A Conference For Assassins

by John Creasey

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks,” Parsons said again. “I gave the gaming houses a miss.”

  “Why?”

  “If we try to cover them, too, we’ll be stretched too tight. Better a man lose his bank balance than a boy his virginity.”

  “Don’t let the gamblers know.”

  “No.”

  “Anything else?” asked Gideon.

  “One thing that wants a bit of deep thought,” Parsons answered. “At least a dozen Italian prostitutes have come in during the past week, all very high class. You might think about trying for wholesale extradition orders. They’re organized by a man called Sapelli, Luigi Sapelli. He’s taken over a couple of houses in Green Street, all one-room apartments.”

  “We’d never get wholesale extradition,” objected Gideon. Parsons’ grin was more devil than Christian.

  “Sapelli doesn’t know that.”

  “You want to warn him?”

  “Just tell him we don’t like vice in London organized by outsiders; we prefer the home product. But I don’t think we should tell him.”

  Gideon thought: Now what’s he up to?, and he asked: “Who should?”

  “Our native Soho boys,” replied Parsons, smoothly. “A few threats from them would do a lot of good. If Sapelli thinks his ladies aren’t going to get many customers, he may send some of them home.”

  “No,” decided Gideon, promptly. “That could lead to a lot of trouble. Is Sapelli from Milan or Rome?”

  “Milan.”

  “Try to get enough on him to extradite him,” Gideon said. “Let him know what we’re doing, too.” Parsons rubbed his fleshy hands together. “Okay, skipper,” he said. “I’ll do just that.” Gideon had a sneaking feeling that “just that” was exactly what Parsons had wanted to do, but had preferred it to come as an order.

  Parsons went off, leaving Gideon alone in the office. He put Parsons out of his mind - Parsons could be left to his job all right. Joe Bell was with Miss Timson, sending out reports and instructions. There were two telephone calls from divisions and a five-minute breather before the operator told him that Lemaitre was on the line, from Birmingham.

  “Hallo, Lem.”

  “You up already?” Lemaitre could seldom resist being facetious. “George,” he went on, “there is a fishy smell.”

  “In Birmingham?”

  “No, Glasgow. I got a squeal.”

  “What is it?” asked Gideon.

  “Benny Klein’s been here in Birmingham and talked to all the big boys,” Lemaitre announced. “Now he’s going back to Glasgow. The word is that the Glasgow group will be in London for the Visit, but the others will stay home.”

  You mean Gorra of Glasgow is going to defy Klein?” Gideon could see the inevitable consequences of such an invasion. It would almost certainly lead to warfare between gangs of pickpockets and shoplifters; it might bring out the razors and the bicycle chains, the coshes and the flick-knives. If that happened, police urgently needed for normal crowd control would have to be diverted, which would create a lot of difficulties. “That’s the fishy smell,” Lemaitre told him, sounding really puzzled. “Klein and Jock Gorra are like old buddies.”

  “Does that mean that Klein’s fooled him?”

  “I don’t know what it means. I just don’t like it.”

  “I’ll warn the divisions,” Gideon said. “Lem, while you’re on - ask Birmingham if they could spare us a hundred men, say, if their gangs do move out. Just see how the wind blows. If they’ll play, I’ll get an official request sent up from the Commissioner, but we don’t want to ask and be refused.”

  “Right,” said Lemaitre. “I’m going on to Bristol tonight and should be back on Saturday. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Take care of London for me,” Lemaitre quipped, and rang off.

  Gideon was pondering over this unexpected and puzzling news from Birmingham when his telephone rang. He lifted it, said: “Gideon,” gruffly, and heard a man speak in an American accent. From one aspect of London during the Visit, he switched instantly to another.

  “Is that Commander Gideon?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Commander, can you spare me and Agent Donnelly a little while?” It was Webron, of the F.B.I.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We’ll be right along,” said Webron, and Gideon rang off. He took out the file on O’Hara, mostly consisting of the dossier which had been brought over from Washington. It was pretty thin. The man had been suspected of plotting against the President, and was known to be a religious bigot - an anti-Catholic. He had made threats against the President soon after the election, and the F.B.I, had discovered that he was an expert in firearms, especially small weapons. There was a note saying: Ideal for assassinations in crowded places.

  Gideon checked the physical description of O’Hara: five feet, seven inches high, sallow complexion, blue-gray eyes, no outstanding feature, no visible distinguishing marks when dressed, although he had an appendectomy scar.

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Come in,” called Gideon, and stood up and rounded the desk to greet the Americans. Webron was short, swarthy, probably Jewish, with thin black hair brushed over his white pate so that it looked streaky; a man with big eyes and a constant half-smile. Donnelly was tall and lean, dressed immaculately, kept his black hair in a crew cut and wore glasses.

  “I’ve been recapping on O’Hara,” Gideon said. “If you could find just a single distinguishing facial mark it would help a lot.”

  “Sure, his looks are as nondescript as they can be,” said Webron. He did most of the talking for the pair and now sat back in an easy chair while Donnelly leaned against the mantelpiece. “Commander, we want you to know that we are very satisfied with the efforts you are making and the precautions you’re taking, but we are worried as hell.”

  “Any particular reason?” Gideon asked.

  Webron said: “Yes, there is,” and glanced at Donnelly. “A very good reason,” Donnelly said.

  “Commander, the Bureau in Washington has dug up more information about O’Hara. They caught an old friend of his, also a good religious hater. This friend says that O’Hara is in England, but that’s not all. He says that, before he left, O’Hara perfected an automatic pistol with a fifty-yard range which can be used from a movie camera.” After a long pause, Webron added: “How about that?”

  Donnelly shifted his position.

  “From now on, every time I see a movie camera I’m going to get the shakes,” he said.

  Gideon -thought bleakly: So there’s real danger. He looked from one man to the other and spoke after a long pause: “I’ll put more men on the search. I’ll send reminders to all stations. And I’ll have reports made on every American or Canadian we can find who has a movie camera. What size is this one?”

  “Sixteen millimetres,” answered Webron. “And that’s some job.”

  “It’s got to be tried,” Gideon said.

  When the Americans had gone, he roughed out the order for all London and Home Counties police stations, knowing what a groan would go up when station chiefs saw it. He sent for Violet Timson, told her to rush it, and then forced himself to read other reports. It wasn’t-easy at first; it couldn’t be done, but he wanted to be out on O’Hara’s trail. Soon, however, one report gained his full attention. Carraway flatly denied everything, and his other salesmen stood by their earlier statements. The truth was that Gideon could not concentrate on Carraway, because problems of the Visit kept obtruding, and he felt a return of restlessness, the urge to go out and take an active part in a case. He hadn’t done much good the last time he’d gone out, but next time - he grinned to himself.

  Benny Klein was grinning, too. His sharp-featured, sallow face was twisted in an expression of beastly delight as he watched the mouse squirming. It was stuck to a small chromium-plated tube which he had smeared with vitriol overnight and left to dry. Only it hadn’t dried; the squeals and antics of the mouse pr
oved that.

  Klein sent a postcard to Jock Gorra which read: “I’ve got it.”

  Fussy Mrs. Benedict, who lived two doors away from the Smiths, wasn’t grinning. She was frowning because she was puzzled and a little worried. When her husband came home that evening, he was welcomed with a gusty: “She still isn’t back, Jim. I’ve been there four times and there isn’t a sign of her. I’m sure if she’d intended to go away she would have told me.”

  “Oh,-you worry too much,” said Benedict, a plump, easy-going man, who was already kicking off his shoes. “Matthew Smith is home. I saw him in the garden as I came by. If you’re so worried about Grace, why don’t you ask him where she’s gone?”

  “All he’d do is tell me to mind my own business,” said Mrs. Benedict.

  “I see what you mean,” said her husband, solemnly, and glanced out the window. He saw Matthew Smith locking the door of his workshop before strolling back to the house, but he didn’t think twice about it.

  “I asked my Dad, and he said there isn’t any need to book a hotel. If you book a place in advance, they’ll charge you the earth,” said a girl who worked with Doris Green, and envied her the coming visit to London to see the procession. “He says there are hundreds and hundreds of places in London where you can get bed and breakfast real cheap, but you have to go and seek them out. You’ve got your money out of the post office, haven’t you?”

  “I took it all out today,” Doris told her. “Well,” said the other girl, “take my Dad’s advice and don’t go throwing any away.”

  16: Coincidence

  Gideon was in his office at a quarter to eight on Saturday morning, a week later, and Bell was already there. Only the night staff was at the Yard, and Gideon had the usual Saturday morning feeling that everyone was anxious to get through his job as soon as possible. A messenger came in with a huge bundle of mail, and envelopes of all shapes and sizes were piled high in front of Bell. He groaned. It was too early for the secretarial staff to be in. Gideon was about to speak when one of his telephones rang. He picked up the receiver.

  “Gideon.”

  “Good morning, Commander,” said Miss Timson. “I understand that this morning’s mail delivery is very heavy.”

  Gideon had his first relaxed moment so far. “Mountainous,” he said. “If I sent it in, will you get it opened?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Eating out of your hand,” jeered Joe Bell. “Like to know why our Violet is so chirpy?”

  “Why?” asked Gideon, as he rang off.

  “She’s had a postcard from Ricky Wall, from Berlin,” Bell reported. “Couldn’t mistake his handwriting, and couldn’t mistake the Brandenberg Gate, either.”

  Gideon said: “Good luck to them. Has Lemaitre been in?”

  “No.”

  “I’m puzzled about that Glasgow business,” Gideon said. “Telephone Glasgow and ask for the latest on Jock Gorra, will you? Before I get the post back, I’ll go and have a word with Mollet and the German, Bayer. Those two start work at seven every morning. They seem surprised when we don’t.”

  “Who’s surprised?” asked Bell. “They sleep all night.”

  Mollet, the droll-looking Frenchman, and Bayer, big, bullet-headed, .almost like a caricature of his race, were proving good friends and good collaborators. They shared an office which had been cleared for them by putting senior Yard men in rooms which were already occupied. They were in fine humour, and Gideon saw their notes, their marked maps, and their files, kept in a methodical order which did him good to see. As he turned to go, the door opened and Webron and Donnelly entered.

  “Good morning, Commander. Glad to see you,” Donnelly said.

  “Everyone is getting here earlier in the morning,” Webron remarked. His voice had a trace of mid-European guttural. “Do you consider that a good thing, Commander?”

  “Very good, indeed,” Gideon said. “It allows you plenty of time for sightseeing.” He was rewarded with a burst of laughter.

  “Anything new in about O’Hara?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if that guy really is in London,” Webron said.

  Gideon went out, reflecting that for an early morning session it had been remarkably good humoured. As the door closed, he heard Webron say: “Gee-Gee’s quite a guy.” Instead of raising Gideon’s spirits and keeping them high, that brought about a return of the earlier mood of dissatisfaction with himself.

  O’Hara had disappeared among London’s millions, adding to the general anxiety. The Glasgow situation was a worry. Cox was still an unknown quantity, too. Would it be a good idea to do the rounds with Cox? Or was that simply an excuse to get out of the office? Gideon wondered which job he would go out on, if he could, and unhesitatingly decided that he would join the hunt for O’Hara, who seemed the greatest menace.

  A young police constable, named Kemp, strolled past the little private hotel in Kensington, near High Street, at a time when O’Hara was looking out the window down into the busy street and picturing how busy the procession route would be. O’Hara turned away from the window, went for his camera, brought it forward and trained it on the back of P.C. Kemp. No one saw O’Hara doing it, but had anyone done so it would have looked a perfectly innocent action. O’Hara, a man in his forties, turned away from the window, sat in a shadowy corner, closed his eyes and unlocked the camera; then he took out the magazine of film, put it in his pocket, took out the other, deadly type of magazine and placed that into position. His fingers were thin, long and precise in their movements. When he locked the camera again, he opened his eyes, checked that everything was as it should be, levelled the camera and pressed the button. The usual whirring sound came, punctuated by little snapping noises: zpp, zpp, zpp, zpp, zpp, zpp. Six, in all. When O’Hara put a loaded magazine in, that would mean six bullets.

  O’Hara was fully satisfied.

  P.C. Kemp went into the divisional station for his mid-shift break and, as always, looked at the notice board. A new notice, marked ‘URGENT,’ was pinned up below one about a darts match with Hammersmith. The notice read:

  James Gregory O’Hara - American Citizen

  (See Previous Notice)

  A report must be made immediately of any American or Canadian or individual speaking with an American or Canadian accent living in this district. If any such person owns a 16-mm. cine camera this should be reported immediately to the Superintendent’s office and in emergency to Commander Gideon at New Scotland Yard.

  Particular attention should be given to residents in hotels of all kinds, guest houses, boarding houses, and apartment houses. The man believed to be O’Hara might be with a party, might, be with a woman, or might live on his own.

  No risks should be taken with anyone suspected of being O’Hara.

  “See that, Mick?” another constable asked. “Got to check every hotel and boarding house. Wonder what they want him for? Got to have eyes at the back of your head, these days.”

  Michael Lumati left his studio on the following Sunday afternoon, took a Number 11 bus to Fulham Broadway, then sauntered towards North End Road where the litter from the previous night’s market had not yet been properly cleared. He turned into a public house and went upstairs to a private lounge. He could hear a man whistling “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  He tapped at the door, the whistling stopped, and Alec Sonnley called: “That you, Lummy?”

  “It’s me, Sonny Boy.”

  “Come right in.” Sonnley was standing by a window hung with dark-green curtains. An aspidistra stood on a small table in the middle of the room, which was like one preserved as a mid-Victorian relic.

  “What are you going to have?’ he asked, and turned to a table on which were dozens of bottles of beer.

  “I’ll have a pale,” said Lumati, and sat down in an old-fashioned saddleback armchair as Sonnley poured.

  “Got those samples?” Sonnley asked.

  Lumati didn’t answer.

  “Now listen, Lummy, have you got them
or haven’t you? If you’re still worrying about the busies, forget it - we’ve got those souvenir programs to show we’re in legitimate business together. But if you’re thinking of asking for more than fifty-fifty, forget that, too. I’m taking just as big a risk as you are. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Lumati. “Don’t tell me you don’t trust me.”

  “I trust you,” said Lumati, eyeing the little man very closely, “but I’m not sure I trust your pal, Klein.”

  “Listen, Lummy,” said Sonnley, drawing nearer the artist and looking like an earnest sparrow, “I’ve worked with Klein for over ten years. They don’t come any smarter, but I wouldn’t trust him round the corner.

  Klein’s not in this. He’s looking after the usual business for me. He’s been up in the North and the Midlands, making sure we don’t have trouble with those boys. I’ll spread your stuff round myself with the takings from my branches, and I’ll pay a lot of my bills with them. I’ll spread some out with bookies, too. Don’t you worry. I’ll get rid of most of it in a week. Now, where’s the samples?”

  Lumati took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. Sonnley slit it open and pulled out the notes inside; there were five. He rustled one in his fingers, put the five down on a table and flipped them like a bank teller. Then he took them to a window, and, standing to one side, held one up to the light. The thread showed through clearly, so did the watermark; it was a remarkable job of printing. He swung around and clapped Lumati on the shoulder.

  “That’s the best job I’ve ever seen in my life, Lum! It’s an absolute winner.”

  “It’s the best job that’s ever been done,” said Lumati. His little beard waggled in his excitement. “And I’ve got fifteen thousand of them. It’s a deal, then. You won’t tell Klein . . .”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “You pay me fifty per cent of the face value, on delivery.”

  “Lum, just to show how much I trust you, I’ve brought three thousand quid in real English dough along with me - it’s in that little case over there. Don’t get it mixed up with your own specialty, will you? I wouldn’t like to get yours contaminated!” Sonnley went over and picked up a small leather case, opened it, and showed the small wads of one pound notes, wrapped in fifties with gummed paper bands. “How about that, Lum? You get three thousand quid on account.”