by John Creasey
The great simplicity of his system helped Sonnley to success. Quick-selling goods stolen from one part of London were often on sale in another part on the same day, for he had a plain van driven by his chief operative, a man named Benny Klein, who made the rounds regularly, collecting and delivering. Anything of real value, Sonnley disposed of through ordinary receivers.
No one knew quite how much he was worth, but it probably approached a quarter of a million pounds. Any attraction which drew the crowds to the heart of London would set Sonny Boy whistling chirpily. His pickpockets, bag snatchers, and shoplifters often quadrupled their takings, and his wholesale warehouse supplied hundreds of street traders with souvenirs. That Tuesday, he drove from the small suite of offices in a narrow street near Baker Street station, and out of the corner of his eye saw a newspaper placard:
WESTERN SUMMIT FOR LONDON.
He slowed down by the next newsboy and kept a dozen cars waiting behind him while he bought a newspaper. Very soon he began to whistle, and the whistle became gayer while he drove to St. John’s Wood, where he had an apartment near Regent’s Park. He turned into the underground garage, and then whistled his way across to the lift which would take him up to the seventh floor, and his wife. He was married to a plump, good-natured woman with thin, metallic-looking reddish-yellow hair. She loved expensive clothes, loved her Sonny Boy and, rather unexpectedly, loved cooking. So Sonnley went home to lunch whenever he could.
His tune was rounded and full as he stepped out opposite his apartment, Number 71, and let himself in. There was a faint aroma of frying onions, which suggested a steak or a mixed grill. When he went into the spotless tiled kitchen, the steaks were sizzling and the onions seemed to be clucking. Rosie glanced round, saw him, and immediately plunged a basket of newly sliced chips into a saucepan of boiling fat. A great hiss and a cloud of steam went up.
Sonnley went across and slid his arm around his wife’s comfortable bosom, squeezed, gave her neck a peck of a kiss, and said: “I hope it’s good. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”
“Oh, have we, Sonny dear?” said Rosie. “What is it?”
“Believe it or not, sweetie-pie, we’re going to have a State procession for a great big Western Four-Power Summit meeting in li’l old London Town,” declared Sonnley, and held the newspaper up. Reading, Rosie looked more and more puzzled.
“I’m sure it will be very nice, dear. Can I have a seat?”
“A what?”
“There are bound to be some wonderful stands put up for the procession. In the Mall, I shouldn’t wonder, or perhaps near the Abbey. You know, where the Houses of Parliament are.” Rosie prodded a steak. “It’s a pity it isn’t a wedding, really. I do love to see them coming out of the Abbey with their lovely dresses. There will be stands, won’t there?”
“You can bet your life there will!”
“And can I have a seat?”
“Front row, dead centre, the best there is,” Sonnley promised. “Rosie, that steak smells wonderful. How long will it be?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Just time for me to make a phone call,” said Sonnley. He went out in the hallway, rubbing his hands, and turned into a big drawing room which overlooked the park beyond the gardens of the building. The drawing room had been furnished by a large London store, and although Sonnley was never sure why, he realized that it was nearly perfect. The colourings were wine red and pale blue. The furniture was mid-nineteenth century French. He sat at the end of a long couch, dialled a Whitehall number, and was answered almost at once by a man with a slightly foreign accent.
“Benny, you seen the papers?” Sonnley asked.
“Sure, I’ve seen the papers,” answered Benny Klein. “You getting ready to throw your hat in the air?”
“I’m getting ready all right,” said the man with the accent. “I thought I’d be hearing from you.”
“Just have a word with all the boys and girls, and tell them to have a week or two off,” said Sonnley. “I don’t want anyone in trouble between now and you-know-when. All okay?”
“Holiday with pay, is it?”
“You’ve got it in one, Benny,” Sonnley agreed. “And I’ve got a little vacation planned for you, too.”
“Me? I’m going to the Riviera, Sonny Boy. You know that.”
“Not now you’re not,” Sonnley declared. “Buy your lay a nice diamond bracelet, and tell her to stay home and be a good girl. You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
“I’m not going to alter my plans for anybody.” Klein was suddenly harsh-voiced.
“Now take it easy, Benny, take it easy! No one said anything about altering your plans. It’s just a little postponement, that’s all. You can take the girl with you if she loves you so much! You’re going up to Glasgow, Liverpool, Manchester and Birmingham, and you’re going to tell the boys up there to keep out of the Big Smoke when the V.I.P.’s are here. We don’t want any of those provincials muscling in on our London, do we?” When Klein didn’t answer, Sonnley repeated sharply: “Do we?” inquired Rosie.
“Blimey, it looks as if it’s sitting up and begging to be eaten! Don’t worry about me; I was just thinking about a business acquaintance that might need a little watching. Now, let’s go!”
Sitting in a small Chelsea cafe and tucking into a plate of bacon, sausages, eggs and chips, was Michael Lumati, well known to Alec Sonnley, and also well known to the police, although it was now three years since he had been under suspicion of any crime, and five since he had been in prison.
On that occasion he had earned full remission after a three-year sentence for issuing forged banknotes. According to his own story, he now earned a reasonable living by selling lightning portraits at fairs and race courses for ten shillings a time. He also designed calendars and programs, and did a few catalogues - including Sonnley’s.
Lumati had a small studio at the top of one of the old, condemned buildings of Chelsea, not far from the river, and he spent a lot of time in the studio, usually cooking his own breakfast and evening meal, but going out for lunch. Today he sat in a corner of the cafe, a man nearing fifty, rather thin, with a healthy looking, tanned complexion, very clear grey eyes, and a small Vandyke beard. That, and the faded beret which he always wore at the back of his head made him look the part of an artist.
Some of his craftsmanship, at its best in copies of currency notes, was unbelievably good. When he had been caught, experts had agreed that it was almost impossible to tell the difference between his work and the real thing.
He had a copy of the London Standard propped up against the wall at his side, and kept reading the story of the coming State procession. There was a calculating expression in his eyes. The police did not know that, after years of experiment and error, Lumati had succeeded in drawing a line which looked as if it were a tiny thread through the paper - making detection nearly impossible - nor did the police know that he had tens of thousands of these one pound and ten shilling notes printed and ready for distribution.
He knew a man who would want plenty of paper money at the time of the Visit, too. Sonny Boy Sonnley.
One other man, an almost pathetic, elderly clerk in a shipping office, earning only twelve pounds ten a week, was preparing to make hay in a very different way. Money itself did not greatly interest him. When he first read of the coming Visit, his heart had leapt because he had been told that the next time the head of the French Republic appeared in London he, Matthew Smith, was to act as assassin. He was by no means matter-of-fact about it, but he was very sure of success. It had been planned so carefully.
The police and the security forces would be watching all the likely sources of danger in London, of course, and airports and railway terminals would be closely watched to make sure that no terrorists arrived there. Probably all possible suspects would be rounded up before the Visit - but that would make no difference at all.
No one would suspect such a mild little Englishman as Matthew Smith of hating France so
bitterly, or of having so much power in his hands.
Still less would they suspect that he also had hated his wife, simply because she had always tried to soften his attitude towards the French, and so had drawn some of his venom upon herself.
At that time, however, the thought of murdering his wife had not crossed his mind. He exulted only because he would soon be the man - perhaps the martyr - who had killed the leader of France.
4: Conflict
“Very good, Commander,” Cox said formally.
“If we get started early it shouldn’t be much trouble,” Gideon said.
“No.”
“I shouldn’t think we’ll need any U.B. men from the provinces. Do you?” asked Gideon. He felt strangely uneasy. The interview with Cox hadn’t gone right, largely because of Cox’s stiffness - not really obstructive, but next door to it. In a way he reminded Gideon of workers who would not come out on strike, but worked strictly to rule. He wished that he knew the man better, then he would be able to judge whether Cox was resentful of the situation or whether he was often like this. Instead of saying, “I shouldn’t think we’ll need any U.B. men from the provinces,” it would have been better to say: “Do you think we’ll need any?”
“I have had no experience of a situation like this,” Cox answered. “I can hardly advise.”
The manner in which the words were uttered annoyed Gideon, and for the first time, he thought: I’m going to have to watch him. He stared into Cox’s very bright dark-blue eyes, and read the defiance in them. If he used the wrong tactics now he might make co-operation extremely difficult, and he had plenty to do without adding a kind of departmental feud.
So, he ignored Cox’s retort.
“Have a closer look at the figures on Uniform Branch men used for the Coronation,” he said. “That’s the guide C.I.D.’s working on.”
“Very well,” said Cox.
“Give me a ring when you’ve checked, will you?” asked Gideon and went out.
He was subdued as well as uneasy, not at all sure he had been wise to ignore that retort; had it been one of his own men he would ahve reacted sharply. He simply didn’t yet know how to handle Cox, but already the dangers as well as the difficulties inherent in taking over another branch were threatening.
Joe Bell was at his desk, coat off and collar and tie loose because it was so warm. In a different mood Gideon might have asked Bell’s opinion about Cox but, in any case, Bell was obviously preoccupied.
“What have you got there?” Gideon demanded.
“Just running over the list of chaps we ought to wtch for the Visit,” said Bell. “When are you going out to the divisions?”
“I’ll make a start next week,” said Gideon. “I’ll do a memo for them first, and warn ‘em I’m coming. Heard anything from Lemaitre?”
“No.”
“Write to him, and write to the chief constables of the big provincial cities - Glasgow, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Bristol, and any others where they might plan to send raiding parties to pick up as much as they can for the Visit. Ask for reports on all gangs, all pickpockets, shoplifters and con men - you know, the usual. If any of them start planning a little holiday in London, we want to know.”
“Right,” said Bell.
“If you get the letters off today they’ll have ‘em in the morning. Tomorrow afternoon you can telephone the superintendents and ask them to play.”
“They’ll play,” said Bell, confidently.
“I hope you’re right,” said Gideon. “Now I’ve got to go along and have a cuppa with those Aussies. The A.C.’s putting on a bun fight for them.” He went out, thinking about Cox, looking almost ponderous as he walked along the passages. He rounded the corner to Rogerson’s office, and found a grey-haired sergeant on duty outside; some of the elderly men became little more than messengers in their last year or so of service. “Hallo, Charlie,” said Gideon. “How’s that ankle of yours?’
“Could be worse, Mr. Gideon, but it’s been dry lately. In wet weather it’s something cruel. You going in7’
“Think they’ll let me?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said the sergeant. He pushed the door open, and a babble of voices came from twenty men and two women - women whom Gideon hadn’t expected, and who had been tacked on to the Australian touring party.
The doorway between Miss Timson’s office and the A.C.’s showed thick with tobacco smoke. In the smaller office a long table had been set with cups and saucers, sandwiches and cakes, and Gideon espied Miss Timson carrying two cups of tea to men standing a little on their own in a corner. They brightened up at sight of her. Not a bad-looking woman, Gideon thought, as another girl in the secretarial pool came with tea and sandwiches. He was swept into the talk, had a few minutes’ chat with young Wall, sensed that everyone had enjoyed themselves, discovered that one of the women was an Australian newspaper reporter, and the other an American publisher of crime stories who had come with an introduction from Police Headquarters in New York.
At a quarter past five the Australians went off, in the littered room, Miss Timson and some canteen helpers were busy packing dirty crockery onto trays. Rogerson was looking out the window.
“Glad that’s over?’ asked Gideon.
“Very,” said Rogerson. “It wasn’t my day for making pretty speeches. Miss Timson, how soon can I have my office free?”
“In five minutes, sir.”
Rogerson said: “Try and make it four. Is Bell in your room, George?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been like a bear with a sore head all day,” said Rogerson, under his breath. “Scott-Marie annoyed me by putting that lot on your shoulders. How did Cox take it?”
“He’ll do.”
“Hope you’re right,” said Rogerson. “Ripple’s going to start his flying vacation on Friday, just as soon as he’s got all the Algerian nationalists in London checked. He thinks that the Algerians are as likely a source of trouble as any. Some anti-American lunatic might take a pot at the President of the United States, of course, and the country’s still full of people who think that all Germans are Nazis. No special reason to expect trouble, though, is there?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” Gideon said, but he was acutely conscious of a sense of disquiet, almost certainly due to Cox. He saw Miss Timson coming out of Rogerson’s office, looking very prim.
“Your room is in order, sir.”
“Thanks,” grunted Rogerson. He and Gideon went into the office, and Miss Timson closed the door behind them.
All trace of the invasion had gone. Ash trays had been emptied, the windows were wide open, there was little odour of smoke, and the place had a new pin look.
Rogerson said lugubriously: “She’s so damned efficient it’s almost a crime to grumble at her.”
“Are you worried about the German group?” Rogerson wanted to know next morning; obviously he had been preoccupied with this overnight.
“There’s always the lunatic fringe of anti-Germans,” Gideon said. “And the really bitter people who lost sons or . . .” he paused as Rogerson looked at him steadily. “What I mean is, if any one had a crack at the German President, it wouldn’t necessarily be any organized group, more likely some individual, brooding by himself over some “wartime grief. We caught three of them on the 1956 Visit, remember.”
“Yes. Anyone in mind?”
*We can’t have.”
“Suppose not,” conceded Rogerson.
It was just before six o’clock when Gideon entered his own office after more conferences, and he wasn’t surprised to see Abbott standing by Joe Bell’s desk. Abbott had that strong-man look about him, but now he was clenching his hands, as if keenly aware of tensions. His voice was a little too hearty.
“I hope I’m not too early, Commander.”
“No, it’s about right,” said Gideon. “Did you get those letters off, Joe?”
“I’m just going along to the typing pool, to sign ‘em for you,” said Bel
l. “Anything else for me tonight?”
“No, thanks.”
Bell went out, nodding good night. Abbott was sitting on an upright chair, unable to relax. Gideon pushed his chair back against the wall, loosened his collar and tie again, and pushed cigarettes across the desk. When Abbott took one, his fingers were unsteady.
Gideon asked bluntly: “What’s the trouble, Abb? Anything wrong anywhere?”
Abbott echoed: “Wrong?”
“I can’t see Carraway worrying you as much as you’re worried,” said Gideon. “If we don’t charge him now, we can later - it isn’t a matter of life and death, is it?”
Abbott repeated: “Life and death.” He drew deeply at the cigarette, and then said: “George, I’m in a hell of a spot. I really am. I ought to have brought Carraway in forty-eight hours ago. You remember I told you about the Belman girl? I’ve checked closely, and there isn’t any doubt that Carraway spent the night of the murder with her. If he was with her, he wasn’t playing cards with the men. So they lied.”
“They might say they lied to save her reputation. We can work on them, but it looks like a switch from one alibi to another. That doesn’t help us much.”
“Don’t I know it!” said Abbott. “Anyway, I questioned her yesterday morning, then put a couple of detective constables on to watching her - thought I might be able to wear her nerves down. Now she’s disappeared. I can’t help wondering if Carraway’s got her. If she knows anything, she might crack under pressure, and - well, she’s vanished.”
Gideon said: “Carraway might have paid her to go away somewhere.” He lifted a telephone which had a direct line to Information, and when a man answered he said: “Gideon here. I want a general call out, London, Home Counties, ports and airports, for a girl whom Superintendent Abbott will tell you all about. He’ll be along in five minutes. Put a call out saying that this girl’s wanted for questioning - what’s her name, do you say?”
