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

by Marric, J. J. , 1908-1973

  But when they opened the garage doors, one squeaked alarmingly. Both men stood stock-still, watching the upstairs room.

  Janice Morency, a bride of only three weeks, felt the snug warmth of her husband beside her and heard his steady, rhythmic breathing. She was just beginning to learn how quickly he could drop off; he would be wide awake one moment, glorying, and fast asleep the next. The house was very quiet. The street was quiet, too.

  The glow from the street lamps began to go out, as they always did at half past eleven.

  Then Janice heard the garage door squeak.

  She went absolutely rigid with alarm, for she knew the sound so well. She heard it every morning when Frank opened the gates, heard it every time she moved the door herself; there couldn't be any mistake at all.

  "Frank," she whispered, "wake up. Frank!"

  For a tense moment after the door had creaked, Benson and Freddy Tisdale were as still and silent as the girl. Then Benson whispered, "Okay, get inside."

  "Suppose . . ."

  "Inside, close the doors!"

  "But supposing they come . . ."

  "And supposing they don't," Benson said flatly.

  There was just room for them to squeeze into the garage and pull the door to; it didn't squeak when being closed, only when being opened. They stood in the near darkness. There was a window, which showed just a glim of light, and they worked their way round toward it, then stared up at the house. Benson could tell that Tisdale was more on edge than he had been at any time; some people were at their worst late at night. He didn't watch Tisdale, only the house. If a light went on . . .

  Freddy said uneasily, "We could be trapped in here."

  "If anyone comes down to see if the door's open, we know what to do," Benson said. "We can't lock the door again; if he comes down he'll find the door open, and he'll raise the alarm anyway. Right?"

  Freddy muttered, "I suppose so."

  Then the light went on in the front bedroom of the house.

  They could just see the window from their point of vantage, and they saw the bright light shine out. A moment later, the light got brighter; that was because the curtains were pulled back. There were shadows; and then suddenly the head of a man appeared, turned toward the garage. He could see the doors from here, but couldn't tell whether they were locked.

  Could he?

  Benson stood quite still, his right hand touching the poultry knife.

  Frank Morency, tousled head and broad shoulders out of the window, and his wife pressing close against him at one side, saw nothing but the outline of the garage, the roof of the house next door, the gardens in the street, the dark road and slender lampposts. He shivered as wind cut along from the east, and backed inside.

  "You must have been dreaming," he said.

  "Frank, I swear I wasn't."

  "Well, have a look for yourself," he suggested, "but go and put a dressing gown on, I don't like you appearing in public like that."

  He was laughing at her!

  "But I heard the sound, I've heard it so often!"

  "All right, look for yourself, but—" Morency stopped abruptly when he saw the change in his bride's expression, slid an arm round her, squeezed, and then said, "Like me to go down and have a look round, sweetheart?"

  She didn't answer.

  "I will, like a shot," he said.

  "If you're sure the doors are still shut . . ."

  "I'm positive!"

  "Then I suppose I must have dreamed it," Janice said.

  She didn't really believe that; she was sure that she had heard a sound, but no longer sure that it had been the garage door. They went back to bed, where for a few minutes the warmth and the strength of his body comforted and reassured her; then he began to breathe very smoothly and rhythmically again, and for the first time in her married life she felt a kind of loneliness.

  Soon she dozed off.

  Freddy Tisdale stood back from the hinges of the garage doors, an oilcan in his hand, thin oil smearing his fingers. He was breathing very softly, and keenly aware of Benson's watching eyes. The bedroom light had been out for half an hour, and the street seemed absolutely deserted.

  "Try it now," he said.

  "Okay." Benson began to push the offending door, cautiously. When halfway open, it gave a faint squeak, but nothing like the noise it had made before. This time, no light came on.

  Soon they were wheeling the car into the street, along the road, toward the main road. With Freddy walking alongside and guiding it, and Benson behind, they pushed until they were some distance away from the Morencys' house. Then Tisdale got in. A moment later, he exclaimed:

  "Our night out, Syd—he's left the keys in!"

  Benson actually chuckled.

  They started off.

  Three hundred yards farther on, they came to a main road. They needed to turn left, for London. As they nosed out of the side turning, they looked both ways. No more than half a mile along toward Stoke, on a straight stretch of road, were several red lights, some yellow lights, and the shadowy shapes of men and cars.

  "Road block," breathed Freddy Tisdale. "If we'd gone the other way . . ."

  "Well, we didn't," Benson said flatly. "We'll drive on the sidelights only; if there's another block down the road they won't see us coming so far, and we'll have a chance to stop and run for it."

  Freddy didn't speak.

  With the sidelights on, casting only a faint glow on the hedges, the telegraph poles and the wires, they crawled along at twenty miles an hour. Occasionally, a car passed them; once, one came streaking up from behind, and whined past; it didn't stop.

  Freddy knew the roads well, took the byroads, avoided the towns where the police road blocks were likely to be, and by half past five they reached the outskirts of Birmingham.

  In Birmingham, Freddy had a hide-out, with a man he felt sure was safe. Or so he said.

  Gideon entered the office, next morning, a little more briskly than usual. There was no reason why he should feel in high spirits, but he did. Possibly the overnight news of the capture of two more prisoners had something to do with it. Possibly, eight hours' solid sleep had helped; possibly, too, amused reflection on Pru's high color when she had come in and again when he had seen her at breakfast that morning. She had asked about William Rose, but had her own absorbing personal interests now. Gideon wondered how long she had known this Raymond, told himself that he would have to make sure that the youngster was all right, then thought reassuringly that Kate would make certain of that, as far as anyone could.

  He saw Lemaitre, alone at his desk, with the daily report in front of him.

  "Morning, Lem."

  "Morning, George." Lemaitre was flat-voiced, gloomy.

  "What's your trouble?"

  "Trouble?" asked Lemaitre, and gave a laugh which had no body in it. "Nothing but ruddy trouble, if you ask me. Had a hell of a row with Fifi last night; she wanted to go out, and I wanted to stay in—George, you don't know how lucky you are."

  Lemaitre had graver marital troubles even than he realized; but Gideon didn't see that it was his duty to tell him.

  "She'll be all right tonight," he said, soothingly.

  "Sometimes I wonder," said Lemaitre, "sometimes I wonder if—oh, forget it. We picked up Alderman and Hooky last night, that's something. Manchester police say there's blood on Alderman's clothes and under his fingernails, mixed with coal dust. We've got them ready for the long wait." That prospect seemed to cheer Lemaitre up. "Twenty-nine spots of bother in London last night, and we've picked up five old pals who'll be in dock this morning. Young Rose will be up at East London, of course—medical reports on him in from Smedd, in triplicate—Smedd's a boy! Nasty job in Soho: one of the Marlborough Street regulars cut up. The risks these women take at that game. Nasty job out at Wimbledon, too: nineteen-year-old girl going home after a dance; had a tiff with her boy friend and she went alone. Three fellows had a go at her. Sometimes I wonder what makes men tick, I do really. She got home
all right, not hurt except for a few bruises and scratches; she put up a hell of a fight. Kept her head better than a lot would, too: described one of the fellows and said he had a foreign accent. The Wimbledon police boys are checking, they think they can put their hands on the trio. Nice morning, isn't it?"

  "If you didn't want to know all about the seamy side, why join the police?" asked Gideon.

  He looked through the newspapers. As he'd expected, the "negligence" at Millways was being tied up to the "negligence" at Brixton; the escapes and the prison suicide were being run together as clear indications of lowered standards at the prisons. There was a sly dig at the police for allowing a party of violent criminals to remain at large, but the capture of Alderman and Hooky won a corner in the Stop Press.

  Then Gideon read his own daily report.

  He made notes and, before he started the morning's briefing, studied the medical reports on William Rose. One was from his family doctor, and it was a long statement; the doctor had known the Rose family for twenty-five years.

  Should be reliable.

  Gideon read—and winced.

  Penciled in red at the side of the report were the letters N.B. Opposite this, there was the blunt statement:

  From the age of six until the age of eleven the boy showed signs of excessive, uncontrollable temper. His mother brought him to me for treatment, but this was clearly not a matter for an ordinary physician. I understand that the boy responded well to psychiatric treatment, becoming much more balanced. I questioned his mother on a number of occasions in later years, and was told that there were no further outbreaks of this particular trouble.

  Well, well; a history of violent temper. Dig deeper, and this would probably show that Rose flew into rages, possibly that he had been uncontrollable; a mother wouldn't be likely to take a six-year-old boy to a doctor unless it was for some quite exceptional tantrums. No wonder Smedd had written N.B. The family doctor's purpose stood out a mile, of course; he was establishing a history of mental unbalance because he was afraid that young Rose had killed the girl, and that the state of his mind would be of vital importance at the trial.

  Not good for Pru's "friend," or for William Rose.

  And obviously Smedd had no fresh news about the couple visiting the cinema, or about the "lost" knife.

  In the middle of the morning Gideon sent for Lefty Bligh, who had been up at Great Marlborough Street, and remanded for the constitutional eight days. Now that he was over his shock, he was smiling.

  "Hallo, Guv-ner, now don't you start," he greeted.

  "You're a mutton-headed fool, Lefty," Gideon said, "but I don't suppose anything will cure you now. Heard from Syd Benson lately?"

  Lefty's whole expression changed.

  "Mr. Gideon," he said earnestly, "I wouldn't have no more truck with that man for a fortune."

  "How about making us out a list of his friends? It might help you next week if you did."

  The little thief's eyes were filled with reproach which would have made any other man than a policeman believe he was of great virtue.

  "Now would I squeal, Mr. Gideon? Even if I knew any of Benson's pals, you know I wouldn't."

  It had been worth trying; but as an informer, Lefty was a dead loss. So, to Gideon, was the rest of that afternoon. He just couldn't get the line he wanted so desperately; and each hour that Benson remained free increased his wife's danger.

  Young Syd Benson saw Abbott outside the house in Muskett Street that afternoon, glared at him, and then walked along the street toward the corner and toward his school for the afternoon lessons. Abbott followed. It was his first experience of watching a youngster, and he was beginning to realize how difficult a strong-willed boy could make the job. Coming from school that morning, Syd had dawdled along, had jeered and derided Abbott in mime, had talked about flaming coppers, narks and flatfoots to his friends, and generally shown off. Annoyed at first, Abbott had gradually become philosophical, accepting this as inevitable.

  He'd already told Gideon that he wasn't happy about the boy, and at that time Gideon was Abbott's Hero number one.

  Halfway along Muskett Street on his way back to school, young Syd tried a new dodge: he broke into a run.

  Abbott saw that, and hesitated for a split second. The boy was off to a flying start, and could run like a hare. Abbott, who hadn't sprinted for years but who still played a useful game of football, lost time in trying to decide whether he should lose what was left of his dignity by running, or whether he should let the little brute get away.

  He ran.

  There were a dozen or so other children in the street, all heading toward school, several mothers, two men on bicycles, and a milkman's van. Everyone stopped to stare at the pounding policeman and the running boy. Young Syd reached the corner at least fifty yards ahead, and took time off to turn round and put his thumb to his nose. That started a roar of laughter followed by jeers and catcalls.

  "Hit one your own size, can't you?"

  "Catch him, cowboy!"

  "How're your flat feet, copper?"

  Abbott set his teeth and ran on, going very fast now, much faster than the boy could. Provided he was still in the street which bisected this one, Syd wouldn't get away. Abbott neared the corner, and then saw one of the cyclists draw up alongside him. The cyclist was grinning, but he didn't speak. He passed Abbott and, a yard or so in front of him, his bicycle wobbled. He made it do that deliberately, but no one would ever be able to prove it. As if trying to keep his balance, he crossed Abbott's path; the detective looked as if he would crash into him.

  Abbott saw the danger in time.

  He pulled himself up, inches from the bicycle, and managed to spin round on one foot, as he would on the football field if the ball ran the wrong way. To save himself from falling, he thrust out his right hand, and caught the cyclist on the shoulder. He felt the man give way, heard him bellow, saw him leap for the pavement. Something clutched at Abbott's coat, but did no harm. He didn't look round, but heard the cyclist crash, and then realized that the catcalls had stopped.

  He reached the corner.

  Young Syd was playing marbles with two other boys; he grinned impudently.

  Abbott, gasping for breath, could have wrung the boy's neck. He stopped, standing by the wall of a house, hearing a gabble of voices round the corner. From a distance, a uniformed policeman from the Division came hurrying, and if there was anything that a Divisional man enjoyed it was a Yard man being made to look silly.

  The crowd in Muskett Street would be after him for this, too. The cyclist would almost certainly try to make trouble. Abbott, trying to put the detective before the human being, saw through all this to his chief job: keeping an eye on the boy. He would have to leave the constable to make a kind of peace with the crowd, but was afraid that from now on he would be jeered at by everyone in Muskett Street.

  The cyclist turned the corner, back on his machine. His right hand was bleeding from a nasty scratch. He glowered at Abbott, and said roughly, "Why the hell don't you look where you're going?"

  Abbott gaped—and then found the wit to say: "Sorry. Didn't see you."

  A woman, just out of sight, laughed—at the cyclist, not Abbott. The man pedaled off; and as he watched him go, Abbott realized what had happened. Just when he'd feared the worst, he'd had a break. If he'd fallen and the cyclist ridden on triumphantly, he would have been the fool; but in Muskett Street as well as in the whole of London there was admiration for the man who got out of a tight corner; and there was an innate sense of fair play.

  Abbott felt on top of the world.

  A woman turned the corner, then. She was middle-aged, dressed in a bright blue dress of some shiny material, and she wore a black straw hat trimmed with bright red cherries. She had a huge, tightly confined bosom and a surprisingly small waist; a red, beery face and little brown eyes. She swept round the corner, spotted Abbott and then young Syd, and strode toward Benson's son, ignoring the marbles. She caught one with the toe of her shoe
, and it went skimming to the other side of the street.

  "Now you listen to me, young Sydney," she said in a voice loud enough to be heard up and down the street. "If you was my boy I'd give you a clip round the ear and keep on doing it until I knocked some sense into you. The gentleman's only trying to help you, see? Help you and your Ma and Liz, which is a damned sight more than your father's ever done. If he'd earned an honest living, instead of taking up with a lot of loose women and neglecting your Ma and then going off to prison and leaving her to look after the pair of you, there'd have been some sense. But he never did have any sense, and by the looks of it you haven't got much, neither. Don't you forget it, this gentleman's only doing his duty, and trying to help you."

  She stopped, on a high-pitched note.

  Syd's bright blue eyes were not turned toward her, but toward Abbott.

  "I don't want his flipping help," he said, and swung away.

  Young Syd, fuming at the way the woman had talked to him, fuming at the way his mother had rebuked him, hating Abbott, resenting everything that had happened to his father, walked on toward school that afternoon. He was alone except for one boy, a big, gangling lad named Simon who, many people thought, should not be allowed near the school. But he was harmless enough, and had short-lived periods of intelligence. Most of his time he spent in a special school, but at playtime he was allowed in here, with the others.

  Abbott, following, would not have been surprised had young Syd played truant; but he went on to school. There were only two exits, and the police watched each; it was likely to be a boring afternoon for Abbott.

  It wasn't boring for young Syd.

  In the playground thronged with a mob of shouting, running boys, he stood watching, brooding, with Simon near him, gawping about with his mouth hanging open. It was one of his bad days.

  Another boy came up.

  No one but the gangling lad was near, and he was out of earshot.