by John Creasey
Rogerson held up a hand to Gideon, and finished dictating: “. . . and in my considered view the Home Secretary’s statement to the House of Commons that crime in London is showing marked signs of a decrease is ill-advised and ill-timed, as the decrease in the period under review is almost certainly due to the extremely hard winter. That’s all, Miss Timson.”
He stood up. “Good morning, George.”
“Morning,” said Gideon, and waited for Miss Timson to disappear. Her skirt was short, she had nice legs, and from behind she looked ten years less than her age. The door closed behind her. “What’s the rush?”
“Don’t know much about it myself,” said Rogerson. He was tall, and running to fat, although when Gideon had first known him he had been lean and hardy looking. A coronary had pulled him down and he was no longer allowed to play golf or take much exercise. “Might be this Home Secretary nonsense in the House yesterday. You heard what I think of it.”
“Heard an echo of what the Opposition thinks of it,” said Gideon, mildly. “That all you’ve got?”
“Scott-Marie’s secretary said something about the Permanent Under-Secretary of ^the Home Office being with the Commissioner. Let’s go.”
Gideon opened the door, and they walked out of the Criminal Investigation Department section, through long, bare passages and past long windows of frosted glass, until they reached that section of the Yard given over to administration. The Commissioner’s office was very nearly luxurious, but the Commissioner himself, Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, did not like ostentation. For years, Gideon had regarded him as a very good man at his job, but cold as a fish. Recently he had come to know him better as a person, to like as well as to appreciate him. He had held two colonial posts before coming to the Yard, and was known as a man who would make no concessions for the sake of peace and quiet.
His secretary was smaller, younger, bigger-bosomed and untidier than Miss Timson.
“You’re to go straight in, gentlemen - the Commissioner is here already.” She opened the door of the Commissioner’s office, and this told Gideon that it was to be a small-scale conference; a large one would be held in the main conference room.
Scott-Marie was sitting behind his large flat-topped desk, looking a little aloof. Charlie Ripple was perched rather awkwardly on a wooden armchair noticeably too small for him. Ripple, the Commander of the Special Branch of the C.I.D. and an old friend of Gideon’s, was broader across the beam than most chair makers allowed for. He always dressed, in brown, he was more muscular than fleshy, and he had a large bald spot although his hair remained a dark brown; the uncharitable said that he had it dyed. Sitting next to him was Sir Thomas Barkett, the Permanent Undersecretary at the Home Office, a formal man, a clever man, one who believed in the conventions, in tradition, in propriety - and yet could slash red tape. “Good morning,” Scott-Marie said, almost coldly. “Sit down, please.” Gideon waited for Rogerson, then sat well back in a chair the same size as Ripple’s; the fit was fairly tight.
He nodded across at Barkett. As he did so, the door opened again and Mullivany, the Secretary of the Metropolitan Police, came in, bustling; he was always inclined to hurry, always inclined to bemoan the fact that he never had time to do his job properly. He took the one vacant chair. “This is a preliminary conference about a task which ‘could give us all some awkward problems,” Scott-Marie announced, and looked at Barkett invitingly. “Would you care to give us the details, Sir Thomas?”
Barkett was dressed in a well-cut black jacket, grey striped trousers, and a silver-grey tie.
“That’s what I am here for,” he said. “I needn’t take long. The meeting of foreign ministers of the main Western States has recommended an early Western summit, to prepare for early proposals to the Soviet Union. It is to be held in London, and they aren’t wasting any time - they want to get it in before the next Russo-Chinese conference. So there will be a visit to London from the heads of government of the United States, France and West Germany. It has been arranged for the first week in June - in exactly four weeks time.” He had a rather casual way of speaking, as if he were really thinking of something else. “The Government has decided that invitations should also go to heads of states, so as to make the meeting more impressive. The State Visit will be in addition to the political meetings between the heads of governments. There will be a State procession to the Houses of Parliament, where the heads of state will make speeches at a joint meeting of the House of Lords and the House of Commons.”
Barkett sounded almost bored.
“The procession route will be from the Palace, along the Mall, Whitehall, Horseguards’ Parade, the Embankment and Parliament Square, and on the way back will go round Parliament Square, enter Parliament Street, proceed along Whitehall and then through Admiralty Arch and back to the Palace.” Barkett paused for a moment, his pale hands resting on a thin brief case on his knees.
“This procession will follow a luncheon at the Palace, and will take place on Wednesday, June 2nd. The heads of state will arrive in London by air on the Monday or Tuesday preceding. On Tuesday evening there will be a French reception; on Wednesday they will address a joint meeting of the Houses of Parliament at mid-day and there will be an American reception in the evening. The State Visit will end on Thursday evening, following luncheon with the Lord Mayor of London, and the politicians will then get down to their job.”
Barkett stopped.
“Such short notice,” Mullivany complained.
“Nice to know someone is getting a move on,” Ripple said.
Rogerson remarked, sotto voce: “Well, when they’re at the House and the Guildhall, we’ll have a breather.”
It was the kind of inane remark which Rogerson was occasionally liable to make. Ripple glanced at Gideon, and wriggled his rear to get further back in the chair. He had a heavy chin, a rather broad nose, unexpectedly mild brown eyes. He was probably as puzzled as Gideon because Grimshaw, the Commander of the Uniformed Branch, wasn’t present.
Scott-Marie looked at Gideon, but seemed to address them all: “How much of a problem does this give us?” Rogerson hesitated, and then said: “The usual main one, I suppose - moving enough men from the divisions into the West End for the occasion. It always means stretching things a bit.” Sensing that Gideon wasn’t yet ready for comment, Rogerson went on: “What do you think, Ripple?”
Gideon was still puzzling over Grimshaw’s absence. “I can’t envisage any serious trouble, but you can never tell on a job like this,” Ripple said. “Apart from the lunatic fringe, we’re bound to get some hot air from the ‘Ban the Bomb’ boys and girls. Eh, George?”
“Bound to,” agreed Gideon.
“I’ve got reasonable time to get in touch with the people overseas,” said Ripple. He rubbed his chin; everyone could hear the rasping. “Have to get cracking, though. Got to check up with the security chaps in Washington, Paris and Berlin - know what I’d like to do, sir?”
Scott-Marie asked: “What would you like to do?”
“Nip over and see these chaps,” answered Ripple airily. “Find out at first hand what kind of precautions they want us to take. Then they can come over a couple of days before the big show and check that everything’s the way they want it.”
“Is this really necessary?” Mullivany wanted to know.
“What I mean,” went on Ripple eagerly, “is that if I can have a talk with the chief security chaps who’ll be coming with the nobs - I mean the heads of states - it will enable me to look after my side of the problem properly.” He sounded almost smug as he glanced at Barkett. “Don’t you think that would make the other states realize we were taking every possible precaution?”
Barkett didn’t waste words. “Yes,” he said. Mullivany frowned, but made no further comment. “When I get back I’ll be able to make sure we’re on top of the job,” Ripple said. Then he allowed himself a grumble, as if realizing that he mustn’t show too much pleasure at the prospect of the trips abroad. “Been much better if
we’d had one head of state at a time to deal with, though. These big conferences are hell.”
“I think you would be wise to consult with the security authorities in each of the three capitals,” said Scott-Marie. “See to the arrangements, will you?” That was to Mullivany. Then he went on: “Gideon?”
“First thing I’d better do is find out who’s out and about the first week in June,” Gideon responded slowly. He didn’t need to explain that certain kinds of criminals thrive on crowds: the pickpockets, the bag snatchers, the shoplifters, the touts, the confidence tricksters, the dealers in forged notes and counterfeit coins. The whole of the Criminal Investigation Department in the metropolitan area would have to be alerted, and the county and borough forces, too. The brunt of the arrangements would really fall on Uniform, however, and it remained a puzzle that Grimshaw wasn’t there.
They were all waiting for Gideon to go on. “I’ll have to get as much leave stopped in that week as I can, and I’ll get busy with all the divisions.” He grinned at Ripple. “As a matter of fact, I think I ought to go and see them all!”
Even Scott-Marie chuckled.
“Going to fly?” inquired Mullivany, half sourly. Gideon didn’t retort. He had a feeling that the Commissioner still had something important to say.
“Sir Thomas?” invited Scott-Marie.
“I was with the Home Secretary himself last night,” announced Barkett, “and he made it clear that he hopes very much that the improvement discernible in the figures for crime throughout the country, particularly in the metropolitan area, will be maintained during this visit period. You will have all possible co-operation from the Chief of Immigration to keep undesirables out of the country. The Minister asked me whether it might not be possible to use the June visits as a kind of morale booster,” went on Barkett. “Those were his actual words. If the exemplary behaviour of London crowds when welcoming overseas guests were emphasized, and . . .”
“See what he means,” said Gideon, hardly realizing that he was interrupting. “Prove that the relationship between the police and the public has got right back to normal, and that this relationship is a big factor in the improvement of the crime situation. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Might not be a bad idea at all,” conceded Gideon. He ventured another grin and said: “These politicians occasionally have a good idea, don’t they? When I see the divisional chaps I’ll put it to them that we’ve been given the chance we’ve been waiting for. There will be a few Jonahs, but there always are. The only thing I can’t understand, sir, is - where is Commander Grimshaw? This is largely a Uniform job.”
“Grimshaw’s going to be on sick leave,” Scott-Marie answered, and everyone in the room reacted with surprise and near-dismay. “He has had some chest trouble, and the doctors have found a spot on one lung. He should be back in three months, and I don’t propose to fill his position. He has a young deputy who should not be faced with the responsibility of such an occasion, so I want you, Gideon, to take charge of both the C.I.D. and the Uniform arrangements for the State Visit. I know it will mean a lot of extra work for a few weeks, but I hope you’ll find that it’s worth it.”
Everyone was looking at Gideon.
Gideon pursed his lips, smiled wryly, and said: “I hope you find it worth it, sir.”
“We must compare notes when all the heads of states are safely out of the country,” Scott-Marie retorted dryly.
Gideon left the Commissioner’s office, half an hour later, with Rogerson on one side and Ripple on the other. They had left Barkett obviously pleased, Scott-Marie in a better-than-usual mood, and Mullivany silent.
Gideon himself had mixed emotions. A “lot of extra work for a few weeks” was a considerable understatement. He was going to be run off his feet. That prospect could only make him feel uneasy, for ordinary crime would not stop while he got ready for the big show.
His greatest cause for misgivings, however, had nothing to do with the work involved. He wondered how Ray Cox, the Deputy Commander of the Uniformed Branch, would feel. He knew Cox slightly, and agreed with Scott-Marie that he hadn’t sufficient experience for the job. If anything went wrong, the Commissioner would be held to blame for having too young a man in charge of the Uniformed Branch. He had made the right decision, but Cox would probably disagree.
“Better let Scott-Marie brief him first, then go and see him,” Gideon decided.
He wished very much that he knew Uniform’s Deputy Commander better.
Ray Cox said: “I quite understand, sir.” He stood stiffly at attention in front of the Assistant Commissioner of the Uniformed Branch of the Metropolitan Police Force, an elderly, rather vague-mannered individual with a keen administrative mind.
“That’s good,” said the A.C. “Doesn’t make your job any the less important, of course.”
“No, sir.”
“And I’m sure you’ll get along well with Mr. Gideon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Let me know if you run into any problems,” the A.C. said, in a tone of dismissal.
Cox said, “Yes, sir,” formally, and went out. He was tall and lean, with black hair and an unexpected bald spot which showed up very white, with square, almost angular shoulders, and a long neck. His features were thin, his nose too long and pointed, but his mouth was full and he could smile easily. His eyes were piercingly blue.
He was not smiling as he shut the door, or when he was back in his own office. He was glad that it was empty; he did not feel like talking to anyone. He went across to the window overlooking the courtyard, his hands clenched, his eyes very narrow, even his lips set tightly.
“My God, what do they think I need? A watchdog?” He took out cigarettes, lit one, blew smoke out in a long streamer, and stared down at a squad car moving out on some urgent errand, an errand for Gideon. “Goddamn Mr. - Bloody Commander Gideon!” he exploded.
He knew Gideon as a kind of legendary father figure at the Yard, but had had very little to do with him. He knew that most C.I.D. men would go all the way with their Commander, and the Uniformed men felt much the same. There was talk that Gideon would one day be Assistant Commissioner for Crime as a stepping stone to the Commissioner’s job when Scott-Marie retired. This might be part of the plan for him.
It certainly wasn’t part of his, Cox’s, plans or hopes. Cox was not able to see the situation objectively enough, at that moment, to realize that he was angry because it was the first real slowing down in his career. At thirty-nine, he was by seven years the youngest Deputy Commander of the five at the Yard, and at thirty-nine he believed that he should have been in charge of his branch for this big job. Instead, he was passed over - in fact put aside - for Gideon. “He doesn’t know a thing about Uniform,” Cox said in a hard whisper. The telephone rang. “You sure you don’t want Gideon?” he growled, and then he gave a short, unamused laugh at himself, strode over, and picked up the receiver. “Deputy Commander,” he announced.
“Mr. Cox?” asked a man with a deep, rather hard voice.
“Yes.”
“This is George Gideon,” the latter said, and Cox thought: Of course, this couldn’t be anyone else’s voice. “Will you be in if I come over and see you in about twenty minutes?”
Cox paused.
Gideon began: “If it’s a bad time . . .”
“No, it’s as good a time as any,” Cox said. “I will expect you, Commander.”
“Right, then. I’ll be there,” said Gideon, and rang off.
3: The Other Side of The Law
When the evening newspapers came out with their headlines:
WESTERN SUMMIT FOR LONDON
BIG FOUR MEET IN JUNE
and gave details already released by the Home Office about the procession route for the State Visit, some men’s eyes sparkled at thought of the illegal profit likely to come their way.
One of these was a little, perky man named Alec Sonnley. He had bright green-grey eyes, a shiny little pink-and-red face
, and was always smartly dressed. When the sun shone on him he looked rather like an apple half-hidden by leaves, for he wore a green hat and his clothes were always green, grey-green or browny-green. The most noticeable things about him, apart from his rosy, shiny complexion, were his hands and feet, which were much larger than average, making a man of five feet six look a little ridiculous. Everyone called him Sonny Boy, partly because of his name, partly because of his habit of whistling popular songs - like an errand boy. Actually there was nothing at all boyish about Sonny Boy. He had carefully and very skilfully organized a business in London which had all the outward appearance of being legitimate. He ran a large wholesale warehouse in the Petticoat Lane district of the East End, from which he supplied street traders and hawkers, as well as small shopkeepers from the greater London area.
In addition to this, he owned thirty shops, all in popular shopping areas, all dealing in what he called: “Fancy Goods, Jewellery, Gold and Silver Articles.” In each shop he had a manageress and two or three assistants, and each member of the staff was strictly honest - none of them knew that he or she was dealing in stolen goods.
To make discovery much less likely, Alec Sonnley bought up a great deal of bankrupt stocks, salvaged goods, and low-priced ornaments, in all of which he did good business. No single item in any of his stores cost over five pounds, and he had a series of “special advertising offers” at five shillings and ten shillings each. At least half his stocks were stolen goods.
He also had the third aspect of the business worked out just as carefully as the retail and wholesale angles. He used six steady shoplifters and eight handbag- and pocket pickers, or snatchers and dips. This team operated in big shopping areas, especially in the West End of London or in the bigger suburban districts. These thieves concentrated on stealing branded goods, which were taken to the retail outlets and sold quickly. Sonnley paid his pickpockets a retainer all the year round. Every now and again, especially when he believed that the police suspected one of them, he “rested” these operatives, but because of the retainer they were ready to work again the moment he felt it safe.
