by John Creasey
It was a moment of sudden dread for Beryl Belman. In that instant she realized that there was no house near by, that they were here in darkness, remote from other people; she was alone with this man. She heard him breathing hard. She had read about men like him; sex maniacs, that’s what they called them, sex maniacs. She sensed the truth in a tiny flash of time, as his hands left the wheel.
“What . . .” she began.
She felt his hands against her, one thrusting hard across her breast, without lingering, the other scraping across her shoulders. Next she felt pressure at the back of her neck and at the front, the awful pressure of this man’s hands. Outside there was blackness; inside, the dark horror, and his gasping breath, and those fingers, squeezing with savage strength, as if he couldn’t wait to choke the life out of her.
She believed she was going to die.
She felt an awful explosion of terror and pain as if her very heart was splitting. She heard herself gasping for breath in great hawking noises which drowned those of the man’s heavy breathing, noises which seemed to get louder and louder and to be inside her head. She could not struggle. He had trapped her so that she could not move. There was tightness around her chest, becoming closer and closer, and pain like a stabbing knife.
Then, suddenly, the nightmare vanished. Lights blazed, men shouted, Little squealed, the doors opened. Half-conscious, Beryl was aware of moving figures, of heads and shoulders blotting out the stars, of Little being dragged out, of a man putting an arm around her shoulder and speaking with a kind of gentle urgency: “It’s all right, don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”
That was the first time for a week that she had forgotten her sister.
“I thought I’d better call you at home,” Abbott said into Gideon’s telephone just before midnight. “I thought you’d like to know that we got one swine, even if we haven’t got Carraway yet. The worst thing about it is what nearly happened to the sister.” Abbott was talking very fast and Gideon did not attempt to stop him. “If I’d released the news of the murder earlier, it would never have happened. That’s what worries me. Hell of an experience the kid had. She’ll be all right, though. I’ve talked to the hospital doctor. Shock and bruising, that’s about all - she should be all right in a couple of days.”
“That’s good,” said Gideon, at last. “That’s fine.”
“Damn lucky we had Little shadowed. If it hadn’t been for you I would have concentrated on Carraway,” said Abbott. “Don’t know, though, after I knew Little wore a ring ... It was Little who went off with the other sister, from Piccadilly. . . .”
Abbott told the story in the next five minutes, gradually getting more order into his mind and into his sentences. He would be bitterly angry with himself because his tactics had turned sour on him, and it was no use Gideon saying that he was at least as much to blame. That was the worst part about his job: the consequences of failure or of doing the wrong thing.
The consequences, for instance, that would follow any failure over the Visit.
“. . . Well, good night, George. Oh, I meant to tell
you, I’ve seen the Belman parents. They’re badly cut up, but they’ve got some neighbours in. They’ll be all right. It’s been quite a night.”
“I bet it has,” said Gideon. “What’s Little’s wife like?”
Abbott said, as if surprised: “Didn’t I tell you? She looked struck dumb. She did, really, George - struck dumb. The only time I felt sorry for Little was when he kept crying out about his wife, begging me not to tell her until the morning, to let her have a good night’s sleep. He’s got triplets, aged seven, you know. Two girls and a boy.”
Gideon rang off, but stood by the telephone for a few minutes, letting the whole story run through his mind, relieved because of what had been avoided, glad that one case was partly solved, although there was as yet no proof that Carraway was involved. This strange oblivion was at once the frightening and the compelling factor in his life: this complete unawareness of. what evil other people were doing and planning. Was anyone planning trouble for the Visit?
In Glasgow, Benny Klein was experimenting with a little water pistol, using corrosive acid instead of water in the plastic holder. Tomorrow morning he would know how the plastic stood up to the acid. If it burned through, he would have to think of-something else. Jock Gorra was watching - staring - fascinated. A little farther south, and on the east coast of England, little Doris Green, a pretty girl who worked in a coal order office, lay in her single bed, lonely and yet happy. She was deciding what clothes she would take with her to London for the holiday she longed for. And in a London suburb, Matthew Smith was dreaming of throwing a bomb into the air - a bomb meant to kill one man, but which could also kill dozens and might injure hundreds.
In that strange, half-realized world of the mind, Gideon was aware of such dangers as these, and felt helpless because of them. He lay wide awake, next to Kate, fighting the shadows which the Visit cast over London.
14: Invasion
“Commander,” said Miss Timson, early on Wednesday morning.
“Yes?”
“F.B.I, agent Webron and Secret Service agent Donnelly are now due at London airport at eleven fifteen this morning, and the latest information is that the flight will be on time. Visibility is good. Superintendent Abbott will be at the airport in connection with the Carraway investigation,- making arrangements for a watch on all passengers answering the description of Carraway or any of his salesmen. So I have asked him to meet Lieutenant Webron and Mr. Donnelly. Accommodation has been booked for them at the Piccadilly Hotel, which is very central. Have you any further instructions?”
“What time are they due at the hotel?”
“There should be no delay at the customs shed,” said Miss Timson. “I imagine that they will be at the hotel at twelve noon.”
“Be there to meet them,” ordered Gideon. “Have lunch with them and bring them over here for two thirty.”
Miss Timson seemed too startled to respond. “Good-by,” said Gideon, and rang off. Bell was leaning back in his chair, pencil poised, shaking his head slowly.
“You crafty old so-and-so,” he said.
“No woman as efficient as our Miss Timson can be bitchy all the time,” said Gideon. “Anything in about O’Hara?’
“Not a thing,” replied Bell. “No one at the airport can say for sure that a man answering his description came in this week.”
“Did you get plenty of prints of his photograph made?’
“A hundred and fifty.”
“That’s enough. Send one to each divisional station and substation, with an instruction to report to me if the man’s seen.”
Bell nodded, but before he spoke, the telephone rang again. Gideon lifted the receiver: “Gideon.”
“I have made a note of your instructions about the reception for the two American security officials,” said Miss Timson, in a rather less acid voice, “but there is another matter, Commander.”
“What is it?”
“The usual space allotted to us on the roof and balconies of the Ministry corner building will not be available on this occasion, as special requests have been made for extra space by the Foreign Secretary and the Home Secretary for official guests.”
“Oh,” said Gideon, and thought how disappointed Kate would be. “Well, see what you can do on the route.”
“The official accommodation is limited because of repairs being carried out on the facades of other
buildings,” declared Miss Timson. “However, permission has been granted to Public Utilities Limited to erect a public stand with a thousand seats, at the corner of Old Scotland Yard. I have been in touch with Public Utilities Limited and they are perfectly willing to allot us twelve complimentary seats, and we may have a further twenty at half price.”
Gideon said: “Nice of them. We’ll have ‘em all for emergency use, and remember my wife wants one.”
“Very good, Commander.”
“That th
e lot?”
“I am a little puzzled by the use of the term ‘Secret Service’ to describe the second American, a Mr. Donnelly.”
“It’s the title they use for the security branch which looks after the President - nothing really secret about it. Webron is from the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, to liaise with the C.I.D. itself. Donnelly’s the liaison with Special Branch.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Timson.
“Right.” Gideon rang off, and immediately lifted the receiver again. “Mr. Cox, Uniform,” he said, and then in an aside to Bell, “Anything in from Lemaitre?”
“He’s going to telephone at eleven o’clock.”
“Parsons?”
“He’s waiting to see you.”
“We haven’t detailed anyone to cover Soho yet,” remarked Gideon, and then he heard Cox say: “Deputy Commander speaking.”
“Morning,” said Gideon, gruffly. “Gideon here. Can you spare me half an hour?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Come over, will you?” asked Gideon. He rang off, frowning, thinking suddenly of the girl who had so nearly died on Hampstead Heath. It seemed a long time ago, although only yesterday a
pale, frightened Little had been remanded for eight days. He had talked wildly about Carraway, but so far there was no real evidence against his employer. “I’ll see Parsons,” Gideon decided, and was standing up when Parsons came in briskly, face round and chubby. “Morning,” said Gideon. “What’s on your mind?’
“Not enough,” Parsons declared. “I wondered if . . .” he paused, deliberately, with that innocent expression which made him so like a rubicund cleric.
“Go on.”
“I’ve got a hundred-per-cent response from the hotels, so the rest is routine,” said Parsons. “And as I’m to be around the West End most of the time, I wondered if you’d like me to try Soho.”
“Ho-ho,” Bell said, almost inaudibly. “Why?” asked Gideon.
“For the strip clubs and the gambling clubs, the whore shops and the innocents,” answered Parsons. Gideon had never known a man more sure of himself. “Bound to get a lot of out-of-town visitors. London wouldn’t be London without its haunts of vice. But we ought to have the clubs watched for con men, and . . .”
There was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” Gideon called, and Cox entered with his now familiar precision. He looked startled at sight of Parsons, but closed the door and came forward. “Morning, Mr. Cox,” said Gideon, formally. “Do you know Superintendent Parsons?”
“We have met,” Cox said. “Several times,” said Parsons.
“Good. Superintendent Parsons is going to be in charge of the watch on the hotels, the clubs, strip clubs and disorderly houses,” explained Gideon. “I think it would help if he sat in on this discussion.”
“Yes,” said Cox.
“Of course/’ Parsons said, but looked puzzled.
“Any luck with those estimates of men required?” Gideon asked and Cox handed him a file. “Thanks.” Gideon opened the folder, spread it out on his desk, then spread out a similar list of men required from the C.I.D. “Pull your chairs round,” he said, and began to check. He was completely objective, and gradually Cox thawed. They checked the men required at the various points, with special concentration at the airport, the embassies and hotels, as well as the procession route. Parsons made occasional succinct suggestions. Gideon made notes about men required at the check points in eight-hour shifts with half-hour reliefs. Gradually a comprehensive composite picture was formed.
After an hour, Gideon said: “We need three hundred men more than we’ve got, each day, and five hundred more on the procession day.”
“Have to work on overtime.” Parsons placed the tips of his fingers together.
“I’ve allowed for two hours overtime for each of my men,” said Cox.
“Good idea. I haven’t for mine,” Gideon said. He looked across at Bell. “Fix it, Joe, will you?” Before Bell answered, a telephone rang on Gideon’s desk and he picked up the receiver. “Gideon.”
It was Lemaitre, calling from Liverpool; he sounded brisk and bright.
“Having a nice quiet time down there, George?” he inquired. “That’s good. While I think of it, save Soho for me. That’s my beat when I get back.”
“It’s sold,” Gideon said.
“Lecherous old devil,” jeered Lemaitre. “But I can’t stay here talking. . . . I’ve done Glasgow, Manchester and Liverpool, already! None of the top coppers has heard of any exodus for the Visit; all the local boys seem to have decided to stay at home.”
“Any idea why?”
“Benny Klein’s left Glasgow and seen a lot of the mob leaders,” answered Lemaitre. “There have been two squeaks. Benny’s paying each leader five hundred quid to keep his boys at home and has threatened to use razor and cosh boys if they don’t. It’s a wicked shame, George - Sonny Boy’s trying to establish a monopoly.”
In spite of himself, Gideon laughed.
“So Sonnley and Klein want the field to themselves.”
“Looks like it.”
“Any word from Birmingham or Bristol?’ “No one gave me any wings.”
“Hire some,” urged Gideon. “Okay, Lem. That the lot?”
“Picked up a funny little thing,” said Lemaitre.
“How funny?”
“Some of the car-hire firms up in these wild parts are getting letters from Carraway, offering to take orders for cars for hire in London during the Visit.”
“Cheap?”
“Not on your life! Double the usual price. That’s how it was found out - one of the Glasgow chaps moaned about it to a pal of his in the Force.”
“So it’s business as usual with Carraway,” Gideon mused. “Thanks, Lem, that might come in useful.” He rang off and after a moment looked across at Bell. “Get the drift of that, Joe?”
“Yes.”
“Send another chit out to all our divisions for a special watch on Klein’s boys and on Sonnley’s shops.”
“Right.”
“Looks as if we’re going to have the crooks in our own back yard to worry about,” remarked Parsons. “Not many strangers.”
“Could be a good thing. You could help us a lot there, Cox,” Gideon went on. “Will you brief your chaps to keep a special watch on . . .?”>
“Klein, Sonnley, and company?”
“Yes.”
“I will.”
“Ta. Now, let’s go over the day of the procession again, shall we? First, lining the route.” That job took twenty minutes. “Now, the cordons.” That took ten. “Barriers next,” said Gideon.
Bell, looking across at the three men, wondered whether Cox and Parsons realized that they were having an object lesson in the power of concentration, plus wide experience, plus an inexhaustible knowledge of London’s pomp and circumstance. Gideon said just what was necessary, correlated facts and situations and did sums in his head by some kind of arithmetical shorthand.
He did not let up until, at half-past twelve, he leaned back and said: “Now, all we’ve got left is the big Public Utilities stand.” He got up, and went to a big wall map which had been brought up from the map room only that morning. “Come and have a look,” he urged, and Cox and Parsons joined him.
He found the spot on the map and made a red line at the street on the east side of Whitehall, nearly opposite the Horse Guards’ sentries. His red mark showed exactly where the big temporary stand, of the kind erected for all great occasions, was to be. He showed how this would block the view of some Ministry windows from the street, but these could be covered from the roofs of buildings opposite. No manholes - the other main source of danger, where an assassin could hide - were hidden. It was safely away from the danger spot where the procession would have to slow down; by the time it arrived, it would be going at a normal pace. Moreover, allowing only a limited number of spectators to stand in front of the stand, the area would not be too crowded; the essential t
hing was to keep enough space for free police movement. “Make a note not to allow spectators more than two deep in front of the P.U. stand, will you?” he asked Cox.
“Yes.”
“And that’s about all,” Gideon said. “Hope I haven’t kept you too long. Wish we could have lunch, but I’ve got to go down and see those French and German chaps.” Gideon fastened his collar, shrugged his coat into position, and smiled at Cox. “Any bright ideas about getting those extra men will be welcome,” he said.
“Commander,” said Parsons. “Yes?’
“You forgot Soho.”
“You have another look,” said Gideon. “Cox’s allowed for an extra thirty uniformed men to be around and we’ll need as many from the C.I.D. Will you two work together on this?”
“Sure,” said Parsons.
“Very well,” said Cox.
Gideon nodded and went out. He left a silent office behind him, until Parsons held his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, and said: “Human atomic power in action. Ever seen anything like it?”
“There isn’t anything like it,” said Bell. “Very impressive,” contributed Cox. It wasn’t exactly a sneer, but it certainly wasn’t a reflection of the other’s mood. “I’ve one or two urgent jobs, Mr. Parsons. Can we meet after lunch?”
After a pause, Parsons said: “Two-thirty?”
“If you’ll come to my office.”
“Okay,” agreed Parsons. He waited until Cox had gone, then turned around, looked at Bell and let out a long, slow breath.
“Who put his nose out of joint?’
“I give him two more days before Gee-Gee explodes,” Bell said.
Cox,” hurrying along to his office, was staring straight ahead. He felt as if he had been out in a heavy storm which had taken all the strength out of him. He was anxious to make notes, copious notes, so as to be sure he missed nothing. - In a peculiar way, Gideon scared him.
Gideon went along to the lift and downstairs to the larger of the Yard’s two cinemas later than he had meant to be, and with much more to think about than Cox. In the cinema, there were seats for a hundred men, an 8-mm. and a 16-mm. movie projector, and a projector for 35mm. stills.
