by John Creasey
“Well, he’s got a night off,” Arkwright said, and shrugged, and settled down to cycling even faster. He drove a police car during the day but for private life used a bicycle, being a bachelor, young enough to enjoy the exercise, and sensible enough to know that one day he would be glad of the money he saved. His mind was very much on Gideon as he turned off the main road and headed north, intending soon to turn west and so head for his lodgings.
Then he exclaimed: “Got it!”
Gideon had been the open sesame to his mind, for a little over two years ago Gideon had questioned him after he himself had questioned the spruce-looking man. Now Arkwright remembered everything. He had interrogated the spruce-looking man about the death of his young and pretty wife, but it had been largely a formality, because the doctor’s certificate had been quite clear. There had been a short, sharp epidemic of food poisoning in the district at that time, which had been traced to an infected batch of meat pies.
So Arkwright, having remembered, promptly put the recollection out of his mind.
He would not have done so had he even suspected that the man he had recognised now used a different name: the name of Robert Carne. When his pretty young wife had died of food poisoning in a North London suburb, he had been known as Roger Clayton.
Roger Clayton, alias Robert Carne, had thought it unwise to tell his new bride that he had been married not once but twice before, and it did not occur to Marion Carne née Lane that he had been. At half-past six that evening, just when Gideon got home, they were in a hotel room at Brighton, overlooking the sea and the two piers, and seeing more people on the beach and in the water than was usual on an August day. On the south coast, everyone who could jumped at the chance given by the spring “heat-wave”, and although the water was stinging cold, one forgot that after the first shock was over.
Carne stood by the window.
His bride came out of the bathroom, where she had been setting out the toilet things, and stood still and looked at him. She loved the shape of the back of his head and neck. She loved the way his small ears pressed close to the side of his head. She loved the upright way in which he stood, and the squareness of his shoulders. She did not move towards him at once, and he turned round slowly, obviously aware that she was watching. He smiled; and to Marion that was a perfect smile, making him look unbelievably handsome. She could not understand why he should have fallen in love with her.
“Hallo, sweet. Finished the chores?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a little husky.
“Come and have a look at the view,” he said.
She joined him, taking his outstretched hand, but he soon released hers, and slid his hand round her waist, and after a moment, almost as if shyly, to her breast. She felt her heart beating very fast. He squeezed and held her closer. She had looked out of the window at the shimmering sea and the people on the promenade, the traffic, the small boats close to the shore, but all of these things faded. She felt herself being turned towards him, felt the pressure of his hands, his body, his lips. He kissed her fiercely, far, far more passionately than before this day, and she felt herself responding, felt a great longing.
He carried her to the bed.
She had never dreamed that she could be so happy as she was when, afterwards, they lay side by side, with only a sheet over them, and his hand still warm upon her.
This, the second of May, was their wedding night.
Gideon chuckled at the antics of an American actor on the screen.
“Good tonight, isn’t it?” he said.
“Shhhh!” hushed his youngest child.
Little Peter Wray slept on the folded blanket, the sheets of newspaper and the old mackintosh in a corner of the room, near the door of the cupboard, while his mother slept the sleep of the drunk on a single bed in the far corner. The greasy newspaper from which they had eaten the fish and chips was still on the table, and the warm day had brought out the flies, which were feasting.
Mrs. Crow, with a sister who tried to help her, sat pale-faced and dull-eyed in the front room of her house. From there she could see the roadway, and would know at once if anyone brought her child home.
The body of poor, suffocated Mr. Henderson, badly scarred, still lay on the morgue slab. Warr, now at home, was making notes and checking every detail of what he had done that day: he would work until the small hours if necessary, and his wife knew better than to disturb him. Mrs. Smallwood, the housekeeper who was under suspicion, was in a pub not far from the place where her employer had died, being treated to whisky after whisky by a pretty young girl and an attractive young man who represented a weekly newspaper which specialised in True Life Crime.
Quick Joe Mann sat at the front door of his daughter’s house, in his shirtsleeves on this warm evening, and smiled amiably at a constable, who nodded as he passed by. Upstairs in the house, Joe’s daughter had a handbag on her arm, while another woman practised the art of opening the handbag and stealing the contents.
When this lesson was over, the daughter called Joe in to his supper.
“When are you going to start the kids working again?” she wanted to know.
“I’ve been told to lay-off for a bit, too many been caught lately,” Joe answered. “It won’t be for long.”
A bewildering variety of other things were happening in London, of course. The law which Gideon had to enforce was being broken in a thousand different ways by thousands of different people. Licensees of public houses and hotels were serving drinks after hours, usually with some apprehension; policemen were watching some of them suspiciously. Other police were making their rounds of the main streets, all brightly lit, where cars were parked, sometimes without lights; and those cars more than fifty yards from a street lamp were being noted, so that their owners could be charged for parking without lights even though no one could charge danger to the public. In back rooms behind the glittering signs of small clubs, gaming was going on, and the police were taking notes of the patrons, preparing reports for raids likely to be made during the next week or two. Here and there, dope was being sold in cigarettes, or injected with blunt hypodermic needles, but the police knew very few of the places where this was being done. On the railways and at big bus depots, petty pilfering was going on expertly, always with care and caution. One postman out of tens of thousands slipped a couple of fat registered envelopes into his pocket, and hoped that he would never be found out. Three illegal operations were being performed on young girls, each suffering agony which she believed was better than the shame and anguish of carrying a child. Thieves were watching their opportunities, most quite boldly, opening windows, opening doors, walking about houses while people slept upstairs, even helping themselves to food from the kitchen, or to a drink. A few fences were buying stolen goods so hot that they stung the fingers; within twenty-four hours, most of the goods would have changed hands three or four times, making it almost impossible for the police to find out where it had gone.
Two men threw themselves into the Thames, one to drown, one to be pulled out by the river police.
Flying Squad cars were on the move; the Divisions and the Yard night staff were kept fairly busy.
It was just a London night.
Most of London slept, but there was no sleep for Eve Dennis, in the small soundproof apartment in the heart of London. There was only terror because she believed that her husband was going to kill her.
There he was, in the doorway, with the knife.
She pushed the bedclothes back and got out of bed, and backed to the window. It was in the same wall as the kitchen window, but was much larger. Beyond was the blank wall of the building, and beneath the concrete alley. She could not go to the door because he was there, but the window was wide open on this warm night.
“Reggie,” she breathed, “put that knife away and come to bed. Reggie! Reggie!”
5
SUICIDE?
<
br /> Lemaitre was alone in Gideon’s office next morning, with the daily report ready, a thicker one than on Monday, but still not a record for side. Gideon’s arrival brought a swift succession of telephone calls which Lemaitre answered one after the other, often with the smoke curling up from his cigarette into his eyes. Gideon noticed this more than he did usually; it reminded him of the days when Lemaitre had been a chain-smoker largely because of his domestic troubles.
That decree absolute, of course. Today?
Gideon did not allow himself to be distracted, but studied each report closely and made a note about officers whom he wanted to see. When he had finished, Lemaitre was enjoying a lull.
“’Morning, George.”
“Hallo, Lem. They been making you work?”
“Willing horse, that’s me. Four new things just come in, nothing very much, though. Madrid’s okayed that extradition, Webster’s bringing Riddall back with him, should be here tomorrow or the next day. Planes are all booked up. The Kent job’s all over, we needn’t send a chap down there after all – they’ve charged a middle-aged nightwatchman, looks pretty tight. Biggish burglary out at Stratford, van load of tobacco and cigarettes, but the Division can look after that, I should think. And hope! Suicide, according to first reports, over at Chilton Court”
“Suicide how?”
“Girl jumped out of a sixth-floor window. Broke her neck and cracked her skull. She wasn’t found until this morning, when she was cold and stiff. Only been married a couple of weeks.”
“Who’s handling it?”
“Dick Sparrow.”
“Well, no one will pull the wool over his eyes,” Gideon remarked, and turned back to the reports. “Anything in about the Crow child?”
“Nope.”
“Did you send that request to Divisions to check on the mothers of those kid thieves?”
“Yes, George,” answered Lemaitre, with a mock humility which told Gideon that he was convinced the child crime-wave was over, and that Gideon was making too much of it.
Gideon made no comment, but for the next half-hour talked to men ranging from Superintendents to Sergeants, hearing comments, making suggestions, generally briefing them; and Lemaitre, who took notes and looked after the telephone, marvelled as he had always marvelled at Gideon’s grasp of the details of each job. He made it look so easy. Four cases coming up in the magistrates’ courts that morning needed special comment, but none was big enough to take Gideon out of the office. It looked as if he would be able to put everything really shipshape before the day was out.
Lemaitre went out for five minutes, and Gideon’s telephone bell rang.
“Gideon . . . Oh, yes, Dick, how’s it going? . . . Eh . . . well, I suppose I could look in for half an hour, I wouldn’t mind a breath of air. Muggy this morning, isn’t it? . . . What’s on your mind?”
He listened, made one or two notes, studied them after ringing off, and then called Information.
“Anything at all in about the Crow child, or the father?”
“No, sir.”
“See that I get a message just as soon as you hear something, will you?” Gideon rang off, scowled at the wall, and pictured Mrs. Crow, so haggard-looking, so despairing, so sure that her husband had stolen the child. Reports from all over the country made it certain that Crow and Sheila had not left since the first calls had gone out, but there was still the possibility that they had gone before anyone realised what Crow was up to.
For the first time, Gideon opened the batch of newspapers piled on his desk. Except for The Times and The Guardian, every one had printed a picture of Mrs. Crow, Sheila and the father. Gideon studied the father’s face closely. He looked a younger man than Mrs. Crow, he was handsome in a way, had plenty of dark hair, and a rather wide parting which showed up white.
NATIONWIDE HUNT FOR MISSING CHILD
ran the headline in the Globe, and the others were much the same:
FATHER AND DAUGHTER VANISH.
GRIEF-STRICKEN MOTHER SAYS FIND MY CHILD.
YARD WATCHING ALL PORTS.
Here was the human appeal story, and here was Mrs. Crow’s photograph.
Was Crow so clever that he had sneaked abroad?
Gideon telephoned CD Division.
There was an overtone of anxiety in Carter’s dry, rather sardonic voice.
“I hope this beggar hasn’t got away, George. He’s not been to his office since Saturday.”
“Been into his flat?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Checked at nearby hotels, and the homes of his friends?”
“I tried to say in my report that I’d checked everything.”
“Did Crow have any favourite holiday resort, anything like that?”
“Well—”
“Did he?”
“He was very fond of the New Forest, any forest for that matter. Loved trees.”
“Ask Winchester to keep an eye open,” said Gideon, and after a pause, went on: “How much do you know about Crow himself? The first reports said he was a hard drinker, pretty loose-liver, that kind of thing. Right?”
“Right-ish.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, he played around a bit, but if I had to give an opinion, George, his wife was responsible for that. The cold type. Don’t hold me to that, but the picture I’m getting is of a wife who wasn’t very bed-willing, nagged a bit, felt she’d married beneath her. She probably saw herself as very hard done by, and may have caused most of the trouble herself.”
“How about the girl Crow took home, then went off with?”
“They had a few weeks together, then he paid her off,” Carter said. “He’s been living in a service flat ever since.”
“Emotional type?”
“What are you driving at, George?”
“I wouldn’t like him to kill himself and the girl,” said Gideon quietly. “Anything to suggest that he might?”
Carter said slowly: “I wouldn’t think so, but there isn’t much doubt that he missed the child very badly.”
“How long’s he been living on his own?”
“Twelve months or so.”
“Seen his doctor?”
“No.”
“Check with him, will you, see if there’s any evidence of neurosis, extreme sleeplessness, anything which might help to turn his mind.”
“All right, George.”
“Thanks,” said Gideon. He rang off, and dabbed his handkerchief over his forehead; it was not sunny today, but the office was much warmer than it had been yesterday. Lemaitre was back, and Gideon switched from the Crow child case to the suicide at Chilton Court. “I’m going over to have a word with Dick Sparrow, Lem, hold the fort, will you?”
“Yep. Anything special?”
“No. This suicide angle made me wonder if Crow could have decided to kill himself and the girl. Only an angle.” Gideon, standing up, looked almost shamefaced. “Carter’s checking.” He knotted his blue tie and went out, passing half a dozen men on his way to the lift, noticing that all of them looked sweaty and warm. The last man he saw was the Detective-Sergeant cyclist whom he had passed last night. The man hesitated, then made as if to go past.
“’Morning, Arkwright,” Gideon said. “Want me?”
“Well—not really, sir.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Silly little thing, sir, really.” Arkwright was young enough to feel that he might be making a fool of himself, and to colour slightly as he went on: “Seeing you last night jolted my memory about a chap I noticed yesterday morning, all dolled up and wearing a carnation in his button-hole as if he was going to a wedding.”
“No crime.” Gideon smiled.
“Last time I saw him, it was just after his wife had died. That Highgate food
poisoning job. Remember it, sir?”
Gideon frowned. “I remember the job, yes. Six deaths, weren’t there, and a newly married couple was involved? The husband came through, the wife died.”
“Same chap, sir.”
“Well, it’s a decent interval.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” said Arkwright, with a grin.
“Any Registry Office near there?”
“Cork Street.”
“Oh. Well, he might have been best man or a guest, but if you’re round that way you can look in and take a peek at the register, it might satisfy your curiosity,” said Gideon. He nodded and walked on, only subconsciously aware of the fact that he had made a friend, and perhaps helped to shape a Detective who would train his powers of observation to their absolute limit. It was the man who noticed an odd feature of an everyday affair who really helped to prevent crime.
Gideon drove to Chilton Court, near the river.
He often passed these blocks of flats on his way to and from the office, and had never liked them. The blocks had been built just before the Second World War, when material had been cheap. The architect hadn’t thought much about window space, while the landlord’s one ambition had been to use every square foot of land. He had succeeded; there was the narrowest of drives approaching each block, and scarcely enough room in between the blocks. Two police cars were outside and one was just inside the driveway. A few idlers stood about, and two uniformed policemen. Gideon went to the entrance hall, and a constable said: “Mr. Gideon, sir?”
