Gideon at work; three complete novels: Gideon's day, Gideon's week, Gideon's night

by Marric, J. J. , 1908-1973

  "No." Smedd gripped his hands again tightly. "I've seen every member of the staff who works at the cinema where Rose's sister says they went, and had them look at Rose's photograph. None of them recognized him. Don't get me wrong," Smedd went on. "I don't believe the sister, but her story had to be checked, even if it was wasting the time of men who were needed on a more useful job. If she sticks to her story, the defense will try to prove that they did go to that cinema, but I've made sure before they start snooping."

  "Couldn't be tighter," said Gideon.

  "No, it couldn't be."

  "Hardly worth my talking to him," said Gideon; "but you know what it's like with these youngsters, I won't get any peace at home until I've been able to say that I've talked to Rose myself."

  "Let's go and see him," said Smedd. "I had a word with the A.C. about the advisability of a special court this afternoon, but he agreed that we could wait until the morning. Gave me time to check everything while making sure that the young brute didn't start running, or do any more damage."

  "Hmm," said Gideon.

  They went downstairs. The cells at the H5 station were in a semi-basement with frosted glass windows and bars; a gloomy, dingy place, quite enough to work on the fears of an innocent man. A sergeant was on duty at a desk. He straightened up when Smedd appeared, then recognized Gideon.

  "We're going to see Rose," Smedd said.

  "Yes, sir."

  Gideon, effacing himself in a way which was remarkable for so large a man, followed the other two along a narrow corridor toward the cells. He wasn't really affected by Mary Rose's plea, but he found himself thinking about young Rose in a way that Smedd certainly wouldn't approve. Here was a boy, aged twenty, with all life before him; and upstairs, in between two thin covers, were twenty or more years in prison. But supposing he was innocent? What was going on in his mind, his sister's, his mother's?

  William Rose heard them coming, and stood up as they reached the cell. He was smaller than Gideon had expected, slender and pale. If Gideon had been told that he was sixteen, he wouldn't have been surprised. He was remarkably like his sister, but his coloring was different; he was fair when she was dark, and his eyes were sky blue, a color picked out by the strip lighting. He wore a gray suit, his hair was neatly done, his shoes were polished; a young man who took care of himself.

  Smedd barked, ''This is Commander Gideon, of New Scotland Yard."

  William Rose said quietly, "How're you, sir."

  There was a hopeless look about him, which was apparent at once. Gideon had seen it often before, and it was no indication of guilt or innocence. Everything now happening was so utterly different from his normal life, and he felt lost.

  Gideon said, "Evening, Rose. Sorry to find you in this predicament." That was the last approach that the boy expected—or Smedd, for that matter. "I don't know how much Chief Inspector Smedd has told you, but you know that in English law you've got a right to a defense, and the right to be regarded as innocent unless you're proved guilty."

  The boy said, "That's all very well in theory, sir."

  So he wasn't cowed, yet.

  "What do you mean, exactly?" asked Gideon, in his slow, quiet way, and his placid expression could have done nothing to make the boy feel worse.

  "There isn't a man here who treats me as if I was innocent; they've all jumped to the conclusion that I'm guilty." As he spoke. Rose looked at Smedd; not bitterly, but doggedly.

  "Well, aren't you?" Gideon asked, still in that deceptively mild voice.

  William Rose said, "I did not kill Winifred, sir, and I know nothing about it. I lost my knife several days ago, and the killer must have found it. I went to the pictures with my sister Mary, after Winifred and I had quarreled. That's the truth, sir."

  Gideon was watching steadily. He said, "Know where you lost the knife?"

  "No, sir."

  "Told anyone else you'd lost it?"

  The boy colored.

  "No, sir, I didn't. It was a birthday present from my sister Mary, and I hoped I wouldn't have to tell her—or the family."

  "Hm. All right, Rose, if you've told the truth, we'll prove it. Won't we, Chief Inspector?"

  "We'll certainly establish the truth," Smedd said flatly.

  "And that's all anyone wants," Gideon said. "Chief Inspector, I wonder if you could send a shorthand writer here, and let me ask Rose a few questions. Mind?"

  Smedd couldn't very well refuse.

  Gideon put the questions, mildly, in a manner much more friendly than hostile. The answers came out sharply at first, as if the boy was aware that he was fighting a losing battle. Gradually his tension eased, and he spoke more naturally; by the time the questions were over, he was speaking eagerly and with color in his cheeks.

  His statement to Gideon coincided in every detail with two statements he had made earlier. If he was lying, nothing revealed itself by discrepancies in what he said.

  "Thanks very much, Smedd," Gideon said, at the door of the police station, as they shook hands. "Sorry to poke my nose in, but you know how these things are. And with youngsters these days, people are so touchy—want to wrap them up in cotton wool. I daren't take a chance that something might have slipped up here; if it had, we'd be in for real trouble. And just between you and me . . ."

  He stopped.

  He knew exactly what he was saying and what he was doing, but Smedd didn't realize that. Smedd was agog for a confidence. It didn't come for a long time, and when it did it seemed to be almost with embarrassment.

  "Keep this to yourself, won't you, Smedd, but there's a rumor that the A.C. might resign at the end of the year. Come into some private money, I hear. And you can't blame me for keeping an eye on the main chance, can you? Surprising how a 'not guilty' verdict rankles in the Home Office mind. One or two would be quite enough for them to pass me over. What with that and my daughter's personal interest—but I've got to be off!"

  Smedd watched him go.

  Smedd, who knew that Gideon's recommendation was the only thing he needed to be next in line for the superintendency at H5, was almost certainly checking over every detail in his mind, more determined than ever not to slip up. He would test the weakness in his case as thoroughly as any defending lawyer; there was no more risk that he would steam-roller over young William Rose.

  Nice boy.

  Nice boys sometimes had uncontrollable tempers, and Rose had owned the knife which had killed the Primrose Girl.

  It was a quarter to six when Gideon's car turned into narrow, drab Muskett Street, where Mrs. Benson lived. At a corner of the street leading to it, he had seen Old Percy, one of the senior detective sergeants at the Yard—a sergeant because of seniority only; he was utterly lacking in ambition. Percy was a biggish man, with a big stomach; he had won the Metropolitan Police boxing championship for six years in a row, and still had the strength of an ox. One of the soundest men the Yard was ever likely to have, he recognized Gideon but didn't bat an eye.

  He was watching the back of the house.

  Young Abbott was at the front.

  The detective officer was walking toward the car, and was almost level with Number 52, where Ruby Benson lived. He walked with long, deliberate strides, and looked as if he might have given Old Percy a run for his money had they been of an age in Percy's boxing days. Abbott walked more like a policeman on beat duty than a plain-clothes man watching a house—and it would be a long time before he got rid of that walk. Gideon had no particular objection to it; there were times when it was an advantage for a C.I.D. man to look like a policeman. He'd grow out of it, anyway.

  Gideon drew up.

  Abbott peered at him, saw who it was, and jumped forward to open the door.

  "Afternoon, sir!"

  "Hallo," said Gideon, as if surprised. "You on this job?"

  "I'm being relieved at eight o'clock, sir. Sergeant Lawson—"

  "I've seen him," said Gideon. "Anything happened to worry either of you?"

  "Nothing at all's wor
ried me, sir." Abbott reported the comings and goings of the Benson children and of two people who lived upstairs in this small house; and gave the description of two callers, one man and one woman, neither of whom had gone inside. Uneventful was the word. Gideon turned toward the house and saw a curtain move; either Ruby Benson or the children were peeping at him. As he reached the front door, he noticed the children inside the little front room: a boy of twelve and a girl of ten. He knocked. The children shouted something, their mother called to them sharply, and there was a scuffle of footsteps. Then Ruby Benson opened the door.

  Gideon had a shock.

  This was Ruby Benson all right, but she looked unbelievably younger. Changes in people so often had the opposite effect that this was astonishing. It was like looking at her younger sister. Of course she had her hair touched up, and it was no longer gray at the sides; the gray streak in the front was gone, too; but her youthfulness wasn't just due to her hair. Her skin looked clearer, her eyes had lost the long-suffering look he had known before. He could swear that she had fewer wrinkles, too. She was neatly made up, and her eyes were very bright. She wore a white blouse and a dark-gray skirt, and her figure was still the figure of a girl in her early twenties.

  Gideon put out his hand.

  "Well, well," he said, "you must tell me how you do it. I wouldn't mind knocking ten years off my age, too."

  It pleased her, and she smiled. Her teeth were very even, so even that they were probably false, but that didn't matter. She shook hands hesitantly, then stood aside to let him in.

  "I don't have the worry that I used to have—well, I didn't until today," she said. "The front room." Gideon knew the front room, turned into it, and had his second surprise. It had been redecorated throughout, it looked larger, and the freshness was in sharp contrast to the district. "Bit different since you were here last, isn't it?" she asked, and followed him in and closed the door. "It—it's ever so good of you to come. They haven't got him yet, have they?" That came quickly, revealing the anxiety so close to the surface.

  "Not yet," Gideon had to agree.

  "I've got a funny feeling," Benson's wife said abruptly. "I've got a feeling that he'll get down here, Mr. Gideon, and that he'll have a go at the kids. Like I told you. He knows they mean more to me than anything else, and it would just about suit him, that would—knowing I was alive and the kids were dead or—well, crippled or something. There's something I didn't ever tell you," she went on, speaking much too quickly, as she had done over the telephone. "His mother went to see him in Millways, did you know that?"

  "No."

  "Well, she did. And when she came back, she told me what he'd said to her. He gave her a message, actually, and she didn't understand it. But I did. I didn't tell her, and I didn't tell anyone; but—well, when I heard about Syd escaping, it came over me, Mr. Gideon. I could hardly think because I was so scared."

  He could believe her.

  "What was it?" he asked.

  She said: "He told me to remember what had happened to the Micklewright family. Just that. You wouldn't know them, I shouldn't think. They were pals of Syd's, years ago, and Micklewright used to do jobs for him. He thought Syd pulled a fast one over him. I didn't know for sure but I was always afraid that Syd had done it. Now I know."

  Gideon didn't tell her that she was almost incoherent. He could see how she had been bottling this up inside her; and now it was bursting out, and when it was all over she would feel better. He could see the outline of the picture that she was drawing, too.

  She went on:

  "The Micklewrights had two kids, see, and they were hit by a car, hit-and-run it was. They were with Micklewright, with their dad. He was killed, and so was one of the kids, and the other's been a cripple ever since. I couldn't ever be sure that Syd had done that; all I knew was that Micklewright died, and—and what had happened to the kids. Then when Syd's mother gave me the message, well—what could I think except what I did?"

  Gideon said, very quietly, "We won't let anything happen to your children, Mrs. Benson."

  She said suddenly, fiercely, "That's what you say, but who's to stop him? It isn't as if he'd have to do it himself; now he's out he could telephone someone down here, he's still got plenty of pals. As soon as you'd rung off this morning, I thought of that. That's why I didn't let them go back to school this afternoon. Mr. Gideon, how can you be sure he won't hurt my children?"

  It had become an obsession.

  Over the years, fear that her husband had been responsible for the Micklewrights' accident had been buried in her mind, and the message which Benson had sent back had quickened doubt to certainty. While he had been in jail she had felt safe; while he was out, she would live in a nightmare world of fear and dread, which would get stronger and more hideous as the days, perhaps as the hours, passed. Words wouldn't reassure her. The presence of the two policemen in the street wouldn't; in fact, nothing would, except her husband's recapture.

  Gideon said, "I can imagine how you feel, but look at it straight for a minute. I'll have men outside this house day and night, until we get him. I'll double the present guard, too, and I'll make quite sure that—"

  "You can't be sure," said Mrs. Benson flatly, and then went on deliberately: "Can you sit there and tell me to my face that you know he hasn't telephoned someone in London and told them what to do? Can you?"

  Gideon said, "Of course I can't."

  "Well, there you are, then," Mrs. Benson said. "There's only one way. . ."

  She broke off as the door burst open without warning. The way she jumped told Gideon just how keyed up she was, and how she must have fought to keep calm when he had first arrived. But no danger threatened. Instead, the twelve-year-old boy, young Syd Benson, came leaping into the room, with his sister behind him and only a little less excited. Gideon hadn't seen them for over three years. They looked nice kids: just anyone's children who were cared for properly and in good health, and who came from good-looking parents.

  "Ma!" young Syd cried and skidded to a standstill in front of his mother. "You know what . . . ?"

  "You'll get a slap round the side of your head if you don't go out faster than you came in," said Mrs. Benson. "I told you to stay and watch the television and not come unless I told you. Go on and do what you're told. Liz, I'm ashamed of you, you ought—"

  "But Ma!" cried young Syd, standing his ground with a defiance which obviously wasn't unusual. "Dad's coming on television, it just said so on the news. Had to tell you that, didn't I?"

  8. The Reason for Fear

  Young Syd's voice faded.

  He looked into his mother s face, and showed his own shocked reaction to the way she took the news. She lost her color, and seemed to grow older in front of Gideon's eyes. It was only for a moment; then she braced herself, squaring her chin and her shoulders, and fought to throw off the crushing effect of what her son had said and—so much more important—how he had said it. Now, she looked down at him. He was small for his age; the girl was only an inch or two shorter. He was like Syd Benson; no one could mistake those sharp features, the rather thin lips, the chiseled look. And he had his father's light-blue eyes, with the unexpectedly long, dark lashes. He'd come bursting in to tell his mother that his dad was coming on the television; and in the way he had said it there was burning eagerness to see his father; excitement; welcome. The man whom his mother feared, whom she thought might harm these children, was this child's father; and the three years or more of separation hadn't altered that and hadn't altered the affection the boy felt.

  Gideon found himself in the middle of a maelstrom of emotions, in depths which he only vaguely understood.

  Then young Syd said, "He is, Ma, the announcer said so. Aren't you coming to see him? It's on . . ."

  Mrs. Benson said, "Yes, Syd, I'll come. Will you come too, Mr. Gideon?"

  "I'd like to," Gideon said.

  "Well, hurry," urged young Syd.

  He and his sister led the way. Ruby Benson looked once into
Gideon's eyes, and then away; she was tight-lipped; and it was only possible to guess what was passing through her mind. Gideon followed her along a narrow passage to the long kitchen-cum-living-room, where the small-screen television set stood in one corner. It was dark outside, and there was no light on inside; the screen looked very bright. There were pictures of a speedboat undergoing trials on lakes which were probably in Scotland, and the loud roar of the engines throbbed about the room. The children took their seats; two larger chairs were placed so that anyone sitting in them could get a good view of the screen.

  "Please sit down," Ruby Benson said.

  They sat down.

  "Do you know what?" young Syd burst out. "I haven't seen him for over three years!"

  "Nor have I," piped up the girl, "and he's my dad, too,"

  Gideon heard Ruby Benson's sharp intake of breath. He saw that she was biting at her knuckles. There wasn't a thing he could do except sit there stolidly and watch and listen, understanding what was racking her. She hadn't said anything to try to turn them against their father; that was obvious. Right or wrong, she had let them have their own thoughts and memories of him, and now there was the excitement, this eagerness to see him; no sense of shame, no sense of fear.

  The picture and the noise faded.

  The male announcer came on.

  "Now we take you for a brief visit to Millways jail, in the north of England, from which nine desperate criminals escaped this morning, three of whom have now been recaptured."

  The announcer's face faded.

  The high, gray, bleak walls of Millways jail were shown upon the screen, and there was silence except for the slight hum of the loud-speaker. The shots were done well, and the announcer did not spoil them with a running commentary; he let the prison speak for itself. The walls with the great curved spikes on the top; the small windows with the thick iron bars; the watchtowers; the shots from inside, with the galleries round the cells, the cell doors open, the convicts coming out, the great net spread between the galleries, to catch any prisoner who was fool enough to try to kill himself. Here was everything, with the warders, the gray-clad, gray-faced prisoners, the long rows of cells, the tiny holes in the doors, the inside of a cell with its bed, one chair, one small table, the pin-ups on the wall.