A Conference For Assassins

by John Creasey

  There was little time to worry too much about Cox.

  Cox left Gideon’s office pale-faced and hard-eyed. He knew that Gideon had had to make his point, but in his highly sensitive mood Cox told himself that Gideon had talked to him as if to a junior official, had given him “orders.”

  He hadn’t, said a word about the perfection of detail of the proposals. He took that for granted; his only interest seemed to be in finding fault.

  Just before twelve noon Gideon went along to Rogerson’s office, gave a perfunctory knock, and strode in. Miss Timson was sitting at her desk with a typewriter in front of her. There was no mistaking the impatience with which she looked at him above the paper in the machine.

  “Mr. Rogerson in?” demanded Gideon.

  “No,” said Miss Timson.

  “Where is he?’

  “I don’t know.”

  Gideon said: “Well, find out and let me know, and be quick about it.” He went out, and the door slipping from his grip as he closed it, slammed. He was annoyed with himself the moment he heard it bang, and still annoyed when he got back to his office. There was no need to behave as Cox wanted him to. As he opened the door, one of the telephones on the desk rang. Bell started to get out of his chair. “I’ll take it,” said Gideon. He lifted the receiver and growled: “Gideon.”

  “This is the Assistant Commissioner’s Deputy Secretary,” announced Miss Timson. “I would like to speak to Commander Gideon.”

  No “please.”

  “Speaking,” Gideon said.

  “I have ascertained that Colonel Rogerson is confined to his bed with a temperature, Commander, and is not likely to be in the office for three days,” said Miss Timson. “I am instructed to give you all the assistance you may require.”

  Gideon managed to say quite mildly: “Thanks. Have you made a start on the hotel arrangements for the French security men?”

  “Arrangements have been finalized, Commander. Some men will stay at the embassy, most at hotels. All the German officials will stay at the embassy, so will the American security men who come with the President, but the two men coming in advance wish to stay at a hotel.”

  Gideon found himself smiling.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Fix up for those two American security officers for tomorrow. Better have about four

  double bedrooms in reserve, too, or eight singles. We might get others who don’t want to stay at the embassies. Have you got access to the Assistant Commissioner’s files for the last State Visit?”

  “They are in front of me.”

  “Familiarize yourself with all arrangements,” Gideon instructed. “And for the procession itself, arrange for fifty places at least to be available for our senior officers and members of their families at the Ministry building on the corner of Whitehall and Parliament Square.”

  “Very well, Commander.”

  “Also, in the file you’ll find details of what help we received from the divisions - number of men in uniform, number of C.I.D. personnel, number of women police constables. Have details for each division teletyped to every division, marked provisional, let me have several copies with good margins for notes and alterations, and let Mr. Cox of Uniform have three copies.”

  “Very good.”

  “Get what help you need from the typing pool.”

  “Very well.”

  “Report to me when it’s all done, will you?” Gideon rang off, and Bell grinned across. “That’ll keep her out of mischief for a while! Joe, I’m going over to N.E., and then I want to double back to K. L. Tell them I’m on the way.”

  “I’ll warn ‘em,” promised Bell.

  Gideon went out of the office and down the stairs as Big Ben struck twelve. The sun was breaking through heavy clouds again, and striking hot. Traffic was fairly heavy, with a great deal of truck and trailer movement heading for Lambeth Bridge and for the New Kent Road, when he reached Blackfriars. He took a short cut towards Billingsgate, passing out of his own area into the district covered by the City of London police. Once through the traffic at the London Bridge bottleneck, he was able to move faster, for the day’s market sales were nearly finished. A few lorries were still being loaded with huge, slimy-looking boxes all marked ‘GRIMSBY’, and the stink of fish was very high. The cobbles on Tower Hill were fairly clear, although soon there would be a throng of office workers on their way to lunch, the usual orators on the spot where the gibbet had once stood. It was hard to realize that festive crowds used to gather here with their oranges and apples, their knitting and their scandal sheets and ballads of condemned men, to watch the public hangings. Where today political speakers droned, the tumbrils had passed only a hundred and fifty years ago. The grey mass of the Tower of London gave the curious impression that it had been built last year, the stone was so clean. Beefeaters in red and black uniforms were answering questions at the gates, some youths in battle-dress trousers and shirts were kicking a football about in a moat which had once been the Tower’s shield against enemies from the rest of London and the surrounding countryside.

  Gideon drove past the Mint, reflecting that hordes of people would come here during the Visit; he must soon have a word with the City police, who would be in charge here.

  He turned into Aldgate, where London seemed suddenly to become a working-class suburb, where traffic was moving at a crawl, diesel fumes were stinking, motors had a sullen note. He worked his way around the mean streets to N.E. Divisional Police headquarters, and it was a quarter to one when he entered Christy’s office.

  Hugh Christy was fairly new at N.E. Division, which was the toughest in London. He was in his mid-forties, military in appearance and manner, brisk in movement and in speech, with rather a big head and a manner which often seemed aggressive. “Bighead” was the nickname most often applied to him at the Yard and in his own division, but it was no longer as harsh and censorious. Christy had proved in two years that he was able and shrewd.

  As he shook hands and showed Gideon a chair, all in one movement, he said: “I’ve got a couple of big steaks on order. They’re ready to go under the grill when I press the button.”

  “Suits me fine,” said Gideon.

  Christy’s finger prodded a bell-push, twice. Then he squared his shoulders and sat erect behind his flat-topped desk. “They’ll come- in and get the table ready ten minutes before we start to eat. Any complaints, George?”

  “Lot of worry,” replied Gideon mildly. “I’ll need all the men you can spare, uniformed and C.I.D., for the big show, and a lot of spade work between now and then.

  “As per memo,” said Christy. “What memo?’

  “Yours.”

  “I haven’t sent round any memo yet.”

  “Came through on the teletype ten minutes ago - here it is,” said Christy. -He pushed a sheet of foolscap-sized paper across the desk, and Gideon saw the instructions for the divisions exactly as he had told Miss Timson to send them. Beneath his amusement was annoyance, even resentment. “Don’t tell me your memory’s slipping,” Christy quipped.

  “No,” said Gideon. In fact, Miss Timson was simply setting out to prove her efficiency, like Cox-. “I’m using a secretary who keeps beating the gun.”

  “Pleasant change to have a quick one,” said Christy.

  “Any special angles?”

  “I’m told that Benny Klein, Alec Sonnley’s right-hand man, is away.”

  “That’s right. He went north with the blonde he’s living with and didn’t tell anyone where he was going. But I know the mob he works with,” said Christy. Then he began to frown, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Come to think, a lot of them have gone off on holiday. I noticed that earlier in the week and didn’t think anything of it, just thought they were taking advantage of the weather. Think Sonny Boy Sonnley is preparing for the big show?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” promised Christy grimly. “Don’t you worry.”

  “How many shops has Sonny Boy got in your m
anor?”

  “Three.”

  “Concentrate on them,” said Gideon. “I’ll have all his other shops closely watched, too. With luck, we’ll get him on this job. But don’t have any of Sonnley’s or Klein’s boys followed unless Lemaitre asks you to. He’s gone to find out where Klein’s been.”

  “Everyone on the ball,” Christy approved. “Did you get a memo from Rip, before he left?”

  “Yes, and we’re watching for French and Muslim Algerians and known agitators.”

  Gideon was satisfied that nothing would be missed in N.E. Division, and after a good lunch he made two telephone calls to superintendents of divisions on the perimeter of the metropolitan area. He left the N.E. station at ten past two and drove straight to K.L., where Superintendent Jackson was in charge - the district where Alec Sonnley and Bruce Carraway lived. Four of Carraway’s five garages and showrooms were in this area.

  Jackson, big, blond and bluff, had received his memo by teleprinter, and everything was in hand. From his office, Gideon telephoned the Yard.

  “Joe,” he said to Bell, “tell Timson to prepare a memo asking for a special check on all goods sold from Sonnley’s shops and warehouse during the three days of the Visit. And tell her without comment not to send it off until I’ve seen it.”

  “So you’ve picked up that teleprint notice she sent out.”

  “Yes.”

  “You ought to talk to that woman,” said Bell. “When the time comes,” promised Gideon. “Anything come in?”

  “Abbott wants to release the identification of Marjorie Belman to the press. He plans to have Carraway, Little and Atkinson tailed all today and wants to break the news in the papers tomorrow morning. He thinks that one would be bound to crack.”

  “Tell him I’ll talk to him this evening.”

  “Right,” said Bell. “By the way, that telephoto of O’Hara’s in. I’ve sent it over to Special Branch, and they’re going to check with the airport right away. He’s a pretty nondescript type.”

  “Pity,” grunted Gideon. “Get copies round to the divisions, will you?”

  Later, Gideon drove past the big, flashy-looking garage slowly, and saw Little talking to a man by the side of a big American car. There was no sign of Carraway.

  A few minutes after the customer interested in the American car had gone, a girl from the office called Little to the telephone. He wiped the palms of his hands as he went to take the call. Every time the bell rang for him he thought it was Beryl Belman, but she hadn’t called yet. Had she changed her mind? If she knew he had been at Jorrie’s flat, would she go to the police?

  “Eric Little speaking,” he said.

  “You know who this is, don’t you?” It was Beryl, with her clear, slightly Cockney voice. “I hope you’ve got some news for me, Mr. Little.”

  “Yes, I have,” said Little eagerly. “You needn’t worry, I’ve got plenty. Meet me tonight, at the pond, at nine o’clock . . .”

  Marjorie Belman was dead. Beryl Belman was walking with death. Other people were unaware of it, but were also moving towards danger. Two of these were in grave danger, indeed: a girl of seventeen, named Doris Green, who lived in Halifax, and a middle-aged man, named Arthur Ritter, who lived in Worcester.

  Both planned, that very day, to come to London for the Visit. They did not know of each other’s existence. The girl had decided to come as cheaply as possible, by motor coach; the man intended to come by train, first class, and to hire a car in London.

  Grace Smith was in the shadows, too - like everyone who would be near the spot when her husband threw his bomb.

  13: Closing Shadows

  “He’d better come tonight,” Beryl said to herself. “If he doesn’t, I’m not going to be put off any longer. I’m going straight to Can-away.”

  It was dark near the pond, and there were fewer people about tonight. Two men with dogs on leashes were standing together and talking, not far away, and the dogs were sniffing at each other. Cars passed slowly, engines whispering. It was a quiet, balmy night, and even footsteps disturbed the stillness. An owl screeched from the trees in a garden nearby.

  “He’d better come,” Beryl repeated.

  She did not really know what to do if Eric Little failed her again. The week end had been one long worry, for the more she had thought of Carraway, and his effect on Little, the more scared she had become. On the other hand, her mother was listless and sick, her father irritable, and there was little doubt that it would take them a long time to recover - unless Jorrie came back soon.

  But suppose Jorrie did have a baby?

  “She couldn’t have!” Beryl exclaimed, sotto voce. “She couldn’t have been such a fool. She would know how to make sure she was all right.”

  Then Beryl thought: Would she?

  A car turned off the road and drew fairly close to her. She stared at it; this had better be Little. It was quarter past nine already, and if he was standing her up, she would let him know all about it. The absurdity of the thought escaped her.

  The car crawled closer.

  It might be someone trying a pick-up, Beryl reminded herself; men were all the same, the beasts. If it was, she would give him a piece of her mind. Her heart beat fast as the car drew nearer; it was an old Austin, not the kind of car she would expect Little to drive. If this was some old beast -

  “Beryl?” a man whispered.

  It was Little!

  She went forward quickly, as the car slowed down, and at last she recognized him. He sat rather far back in his seat, away from the window, but she was so pleased that he had come that she did not notice anything peculiar about this. She believed that her sister was alive, and had no reason at all to suspect the awful danger which was closing in on her.

  “Yes, I’m here.” She was so eager.

  “Hop in,” said Little. He leaned farther away from her and opened the far door; to get in she had to go around the other side, but she did not worry about that. In a few seconds, she was sitting by his side and, almost before the door had closed, the car was moving off. She sensed his nervousness and looked around.

  “What are you looking round for?’ Little demanded harshly.

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Has someone been following you?”

  “No, of course not. I - I thought you were scared. Is Carraway - ?” she broke off.

  “No need to worry about Carraway tonight,” said Little, in a lower voice. “I’ll look after that swine in future, don’t you worry.”

  Beryl sat absolutely still, her hands in her lap, worried by the venom in this man’s voice and by the implication in what he said. She was almost too nervous to ask questions. He drove more quickly once he was away from the pond, heading for the Heath itself. She saw the lights from distant houses and the far-off streets. It was true that she did not know the Heath well, but she was aware that it was a big stretch of common land, several miles across, that roads led over it, and that in places it was unlit and eerie. On Bank Holidays the whole place became alive and alight with all the fun of the fair. She had twice been here for a night of furious excitement, but now the dipped headlights of Little’s car seemed hardly to make any impression on the darkness.

  Yet she was thinking only about Jorrie. “What - what have you found out?” she made herself ask at last.

  “Found out?”

  “About - about Jorrie.”

  “Oh, Jorrie!” His manner was peculiar, and she could not understand it, but she was not yet frightened. “Well, Carraway turned her out - that’s what the swine did. He let her down flat. Got tired of her and turned her out.”

  Beryl gasped: “No!”

  “Yes, he did. Boasted about it, too - I made him talk to me this afternoon,” Little went on. He spoke as if he were under the stress of some great emotion, but there was nothing to tell Beryl that it was the outward manifestation of his intention to kill. He was talking just to keep her quiet until they reached the spot where he planned to kill her. He knew it well; it
was a spot off the road, hidden by shrubs and trees, exactly where he had once strangled another girl because she might break up his family life. “I told you he was a swine, didn’t I?” he went on.

  “But - where is Jorrie?” When Little didn’t answer, fear clutched at Beryl like a cold hand at her heart. “Where is she? She’s all-right, isn’t she? She didn’t - she didn’t do anything to herself?”

  Little shot a glance at her as they passed beneath one of the last lamps.

  “No,” he said. “She’s okay.”

  “Are you sure?’

  “Yes, she’s okay.”

  “Where is she?’

  “She’s - well, there’s a little place on the Heath, that’s where she is.”

  “A place?”

  “Little house,” he said. His voice seemed to be getting hoarse. “Over on the Heath - she’s staying there with a friend. That’s where we’re going.”

  “Is she all right?” repeated Beryl shrilly.

  “I tell you she’s okay,” Little said sharply. “Stop worrying. I’m taking you to her, aren’t I?’ He turned off the road along a rough track which led to a copse and to shrubs; ahead of them were the stars and in the distance a haze of light in the sky above greater London. “Won’t be long,” he added. He moved his hand to the instrument panel and something clicked; it was even darker outside and the lights did not seem to be working at all. For the first time, a twinge of fear caught Beryl, but she took no heed of it. She did not know that they were moving along in darkness, now, and could not be seen from the road.

  “How - how far is it?”

  “Just over there,” Little said. His voice had become hoarse. His emotion or excitement seemed to be getting greater. “Don’t you worry, I know where it is.” He turned the wheel of the car and then slowed down; and the next moment, he stopped.