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

by Marric, J. J. , 1908-1973

  Everything.

  The two children were absolutely still.

  Gideon felt Mrs. Benson's hand touching his. He moved, so that he could take her hand, and felt the pressure of her fingers. She needed his presence, the warmth and stolidity of his touch, to help her now.

  Then Liz spoke.

  "I can't see Dad," she complained.

  "You'll see him," the boy said. "Shut up."

  The prison faded, and the announcer spoke from a screen filled suddenly with the one word: Wanted.

  "We are about to throw onto the screen pictures of the six men who are still missing, and for whom the police in the whole of England are searching. By the side of the photographs will be a description which will help in the identification of the wanted men, each one of whom has a record of violence. . . ."

  Ruby Benson said in a choky whisper: "They can't stay and see this, I ought to have stopped them, I—"

  "Let them be," said Gideon, softly.

  Neither of the children turned.

  First, there was Jingo Smith, with his bald head and button of a nose, quite a merry-looking man; then, Wally Alderman, with his flat and broken nose, a man whom Lombroso would have welcomed as the perfect illustration of criminal type. Then, Matt Owens, small, with pointed features and one eye which twitched a great deal and, in the photograph, looked half-closed.

  Then, Benson.

  It was a good photograph; prison photographs were getting better. This showed him exactly as he was, and the boy staring at the screen might have been looking at himself as he would be in twenty years' time. Every line and every feature of Benson's face showed, and those thin lips.

  Hair:

  Complexion:

  Eyes: Dark.

  Sallow.

  Pale blue.

  That was what made his eyes so noticeable: clear, pale blue in a sallow face, the face that was almost olive-skinned.

  Height: 5 ft. 9 in.

  Distinguishing marks: Brown mole, left ear.

  Appendectomy scar.

  Tip of little finger of

  left hand missing.

  Then Benson was taken off.

  Freddy Tisdale came on, looking almost cherubic, in spite of the starkness of the photograph. He gave the impression that he might burst into a smile at any moment. Ruby Benson stopped looking at the screen, but still sat there, as if hopeless. Gideon watched the children, and tried to imagine what was passing through their minds, but that was only for a moment. He leaned forward, took a brandy flask from his hip pocket, and unscrewed the cap.

  "Have a sip," he said.

  Ruby took it, blindly. When their hands touched again, hers were icy; she had gone cold in a few seconds. She choked a little, and Gideon took the flask away as the last picture faded and the screen went blank, then showed the announcer.

  "Tomorrow, at the same time, WYN TELECASTING will bring you up-to-the-minute news of events throughout the world. Now there will be an interval of . . ."

  Gideon stood up. The children got up, too, and turned toward Gideon and their mother. It seemed very dark now that the screen was blank.

  Quietly and steadily, young Syd's voice came.

  "And you're the bloody copper who put him inside," he said. "What wouldn't I like to do to you!"

  Gideon had built up the case against Benson.

  Gideon had broken down Ruby's resistance, and had prevailed upon her to give evidence against her husband.

  Now, Ruby heard her son speak like that.

  This was a challenge which couldn't be set aside. If Gideon said nothing to the boy, then the hatred would only fester and there would be a new element: birth of contempt for the police. So Gideon had to take up the challenge, without hurting the mother too much, without showing the slightest sign of vengefulness. He had to make an impression which, later, might stand Sydney Benson's son in good stead.

  "Come on, let's get out of here," young Syd said, and swung round toward the back door.

  Ruby burst out, "Syd! Don't you dare!"

  "I got to go where there's some clean air," young Syd sneered, and glowered at Gideon.

  The girl stood there uncertainly, looking first at her mother and then at her brother, but never at Gideon. All Gideon did was to watch young Syd, catch his gaze and hold it. The boy tried to look away, but could not. They were more used to the dim light now.

  Gideon said, "That's right, Syd, I did help to send your father to prison. But he knew the risk he was taking, and he knew for years that one day the police would catch up with him. They always do. Do you play football?"

  Young Syd didn't answer.

  Gideon said roughly, "You've got a tongue in your head, so answer me. Do you play football, or don't you?"

  "I—yes. Yeh," repeated the boy, with a gulp.

  "He's in the school team," Liz put in, as if glad to say something for her brother.

  "Doesn't surprise me, he looks as if he's good at sports," Gideon said off-handedly. "All right, Syd, you're in the school team for football, but what happens when you foul one of the other side? The ref blows his whistle, and there's a free kick against you, isn't there? Do it in the worst place, the penalty area, and it's almost certainly a goal to the other side. What does that mean? If you break the rules, if you foul too often, you'll get kicked out of your school team. That's the way it works at school, and it's the way it works outside. We make certain rules. Most people obey them. Some think they can foul and get away with it. They do for a while; but sooner or later, they're found out. Your father didn't play to the rules. If he had, he'd be here with you today. It's as simple as that. I should have thought you would have known it by now, without having to ask a copper to tell you. Got it?"

  The boy said, "Bloody copper, that's all you are," and he turned suddenly and ran swiftly toward the door which led to the scullery. In a moment, he was outside in the small yard; and as Gideon hurried after him, he heard the sound of his steel-tipped heels on the concrete of the yard. When Gideon reached the back door, young Syd Benson was climbing over the wall which led to an alleyway running between two rows of houses.

  Behind Gideon was Ruby Benson, clutching the hand of her other child.

  "Don't let him get away," she breathed, "anything could happen to him, don't let him get away."

  The luck could run well, sometimes.

  Gideon was outside and giving orders to Abbott and Old Percy, who came hurrying, when a police patrol car turned into Muskett Street. Radio messages flashed to other patrol cars, and in ten minutes young Syd was discovered with half a dozen other boys standing about an old warehouse not far from the Thames. Gideon didn't send a patrol car or a uniformed man to talk to the boy, but went himself. It gave young Syd a chance to show off in front of his pals, but it also gave Gideon an opportunity to find out if there was as much good in the boy as his mother hoped.

  "Syd," he said, "you can play the game anyhow you like, but I've told you what will happen if you play it the wrong way. Now show some sense, and time it better. Fond of your mother, aren't you?"

  Syd didn't answer.

  Gideon swung round on another lad.

  "Do you like your mother?" He flashed to a third. "And you? And what about you?"

  He won a startled "Yes," an unexpected "She's okay," and a grunt.

  "Been happy with your mother at home, haven't you?" Gideon asked young Syd, still roughly. "Come on, the others admit it, why don't you?"

  "Ye-yeh."

  "Well, she played to the rules, and she's made a man out of you," Gideon said. "If you hadn't a lot of guts you wouldn't have behaved like you did just now. But don't forget that your mother's having a tough time. I'm talking to you like this because I can tell you've got a good mind, and I won't insult you by pretending that you're just a kid who doesn't understand. You understand all right. Your mother's nervous because your father's out of jail; and if he comes and sees her, she'll want help, not hindrance. It's up to you to do all you can to help her, and pay back a bit of the
debt you owe her. But if you don't want to, okay, I can't make you go back."

  He was thinking, "If it comes to a point, I'll have to find some charge and pick the kid up; he'll be safer in a cell than out here tonight."

  He turned and walked off, knowing that young Syd was being watched by Divisional men.

  He went back to Muskett Street. There wasn't much that he could say, and he wasn't looking forward to the next interview; but he had another surprise. Ruby had controlled her fears and overcome the moment of crisis so well that she greeted him quite briskly.

  "I shouldn't have let him watch, I suppose," she said, "but he'll soon come to his senses. The trouble is he mixes with the kids from Syd's old crowd, and there's nothing you can do about it. One of these days he's going to have to choose one way or the other, though I can't make him do it the way I want him to. The important thing is to make sure he doesn't run into trouble. You are having him watched, aren't you?" She was very anxious.

  "Closely. He'll be all right, and I think he'll come back before long. We've got to decide what to do with him and the girl," Gideon went on. "I could arrange for them to go away somewhere; but if you send them now, you might make young Syd think that we're just trying to make sure that he can't see his father. That won't help on a long-term basis. Like us to put the girl somewhere, and leave you and young Syd here?"

  There was a long silence. Then:

  "We'd better all stick together," Mrs. Benson said.

  Gideon went back to the Yard before going home.

  Lemaitre had gone, and Sergeant Jefferson was there, holding the fort before a night-duty Chief Inspector came in; there was always someone in the Commander's office. Jefferson's gray head was bent over a report as the door opened, and he looked up quickly, then stood up.

  "Didn't know whether you'd be looking in or phoning, sir."

  "Best to look in," Gideon said. "Anything new?"

  "Been very quiet, so far," said Jefferson. "Nothing fresh from Millways. That railway-sidings man who was beaten up is on the danger list. If he dies, that'll be a nasty job." Jefferson had a gentle way with him. "They've picked up a footprint near the Kelly's Bank vault, which might help; but in my opinion it's a bit tenuous, sir. Otherwise, just routine. I'm not expecting things to be so quiet tomorrow. Much warmer tonight, isn't it?"

  Gideon smiled.

  "We old-in-the-tooth coppers can tell the youngsters a thing or two, can't we? Well, I'm going home. Superintendent Fisher on duty tonight?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Pleasant dreams," said Gideon, and went off.

  He looked in at the A.C.'s office and made sure that it was empty; had a word with Fisher, who had an office along the corridor; took a last look at the Information Room, studying recent teleprints from other parts of the country and the radio flashes. They were coming in fairly fast, he gathered; there had been five burglaries tonight so far, mostly on London's outskirts, nothing yet which the Divisions couldn't handle. He went off with a familiar feeling which was stronger at certain times than others, and was very strong now. It was a sense of anticlimax: a sense that when so much needed doing, he was walking away from it. The theme song of the Yard was unfinished business, and there was the guilty sense of going away at a time when anything might happen. The night held its secrets; perhaps the dead body, not yet discovered; or the killer, striking at this very moment. The burglar at the window or at the safe; the criminal at work everywhere; the never-ending cycle of the crimes committed by night and of the investigations beginning next morning.

  He remembered, suddenly, that in the cell at H5 Division was a lad who might have taken the first steps on that long walk.

  He, Gideon, was going home—to his wife, to supper and to bed.

  Unless, of course, he was called out.

  9. Benson Alone

  Benson did not know that his picture was being thrown onto the television screens all over the country. He stood in the kitchen of the furnished house, unable to hear the faint sounds from the radio in the next room, but hearing a louder, throbbing noise coming from the house next door; that was either radio or television, tuned too loudly. It got on his nerves. Everything was getting on his nerves, and he didn't realize that it was largely reaction to the fact that what he had planned so long and so carefully had actually gone according to plan.

  Freddy Tisdale was out.

  It was ten minutes to seven, and Freddy oughtn't to be long.

  Benson began to wonder if he could trust Freddy.

  Freddy had told him to stay here in the warm, there was no sense in their both going out; and that was right. It wasn't as if this job would be dangerous. It was five minutes' walk to the shop at the corner, and it would be child's play to get in, lift a few oddments of groceries, and get out again. Freddy, whose nerves seemed to be much steadier than Benson's that day, hadn't appeared to give it a second thought.

  He'd been gone for twenty minutes.

  Benson had opened the kitchen drawer and now stared at the knives, forks and spoons inside. His gaze was mostly concentrated on the knives. There was one, a poultry knife which had worn thin in the middle. It was very sharp. There was also a green felt sheath for a bread knife, to stop it from getting tarnished. He kept searching until he found a knife sharpener, took this to a tap and ran cold water on it, and then began to sharpen the poultry knife. Every now and again he paused, so that the grating hiss of steel on steel stopped, and he listened for the sound of Freddy's approach.

  He heard nothing.

  Freddy was to tap at the back door, three times.

  Benson finished sharpening the knife, and drew the blade along his thumb; he just broke the surface of the epidermis. Then he slid the knife into the green felt sheath, tied it near the handle of the knife, and slid it all down the front of his trousers. He fastened the top of the sheath onto a trousers button, so that it would not work down, and then walked about, shifting the knife until it was in the most convenient position.

  Now he was smiling.

  He stopped smiling, for it was five past seven; Freddy had been gone a long time. He moved to the door, hesitated, put the light out, and then opened the door an inch. He could see the pale night, reflecting the snow. Some way off there were a few yellow lights, but not enough to worry him. He heard nothing.

  Cold air swept in.

  He closed the door and began to shiver, only partly from the cold.

  Three things were possible.

  One, that Freddy had been delayed, but would soon arrive with some food. With food.

  Two, that he had deliberately run out on his partner.

  Three, that he had been caught.

  Benson didn't seriously consider the second possibility, but he had to consider the last. It made him sweat, in spite of the fit of shivering. He felt the gnawing at his stomach as if it were a sharp pain. Fear made it worse. He knew Freddy Tisdale only through prison life; he couldn't be sure that Freddy wouldn't break down and give a partner away. And the snow, which muffled all sound of approach, could muffle all sound of the police also, if they were coming.

  Benson went upstairs, crept into an icy cold bedroom and, still shivering, moved to the window. He couldn't possibly be seen, yet he kept to one side, as if the night had eyes. He peered into the street, the white pavements and the banks of packed snow, the three neglected snowmen, the little houses with lights at the windows and at fanlights, all the front doors closed tightly against the bitter March wind.

  He went back to the kitchen; and as he reached the door which led from the passage, he heard a dull sound. He stopped absolutely still, until it was repeated, and this time there was no mistake. Bump, bump, bump. This was Freddy; it must be. Yet, as he moved forward, Benson felt his heart almost choking him. Freddy might have been caught and might have given that signal away; he might open the door to a copper.

  And Freddy might have returned—empty-handed.

  Benson stood to one side, took the knife out and slid it into his trou
sers pocket, and then, left hand stretched out, he turned the key in the lock. Freddy could hear that. Then he opened the door a fraction of an inch.

  "That you, Freddy?"

  "Who the hell do you think it is?" Freddy demanded hoarsely. "Let me in, I'm frozen ruddy stiff."

  Benson opened the door wider and Freddy came in, so cold that his teeth were chattering and his body shaking. His eyes looked sharply veined and glittery, his nose and his cheeks were blue, but he carried a cardboard carton, and the pockets of his stolen coat bulged.

  Food!

  Benson closed the door without a sound and switched on the light. He was breathing harshly, now. Freddy moved toward the kitchen table, dumped the box down, and then emptied his pockets; he didn't stop shivering.

  "Flicking customers," he said, "there was a couple of women, standing there gassing; the shopkeeper and his perishing wife wouldn't let them go. I stood in a wind that cut like a flicking knife. Here, you dish up, I've got to go and get myself warm."

  Benson didn't speak.

  Steaming hot soup, ham, cheese, tinned potatoes, tinned peas, and some rye bread in a packet made a meal which might almost have come from the Savoy Grill. Benson and Tisdale hadn't eaten food like it for three years. They ate slowly and steadily for twenty minutes, until Freddy began to wilt. They had hardly uttered a word since his return.

  Suddenly Benson said: "All we could do with is some beer. You got any beer?" He gave a tight-lipped grin.

  "Like me to go and get some?" asked Freddy, also grinning. His face now had a much more amiable expression.

  Benson said, "You're okay, Freddy, you've got what it takes. What are you going to do after we leave here? Stringing along with me or playing solo?"

  "You any idea?" Freddy asked.