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

by Marric, J. J. , 1908-1973

  "That's what's kept me awake all night, wondering what I really ought to do. I know it's silly, but I don't want to part with them now. I—I get a feeling that if I let them go I'd never see them again."

  "You'll see them again," said Gideon, but knew that it was empty reassurance. "How's the boy?"

  Another pause.

  Lemaitre almost shouted into his instrument: "What's that?" and looked across at Gideon, his eyes blazing. "Hurry up!" he mouthed, and beckoned furiously.

  Something big? Benson.

  "Just a minute, Mrs. Benson," Gideon said, and clapped a great hand over the mouthpiece. "What's up, Lem?"

  "Edmundsun," breathed Lemaitre; "got hold of a razor blade, tried to kill himself, they're rushing him to hospital. Might not live the day out, either. Who shall we send?"

  "Cummings," said Gideon, without a moment's hesitation and put that out of his mind as he switched back to Benson's wife. "Sorry, Mrs. Benson. What were you saying?"

  "You asked me how young Syd was," Ruby said, "and the truth is, I don't know. I knew he was interested in his dad, I didn't think it was right to put him against his own father too much. To tell you the truth I always told myself young Syd would be a grown man and able to think for himself before he saw my husband again, and—but that isn't the point, Mr. Gideon! I don't know what to make of him. Seeing that prison on the television, and then seeing his father's photograph, did something to him. He seemed different last night, older if you know what I mean, as if—as if he'd been thinking, and wasn't so sure of me any more."

  Gideon said, "Mrs. Benson, he's a healthy youngster, and he's got everything in him that he'll ever want. He'll pull through after this, you just needn't worry. Now, I must ring off."

  "Yes, of course, I'm sorry I bothered you," Ruby said quickly. "Good-by, and—and thanks a lot."

  "If you think we can help, any time, call on us," Gideon said. "Don't hesitate."

  He rang off, and looked frowningly across at Lemaitre, who was briefing Cummings by telephone. One half of Gideon's mind listened to that. Lemaitre, who knew every trick in the book and every regulation that hampered or aided the Yard, could do this better than anyone else. If Edmundsun was really dangerously injured, Cummings must try to get a statement, but not offend the doctors. Cummings must also check with the Yard as often as he could.

  Other things:

  "Don't forget to have someone else as witness to any statement that Edmundsun makes. Don't forget to try to find out where Edmundsun salted the cash away . . ."

  Throughout all this, Gideon kept seeing mind pictures of young Syd, who was so much like his father. Abbott was watching the boy, so he should be all right. But the problem was no longer a simple one of Syd's physical safety. It was possible to understand a boy worshiping a father whom he didn't know, a man whom his friends spoke of as a hero. It was impossible to foresee the consequences of such hero worship.

  At twelve noon, the moment when Gideon was holding on for Ruby Benson's call, Benson was closing the front door of the house where he and Freddy Tisdale had spent the night.

  It wasn't so cold, but the snow was beginning to melt, and walking was difficult. Each of them, Tisdale in the lead, was well wrapped up in clothes found in the locked cupboards in the house; and each had a hat, Benson a bowler which was a little too big for him. Each had a muffler and gloves, too. They might have been exactly what they looked: a man from the estate agency with a prospective tenant who had been over the house. Two neighbors did, in fact, see them leave; neither gave them a second thought.

  They walked on cautiously, because the ground was so slippery. At the corner, they could turn right toward a busy main road, or left, to a short cut toward the car park behind the market. Freddy turned left. They didn't speak, and their footsteps went slsh, slsh, slsh. Everyone on foot was intent on where he was stepping, and avoiding a nasty fall; no one took much notice of Benson and Tisdale. Every other man they saw was huddled up in clothes in much the same way, and no one was likely to single the fugitives out.

  They had to cross another main road to reach the car park. They turned into it—and saw a sergeant of police leaning on his bicycle, talking to a constable. Both policemen were looking toward the corner, and both saw Benson and Tisdale.

  Neither convict spoke or panicked.

  Here was a testing time that was never likely to be repeated; they were on the same side of the road as the policemen, who stood close to a crossing. The road was busy. The only place to cross was near the policemen; anyone who tried to cross this side of them would invite attention. The two men had turned toward the policemen, and couldn't turn the other way without attracting attention, either.

  They walked on.

  They still watched the ground, picking their steps carefully. Here, outside the little shops, the snow had been cleared in most places, but there were slushy patches, and walking wasn't wholly safe. Benson, three yards from the policemen, actually glanced up and looked straight along the road, while Tisdale glanced toward the other side.

  The sergeant wasn't looking at them, now.

  The constable was.

  Benson's whole body seemed to be screaming. Every muscle was ready, to move, to take him across the road, to go tearing toward the car park, but he knew that if he were recognized he would never get away. He sensed that Freddy suffered from exactly the same screaming tension.

  Twenty yards away, a child stepped off the curb.

  The mother cried out, a cyclist jammed on brakes which squealed, a motorist hooted. Policemen and sergeant looked round, abruptly, and Benson and Tisdale reached the crossing. They had to wait for two cars. Even when these passed, they didn't hurry. They were breathing into the thick woolen mufflers, and looking out of the corner of their eyes toward the men in uniform, one of whom was moving toward the woman and the child.

  Benson started across the road.

  They reached the other side.

  Neither said a word as they slipped down a narrow alley toward the car park. Here, the thaw didn't seem to have been so rapid, and the snow was much harder. A boy came running toward them, making a slide, and Benson moved to one side. The boy was about young Syd's age, wrapped in a red muffler and wearing a school cap, his eyes a clear blue and his plump cheeks a bright red.

  The two men reached the car park.

  It stretched a long way in each direction, and beyond it were the canvas-covered stalls of the big market. There must have been three hundred cars in all, side by side, parked as closely as an expert parking attendant could put them. The ground sloped a little in one direction, and there were two big arrows with the words: way out.

  Few people were about.

  "One near the exit," Benson said. "Try the doors as we pass."

  "Yeh."

  The snow was crunchier here, too, because fewer people had walked on it. They passed between two lines of cars. Not far off, an engine started up and a car moved toward the exit, its exhaust fumes thick and smelly. Freddy paused at the back of a small car which had a front window down, and stepped between it and a green Jaguar. The small car's driving door wasn't locked, either.

  "This'll do," he called.

  "Okay," said Benson.

  He slid between the car and an Austin Seven which was parked on the other side. He had difficulty in squeezing in, for there was so little room to spare, but he managed. Freddy was already working at the ignition with a piece of wire he had brought from the house. His hand looked cold, although he had been wearing gloves, and he couldn't get the "key" to work. He began to swear under his breath. Benson watched him, but looked into the driving mirror, and saw a big, fattish man coming toward him—toward this line of cars. The newcomer was talking to someone behind him, for Benson could see his lips moving.

  A small, wizened man appeared by the big man's side.

  Benson drew in a sharp, hissing breath.

  'What's up?" Freddy asked sharply.

  "Get it started!"

  "Give us a chan
ce. What . . ."

  Benson drew in another hiss of breath. Freddy glanced up, saw the tension on his companion's face and the way he watched the driving mirror, Freddy couldn't see anyone in it, from where he was sitting, so turned his head round. He saw the big man going along the line of cars, and the little, wizened man coming toward them.

  It was the car park attendant.

  Benson had seen the man's face clearly; the gray stubble, the slobbery lips, one eye which watered badly. He had seen the cap, the woolen muffler tight round the thin neck, the bundle of coats he was wearing, and the ticket machine and leather cashbag which was strapped to his waist.

  Freddy said urgently, "What's he after?"

  Benson said softly, "It's Taffy Jones."

  Freddy's breath hissed, as if Benson had said: "It's the Millways Governor." Until a year ago Jones had been in Millways, a prisoner serving a short-term sentence. He should have had ten years, but had squealed on three men who had done a job with him, so he'd got off lightly. He would always squeal; he was a man whom it was impossible for these two to trust.

  And he could not fail to recognize them.

  He had reached the back of the car, and was pushing his way toward them, the chinking money in the worn leather bag, the bright metal ticket dispenser shining. There seemed to be no particular animosity on his face as he reached the window near Benson, bent down, and looked in. The window was open several inches at the top.

  Then, his mouth gaped. His broken teeth showed. He stood like that, half-crouching, hemmed in by the car behind him, one hand at the window, and the other out of sight. His watery eyes, the one half-closed, held an expression of shocked horror. There was no shadow of doubt that he had recognized them.

  And he was a squealer.

  There was a split second in which none of them moved. Then, two things happened at once: the ignition light on the dashboard panel showed, as the home-made key made contact; and Benson dropped one hand to his pocket, the other to the door handle, the window shot down.

  Taffy Jones gave a gurgling kind of cry, and turned, and started to run. The fat man's car started up, drowning the sounds. There was so little room, and the slush running beneath his feet was ankle-deep. He skidded, gave that gasping cry again, and crashed down, slopping into the slush, splashing the cars, splashing Benson as Benson slid out of the seat. Freddy was out of the other door, almost as swiftly, and he looked right and left, but saw no one. Now, Jones was writhing and squealing, and trying to get to his feet, but he had very little time; and the fat man's car was noisy as it moved off. Jones twisted his head round. He looked like a cretin as he did that; the expression in his eyes and the slobbering saliva at his mouth were revolting.

  "I woan talk, I woan talk, I woan talk," he moaned. "Doan 'urt me, I woan talk . . ."

  Benson skidded, regained his balance, went down on one knee beside the man—and the poultry knife was in his hand. He had used a knife before, expertly. He used it now. It slid through the thick coats, the shirt, the skin, the flesh. It went straight to the heart, and Taffy Jones' moaning and writhing stopped, there was just the rattle in his throat, strangely subdued, and then a quivering into stillness.

  Freddy appeared.

  "Got to get rid of him quick," he said, "but put his bag in the car, come in useful that will."

  11. Deep Snow

  Benson was getting to his feet, slowly, and wiping the knife on the dead man's coat. He didn't speak. Except that his lips were set more tightly than usual, there was nothing different about him. He bent down, and used the knife to slash at the leather strap which held the moneybag to the dead man's side. He picked the bag up, and the coins jingled; a sixpence fell out and dropped, to bury itself in the snow. Benson fastened the flap, and pushed the bag through the open window. Now, he looked about him, and Freddy Tisdale did the same; but no one was in sight, although in the distance two cars started up, and that meant that they would soon be passing the end of this row.

  Benson said, "Didn't I see a car with a plastic cover over it?"

  "Little one, left side row."

  "Let's push him under."

  "Okay," said Freddy. "Can you lift him?"

  "Yeh."

  "I'll keep a lookout," the younger man said.

  When on tiptoe, he could see all over the car park, and to the moving cars which were converging toward the exit from different directions. Neither of them would come near, but either driver might glance their way.

  Benson was picking up the dead man.

  "Hold it," Freddy said.

  Benson stood upright, and might have been carrying an empty sack, for all the strain his face showed; but he felt something wet on his hand. He watched Freddy tensely, until the cars passed and Freddy said:

  "Okay now."

  Benson moved swiftly, with Freddy leading the way. Freddy reached the little car, finding that the aluminum-colored plastic sheet over it was laden with snow which was beginning to thaw. It was tied to each wheel with tapes. Freddy could have cut these; he didn't, but plucked at one comer with his cold fingers until the knot gave way. He pulled the tapes out and lifted the plastic, but it caught against the running board; this car was twenty years old if it was a day. He eased the plastic up, and then Benson put Taffy flat on the ground by the side of the car, and shoved him underneath, pushing first with his hands and then with his feet. As soon as the body was completely hidden, Freddy tied the corner back again.

  But the melting snow was stained with crimson.

  Neither man spoke, but each scooped snow off the top of the plastic cover, and dropped it onto the blood, concealing it. Then they went back the way Benson had come, scuffling up snow with their feet to cover the bright red drops. They got back to the car, and the red ignition light still glowed. Freddy pressed the self-starter. It whined. He pressed again, and it whined more shrilly.

  "Cold as ruddy charity," he said, and pressed again. The grating, whining sound seemed to echo all over the great park. A car which they hadn't heard start up moved toward the exit, followed by two more. Freddy peered through the windscreen and, in the distance, saw a little group of men; it looked as if something had happened to make them all come into the park together.

  "Get it going," rasped Benson.

  Freddy was sweating.

  "Hold your ruddy trap!"

  Benson opened his mouth, but didn't speak. Freddy tried again, and there was just the grating, metallic sound, setting their teeth on edge. The other men were drawing much nearer. Benson could now see them, and he had a hand on the door handle and another in his pocket.

  The engine spluttered.

  "Got—" began Freddy, and it died again. He began to swear at it in a low-pitched voice, and he didn't stop even when the engine spluttered again, then began to turn more freely. He pressed the accelerator gently at first, to woo a welcome roaring. The car quivered. Freddy eased off the brake and moved slowly forward. He didn't say, and Benson didn't say, that the great fear now was that the car belonged to one of the men heading their way.

  They got out into the lane leading toward the exit, and in the driving mirror Freddy saw at least six men, talking and chatting. No one shouted. Freddy went up a gear, approached the roadway and turned toward the wide exit. Beyond was a street with a timber yard on one side and a small factory opposite. A timber truck was backing out, and a man behind it was holding up the approaching traffic, including Freddy. Freddy flicked the gears into neutral and waited while the great truck swung round in front of him. Benson did not glance at him. Three cars came in quick succession from the car park, one moving very fast. Freddy saw this leaping upon them in the mirror, and his sudden, hissing breathing made Benson look round. The car behind pulled up, brakes groaning; but neither man inside got out, just waited patiently.

  "Okay," Benson said.

  Ten minutes later they were out of the built-up area, and driving along a main road leading south. The road itself had been cleared, but banks of snow on either side were huge
and massive; water from them, thawing out, was running across the road; the wheels kept splashing through it.

  Benson turned round, leaned over the back of his seat and picked up the cashbag. He took out a handful of small silver, mostly sixpences, and began to count. It took a long time. "Twenty," he would say. "Ten bob"—and drop that money into one pocket. Again: "Twenty—that's a quid." "Twenty—thirty bob." Then after a few minutes, there was a note of deeper satisfaction. "Some two bobs and half-dollars in this pocket, 'bout time too."

  The counting took him twenty minutes.

  "Talk about a day out," he said; "that's five quid all but two bob."

  "I'll take the odd money," Freddy grinned.

  "Like hell you will. How's the petrol?"

  "Half empty."

  "Why don't you be an optimist and call it half full? Okay. We drive on for a couple of hours and then we'll make a change. I want to make a phone call, too."

  After a long pause, Freddy asked:

  "Who to?"

  "Pal o' mine," said Benson, and now he was smiling. "Pal I can rely on, too. Knows my so-called wife. Sent me up a message by Jingo's wife a coupla times. Know what? My wife's got a boy friend, a sissy who runs a dress shop! How do you like that? Nice-looking gentleman, I'm told."

  The car went speeding on. No one took any notice of them from the roadside. More powerful cars flashed by them, splashing the melting snow onto the windscreen. The sun was breaking through reluctant cloud, and it was warmer than it had been for three weeks.

  "You going to put that right?" Freddy asked.

  "I'm going to put a lot of things right," said Benson. "They can only put me back again. Freddy, you take a tip from me. You do everything you want to do, while you can. They'll pick us up for the car park job unless we can get out of this flicking country; and if we get out, it's got to be soon." He paused, but soon went on: "I know a man who can fix it for the pair of us. He'll want five hundred nicker—how much can you put your hands on?"

  "I dunno," Freddy said; "but if I need five hundred nicker to get my head out of a flicking noose, I'll find it. This chap okay?"