt. No time,” said Gideon, opening the door. “Phone down for a car for me, will you?”
“No time for what?” She followed him out of the office.
‘To change. Sabrina—”
“Take them with you,” she said, thrusting them into his arms. “Surely you can change a shirt in the car coming back? And please don’t be too late at that dinner,” she pleaded, hurrying to keep pace by his side. “It’s far more important in the long term than anything in the short term.”
