by John Creasey
“Add the one where Mr. Piluski is, in Battersea,” said Gideon. He beckoned Rollo, who followed him out at once; the men in the room burst out as soon as they had gone:
“I thought Rollo looked bad enough, but Gee-Gee—”
“He looked as sick as a dog.”
“My God, he looked awful.”
“Tell you one thing,” said the round-faced sergeant. “There’s going to be hell to pay for this.” And when no one else made a comment, he went on: “I wonder how bad it would have got if Gee-Gee hadn’t started the raids. Been a new bloody plague of London, if you ask me.”
19
The Witnesses
“Colonel Scott-Marie, please,” Gideon said into the telephone, a little later.
“That’s Mr. Gideon, isn’t it?” said Scott-Marie’s wife. “I’ll get him for you.” She left and there were voices in the background before she came on the line again. “What a lovely evening we had at the ball,” she went on. “I was sorry only that I wasn’t able to spend more time with you and Mrs. Gideon.”
Gideon thought almost fiercely: Where’s Scott-Marie? He said: “Very nice of you, but there’ll be another time. How are you?” Where is Scott-Marie?
“Very well, thank you—”
“George,” Scott-Marie said obviously from the extension.
“I’ll say good-bye,” said his wife, as if sensing the urgency.
“Sir,” said Gideon, “we have found at least five places which I think should be examined by the Home Secretary himself, the Minister of Housing, and the Minister of Health. There’s no sign of sabotage as such, but conditions in these places are so appalling that they are undoubtedly a menace not only to the people who live in them but to public health.”
Scott-Marie was silent for what seemed a long time; and then, with characteristic briskness and economy of words, he said: “I will talk to the Home Secretary at once. When and where is it best to meet?”
“At Pentecost Street, Battersea,” Gideon answered. “There will be patrols on duty along the various routes, sir. It’s half-past nine now; I should think half-past ten will be a good time.”
“I will do what I can. What about the press, George?”
“They’ve been present and will stay in strength,” Gideon answered. “I don’t think any of the ministers will be well advised to stay away, sir.”
“I see,” Scott-Marie said. “I shall be there, in any case. Good-bye.” He rang off without giving Gideon a chance to speak again.
Gideon, back in his own office, replaced the telephone. He had expected nothing less than this reaction from Scott-Marie but was by no means certain that the politicians would respond. Much would depend on how Bartlett had presented his case, and how seriously the Cabinet really considered the overall situation of immigration and racial conflict. There was the Enoch Powell school, trying to lessen the number here, and there were the left-wingers who wanted to open Britain wide to all immigrants. The awful truth was that these places they had discovered tonight were a result of illegal immigration. There couldn’t be any doubt that if there was to be so much immigration, conditions must be right for it. His task was not to think one way or the other: simply to consider the consequences of such overcrowding.
Of course it would be a health danger.
And of course there would be habitual theft of money, anything saleable, and food by the younger people who were on the point of starvation. There would be other thefts – of clothes, for instance, of anything for warmth.
His internal telephone bell rang. It didn’t matter how late it was; there was always someone with work for him to do.
“Gideon.”
“Rollo here, sir.”
“Be at Pentecost Street before ten-thirty,” ordered Gideon.
“And Piluski had better be there, too.” After a pause he went on: “There will probably be a cloud of V.I.P. witnesses.”
“There can’t be too many,” Rollo replied grimly. “But there is another development which could cause a lot of headaches, sir.”
“What development?” demanded Gideon.
“The rent collector Munshi is dead,” Rollo announced.
It was a very bad moment, one when Gideon’s spirits touched bottom. The pictures which would appear in the morning’s paper, even on tonight’s late television, would affect a lot of the immigrant population, probably stirring them to fierce rage and a wild desire for revenge. Who could blame them? And with Munshi dead—
“What are the latest reports on the Munshi affair?” Gideon demanded.
“We’ve found two eyewitnesses from houses nearby, who say that he fell down the steps and that two white youths began to kick him,” stated Rollo. “We haven’t caught the baskets yet, but one of them has been identified.”
“Who’s after him?” demanded Gideon.
“Charles Henry, at Hampstead; he’s been seen by one of our chaps there.”
“Is Superintendent Henry on duty tonight?” asked Gideon.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Gideon said. “And while you’re on the line—”
“Sir?”
“Were any of the landlords we protected this morning involved in the places we’ve found tonight?”
“No, sir,” answered Rollo. “At least, it’s not yet established that any are. There is a kind of ring, though, with Rataudi and several others who permit their property to be used by illegal immigrants. Subletting has become a fine art.”
“Are you sure?” Gideon almost barked.
“I’m sure the ring exists,” Rollo affirmed. “I can’t be absolutely sure that Rataudi is involved but it looks as if he is.”
“Rollo,” Gideon said tensely, “we need to know whether the bad – the worst – places seen tonight are all owned by the same landlords or the same ring. We need to find out if there are other landlords, outside this ring, who don’t accept illegal immigrants and who keep their premises in reasonable condition.”
“I see,” said Rollo doubtfully, and then full understanding obviously dawned on him and he exclaimed: “If we can tie up these plague spots with illegal entry only, then we’ve got it high and dry as a criminal offence! My God! I’ll put somebody onto that right away.”
“Who’ve you got?” asked Gideon.
“Well – there’s one man we could borrow from AB.”
“Archer?”
“Yes.”
“Get him,” Gideon ordered. “Assign him to this part of the job. I’ll have a word with Mr. Saxby.” He rang off almost as abruptly as Scott-Marie had earlier, and immediately began to dial AB on his outside line. A divisional operator answered.
“Mr. Saxby,” Gideon said. “For Commander Gideon.”
“One moment, sir.” So Saxby was still working; everyone closely concerned with the collapses and immigration simply had to keep on, could not relax. After a few seconds, Saxby came on the line.
“What can I do for you, Commander?” There was the flatness of exhaustion in his voice.
“I would like Archer for a special job,” Gideon said quietly.
“That’ll please him,” Saxby replied dryly. “Do you want to see him yourself?”
“No. Send him over here to Rollo and Piluski, within the next half hour if it’s possible.” Gideon paused, then added: “They know what the job is. Thanks.” He rang off and wiped some sweat off his forehead, realising to his surprise that he was feeling very hot. He sat back for a few minutes, then poured himself a whisky and soda with great care. For the first time since he had been to Pentecost Street he was actually hungry: and he had felt after what he had seen that he would never eat again.
He telephoned Henry at Hampstead to make sure he took charge personally of the search for the man who had kicked Munshi; then pondered what t
o do for food. He could have some sent here, or he could go up to the canteen.
He decided to go up; the office was not a good place to be at night. But before he went out he remembered Carol Entwhistle, and quite suddenly he realised that there was the Entwhistle case weighing on him, in its way as heavily as the other. He called Information.
“No, sir, no news,” Information reported.
Gideon went upstairs, preferring to walk than use the lift. There were a dozen or so men in the canteen and the cafeteria was brightly lit. He went between the rails; simple food was probably best. Ah, there was some sausages and mash. He took a dishful, some rolls and butter, and some coffee. Everyone in the place was looking at him, of course; that wasn’t surprising. When he sat down to eat it was five minutes to ten. He ate steadily, going through the night’s events in his mind, trying to make sure that he had forgotten nothing. He had telephoned Kate; he had checked about Riddell; he was up to date with all the other problems. Hobbs was now at Pentecost Street. How did such a fastidious man as Hobbs cope? Hobbs. It seemed ages ago but was only a few hours since he had decided that Hobbs should be the next Assistant Commissioner, not him!
How did he like that idea now that it had been in his mind for a while?
He speared a sausage and said to himself: “I like the idea more and more.” He heard footsteps nearby, someone looking for a table – but no, it was Honiwell, who did not have a tray in his hands. Honiwell’s expression was very bright, he looked much better than when Gideon had last seen him, and Gideon’s spirits rose.
“May I sit down, sir?”
“Yes. Have they found that child?”
“I only wish they had,” Honiwell said, the brightness dimming. “It would be unbearable now if anything happened to her.” He sat down, and Gideon was quite sure that he had good news. “We’ve found the evidence that Greenwood and Mrs. Entwhistle saw a lot of each other, sir. Absolutely cast iron.”
Gideon’s heart seemed to stop beating, as he asked: “Can we prove it?”
“Beyond all doubt, sir. We can prove they were lovers, too.”
Gideon buttered a piece of roll slowly and deliberately as he said: “Tell me,” and then listened to Honiwell’s version of Benbow’s report. Benbow had discovered that there was a small guesthouse a few doors along from the restaurant, and the woman at the restaurant had told him that Greenwood occasionally stayed there. Benbow had gone to make inquiries, seen the register, which went back several years, establishing the fact that rooms at the guesthouse were occasionally let by the hour or by the evening.
“And Greenwood and Margaret Entwhistle spent a lot of time in one of the private rooms,” Honiwell said. “One old woman on the staff recognised both the photographs, and Greenwood signed the register. While this doesn’t prove that Greenwood killed her, it gives us a damned good reason for questioning him.”
“When?” asked Gideon.
“Now,” said Honiwell promptly.
“Let me know what happens,” Gideon approved. “I’ll be here or at home by midnight.”
Honiwell went off with great eagerness, while Gideon followed him, using the lift this time, collected his coat from his office, and went down the steps to the courtyard, where a car was waiting. In fifteen minutes, at twenty-five past ten, he was outside the rat-infested hole where he had already been once tonight. There was a mob of people, dozens of newspapermen, and a great flashing of camera bulbs: so someone of importance was there. He stopped his car a little way ahead and went on by foot, so that no one was likely to be attracted by him.
There was Scott-Marie; Hobbs; the Right Honourable James Teddall, the Home Secretary; a pale-faced man whom Gideon recognised as Lord Windlesey, the stand-in for the Minister of Health, who was in Scotland. As they walked into the house and the cameras flashed and clicked, a man said: “Well, they’re taking it seriously this time.” Gideon was not recognised until he was at the entrance to one of the houses, and by then it was too late to be photographed or questioned, for obviously he had to hurry. He stood behind the group of VIPs as they went down to the cellar, saw the damp streaming from the walls and the rats not even frightened. The Home Secretary and Lord Windlesey were shocked into silence; so was the Minister of Housing, who arrived soon afterward. Gideon waited until they had seen all they needed to see, and then joined the group. Hobbs, characteristically, drew out of range and earshot. Scott-Marie, brows drawn together and looking older than his years, was saying:
“It hardly seems to matter whose responsibility it is, Minister.” That was to Windlesey. “What matters first is to cure it, to prevent it from happening anywhere else, and to catch the men criminally responsible. I—” He broke off at sight of Gideon, and seemed actually relieved. “Ah. Commander.” There was a moment for introductions, before Scott-Marie asked:
“Have you any fresh information for us, Commander?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered. “Most if not all of the people here were brought in illegally. The owners of the property almost certainly knew it, and gave them shelter. If you can call this shelter. They are jointly responsible for the immigrants; even if they didn’t actually help to smuggle them in they made it possible for them to stay, which is illegal harbouring. I think we may hope to bring criminal charges against some if not all of the landlords. Inquiries are being made throughout the night, and we might have some positive information tomorrow.”
The Home Secretary said with vehemence: “It can’t be soon enough, Commander.”
“The main problem is to find somewhere for these people to live,” Gideon said grimly.
“We are commandeering church and school halls,” Lord Windlesey volunteered. “Places where they can be looked after and yet isolated for the time being. What I can’t understand—” He gulped, and repeated: “What I can’t understand is how people can make money out of creating such conditions; make money on the agony of other human beings. And their own country folk—”
Gideon said grimly: “I think we shall find that when it comes to moneymaking, there is no colour bar.”
Soon he was outside, and though the night air was heavy with the odour from the houses, it was comparatively fresh. The Home Secretary and the other ministers had gone, and Gideon stood with Scott-Marie and Hobbs at a corner near the row of houses. A few cameramen remained but the three police leaders were not harassed.
“I’m tempted to say drop everything and concentrate on this,” Scott-Marie said. “But you can’t, of course. I don’t need to ask you to put every possible man onto it, do I?”
“No, sir,” Gideon said.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a man who had come from a police car. “There’s an urgent message for Mr. Gideon. Information’s on the radio now.”
It’s from Honiwell, Gideon thought, but he said nothing as he hurried to the car, heart in mouth because of the possibility of hearing good news of Carol Entwhistle.
Instead it was Wilson of EF Division, who spoke as he had always spoken in the past day or so, with elation in his voice. And because it was so obvious, it raised Gideon’s spirits a little.
“We’ve got Rosamund Lee’s murderer, sir! It was that Wells man. My bright young P.C. recognised him on his bicycle tonight, and he was caught trying to dump the bicycle in the Thames. Once he was stopped he didn’t attempt to deny the charge. After a formal confession which we have signed and witnessed, sir, all he could talk about was his wife, poor bitch. She’s got three kids, and . . .”
Wilson went on and on.
Ellen Wells heard what the detective sergeant said, but could not really take it in. David, accused of murder. David. And she had to tell the children. She had to live alone. Oh, God, she screamed within herself, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it!
Percival Oswald, who did not know why he was so interested in this shabby, worn-out-looking woman, had a sense of her despair and w
ondered how he could help her. He went to get the woman who lived upstairs, and brought her down – scared, troubled, excited, but at least willing to help.
Oswald had a peculiar thought: he almost wished he had not seen Ellen Wells’s husband, had not been so sure he was the murderer.
“George,” Hobbs said, as they sat together in the back of a car and headed for Battersea Bridge. “Let me drop you at home. I’ll go on to the Yard to see if there’s anything to be done. It’s nearly midnight, and you look all in.”
“Just check Information to find if there’s any word from Honiwell,” Gideon said. “I can’t bear to think of that child.”
20
Visitors
Carol Entwhistle stumbled along the path, hardly able to keep her balance, hardly able to think, going on with a kind of mechanical movement, perhaps sensing that if she collapsed she would probably never get up again. She was so cold now, and it was terribly dark; she thought it was darker than it had been all night. She had no idea how long she had been walking; she only knew that she could not go on much longer.
Then she heard a panting sound – in her ears, as if it were her own breathing.
A moment later she saw a vague circle of light, and a pale reflection on the mist. She tried to cry out but could not, tried to hurry but could not; and, trying to quicken her pace, she kicked against a stone and pitched forward.
The circle of light was from a torch held by a middle-aged policeman who had known these moors since childhood and had taken part in dozens of hunts for escaped prisoners. Under his arm was a shotgun; by his side a young soldier strode with an Alsatian pulling at his leash. All over the moor there were such couples.
The policeman said: “This path crosses another, not far away, and we’ll go on as far as that.”
“I don’t know how you can be sure you’re where you think you are.” The soldier looked at the mist, which, even as close as this, made a halo about the policeman’s profile. “I wouldn’t have turned off the road.”
