by John Creasey
“Go on,” urged Gideon.
“There’s a lot of hot air,” said Henry. “And this girl’s given us a few tips on which we’ve taken no action-she wanted to make sure no one suspected her. And she’s now on what they call the Action Committee.”
“Ah!” said Gideon, with real satisfaction tinged only vaguely with anxiety.
“Last night, apparently, they talked of this raid on Lords. She put in a report at four o’clock this morning, and isn’t due in again until two.”
“Bright girl,” Gideon approved. “No danger, is there?”
“Danger of what, sir?”
“For her?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Henry, perhaps a little too briskly.
“Call me when she’s reported,” ordered Gideon, and rang off.
That last ‘Oh, I don’t think so’, was one he didn’t much like. Either Henry was being too casual, or else he did think the girl could be in danger but didn’t want to say so. It was a big mistake to take too much on oneself, and Henry might be tempted to. Gideon made a mental note that it might be a good thing to go and see both the Superintendent and the girl, that afternoon. It would put Henry on his toes and yet shouldn’t alarm the girl. The more he thought, the more Gideon wondered at the startled silence which had followed his first enquiry — could Henry have been planning some kind of coup, to spring on Gideon with an ‘aren’t I the clever one’ attitude? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
Soon, the buzzer from the direct line to Hobbs sounded.
“Yes?”
“I’m ready, sir.”
“Come in,” Gideon said.
Almost at once, the door opened.
Alec Hobbs was a compact man; well dressed but without ostentation, well groomed, good-looking in a way which grew on one rather than made an impact. He was short for a policeman: barely five feet eight, the regulation minimum height, but Gideon no longer noticed this. He had very clear, very direct grey eyes, made brighter by his rather dark complexion and his black hair, which was thick and wiry. This morning he wore a suit of lighter colour and lighter weight than usual. About his eyes and mouth there were lines etched during the years when his wife had been an incurable invalid; lines which seemed to have become set since she had died. He did not smile often, but he was more relaxed these days.
“Good morning, Alec.”
For the first time today, Hobbs dropped formality.
“Good morning, George.” He hovered until Gideon made a slight gesture towards a chair, sat down and put some files on the desk in front of him. “Lemaitre will be here. He sounds badly shaken.”
Gideon nodded. “Anything new in about Blake’s body?”
“I’ve checked on the autopsy, and with luck we’ll have a preliminary report by the time Lem gets here.”
“Good.” Gideon pushed his file about Charlie Blake on one side, and picked up the Outdoor Events file, which was in a distinctive blue folder, having originated from the Uniformed Branch. “Seen this?”
“Yes.”
“I had the Commissioner in, last night. Apparently the Home Secretary’s worried about a demonstration at Lords.”
“He’s probably justified,” remarked Hobbs. “There’s been suspiciously little protest about the South Africans — almost as if something is brewing and being kept back. Lords would be the ideal place to stage a really big demonstration.” What he was saying, in effect, was that the British public might take a lot of stirring, but trouble at the headquarters of the game of cricket would shake it out of its indifference.
“It looks as if the Home Secretary could well be justified.” Gideon explained about Henry. “I think I’ll look in at AB around two o’clock.”
A faint smile hovered about Hobbs’ lips.
“That will shake him.”
“It could.” Gideon settled back in his chair, wiping his forehead again; the morning was hotting up and there was no sign of a real break in the heat-wave. “There’s the usual lot going on and if we get one sporting demonstration, we might get others. We need a man to keep his eye on everything. Might be a good idea to make it a permanent job,” he added. “Do you know of anyone who might fit the bill?”
After a long pause, Hobbs said: “There are three or four who might. May I think about it?”
“Until tomorrow,” Gideon told him. “Then we can see whether we come up with the same men.”
Again, the faint smile hovered at Hobbs’ lips, and he nodded. Gideon, without knowing why, was just a little nettled, but he showed no sign of it.
“Nothing else?”
Hobbs gave him a brief summary of the other cases which were going through: the usual survey of the crimes which had been reported during the night and first thing that morning. Gideon noted each one, and pondered, making a suggestion here, asking a question there. They were working together like a well-oiled machine, and Gideon’s momentary irritation faded. When Hobbs had finished, he said: “We’re getting more trouble by day than by night.”
“The long, hot summer,” suggested Hobbs, drily.
“I’d like to get a complete survey of shop-lifting, bag-snatching and pick-pocket activity,” Gideon told him. “Send out a teletype to all Divisions about that, will you? I have a feeling it’s getting much worse.”
“Knowing your ‘feelings’, it probably is,” said Hobbs. “I’ll do it this morning.”
“Good.”
“Do you want me here when Lem comes?”
“No,” Gideon decided. “He’ll probably let his hair down more, if we’re alone. Right, Alec.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, wiping his forehead and moving towards the fan. “Do I owe this little gesture to you?”
Hobbs looked surprised. “The fan? No.”
“Did you get one?”
“No.”
“Must be my gremlin,” Gideon said drily.
He was mildly surprised that Hobbs didn’t go but instead moved backwards slightly, as if he had something on his mind. Before he could speak, if he were going to, the telephone rang and Gideon moved across and picked it up. It was the front desk.
“Mr. Lemaitre is on his way up, sir.”
“Right, thanks.” Gideon put the instrument down. “Lem’s on his way. Anything on your mind, Alec?”
“Nothing that won’t keep,” Hobbs said, and showed an expression almost of relief when he went out.
Gideon did not give him much thought. Hobbs was the most independent man he knew; a man who seemed to need no help from anyone, wholly self-sufficient. He wasn’t, of course; but he would talk only when he was ready. Gideon stood at the window, looking at the pageantry of the river; he was not as affected as he had been yesterday, but still affected. Then he remembered standing at this same window only a few months back, with Kate, looking out on a procession along the Embankment during a State Visit from a Commonwealth president. How was Kate? Simply enervated by the heat? There couldn’t be anything seriously the matter with her, could there?
Of course there could be. But surely the odds were against it?
He was brooding over this when there was a tap at the door leading from Hobbs’ room, and Lemaitre came in. It was precisely eleven-thirty.
At eleven-thirty exactly, Lou Willison turned into the driveway of a large private house in the Wimbledon Common area, and drove, wheels crunching on loose gravel, round to the back. It was one of a comparatively few Victorian houses still occupied by one family; a family which had in one way withdrawn from the new world in which it lived. All about were blocks of flats, houses converted into two, three or four apartments, one-time gardens of an acre or more cut up into lots on which new houses were built But The Towers remained, a relic from the past.
There was something almost Gothic about the faded red brick, the leaded windows, all shuttered — although both shutters and windows were wide open today-and the enveloping trees and dense shrubbery. Dark-leaved rhododendron and paler laurel grew thick in front of the house and all ab
out it, as if the owners were determined to ensure that there could be no prying eyes. In actual fact the previous owner had been an old, old lady who had preferred to live in the past, and who had been wealthy enough to refuse all offers for the property. She had died only a few months before, there was some problem over probate, and the house had been offered on a furnished rental. Willison was not even slightly interested in the house or the old furniture; not even in the position, although it was very convenient for Wimbledon.
What had attracted him most was the grass tennis court.
This was surrounded not only by an unusually high wire fence, but, beyond the fence, by shrubs and trees which had grown so sturdy and thick that in places one had to fight one’s way through to reach the court. It had become a sanctuary for wild-life; for birds such as the woodpeckers and magpies rarely seen in London, for grey — and, occasionally brown — squirrels, for a family of wild cats, and for rabbits. For years, no one had ever disturbed them, and they had grown used to players on the court — relations of the old lady, who came to visit her. One of these relations was a builder whom Willison had met at a convention in Miami and with whom he had corresponded. And when Willison had mentioned that he wanted a court on which one or two players could practise in true privacy, the Englishman had at once suggested The Towers.
Willison was now installed for the summer; and behind the shrubs and trees, Barnaby Rudge could practise unseen to his heart’s content. The court had needed cutting but there was not much the matter with it, especially for the kind of practice Barnaby wanted.
Just after half-past eleven, Barnaby followed Willison into the grounds. He was astride a motor-scooter which looked absurdly small for him but was inexpensive and safe. Willison did not want anything to suggest that Barnaby had wealthy backing: it was much better to feel that he had come on his own or been sponsored by a few friends in a syndicate. He pulled up behind the car and joined Willison at a side door.
Willison was a surprising plump man, pink-complexioned, blue-eyed; a kind of grown-up cherub. He had a cupid’s bow mouth and a pleasant smile.
“Good morning, Barnaby.”
“Mr. Willison!” Barnaby positively glowed with health.
“Ready to go?”
“All ready, sir.” Barnaby simply stepped out of grey flannel pants and took a pair of white shoes off the back of the motor-scooter. Willison, in sweater and flannels, took two racquets and a dozen tennis balls out of the Jaguar, and they went on the court. For five minutes they warmed up and Willison put in some shots which were unexpectedly good, while Barnaby simply flexed his muscles and his body.
“Okay, let’s go.” Willison said at last.
Something happened to Barnaby Rudge. It showed in his expression, the sudden cold glint in his eyes, the cat-like way in which he moved. He took up his stance for serving, sent a few shots over the net which Willison just managed to return, and then began to unleash the ‘fireball’. And each time the ball seemed to leave the racquet with the velocity of a bullet, each time it whipped off the court in low trajectory. Willison did all he was there for; pick up the balls and pat them back to Barnaby, who served again and again. Every service came with such perfect co-ordination of muscles and reflexes that he had the same ‘impossible’ speed of movement as Cassius Clay had in the ring.
It was little short of miraculous.
He kept it up without stopping for twenty minutes and only twice did his serve go outside the serving area. At the end he was perspiring much less than Willison, who was gasping for breath and trying not to show too much elation. Barnaby looked very, very, content as he went to the back of the house for a shower.
As he went off, on his motor-scooter, a tall, gangling man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, watched from the other side of the road, and then walked without haste towards a telephone kiosk.
Soon, he was talking on a private line to Archibald Smith, who liked to do some of his bookmaking business in privacy, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
Quick Decision
Lemaitre’s eyes had a wild yet tired look; obviously, he was under great strain. It flashed into Gideon’s mind, as they shook hands, that he could not be far short of sixty: that the day of his retirement was not far off. Then Lemaitre dropped into a chair. The flat, black brief-case held under his arm slipped, and he stooped to retrieve it. His hair had always been sparse but Gideon hadn’t realised how pale and big his bald patch was.
“Hell of a bloody business!” he muttered, now. “I could Hang myself up by me —”
“Take it easy,” interrupted Gideon. “You don’t know that it was your fault.”
“Don’t kid yourself! He was coming to see me and he got bumped off. If I’d done it all by telephone no one would have been any the wiser, but I had to meet him in public.”
“But you often do, don’t you?”
“Oh, we have a pint together, sometimes. But that’s not the point.” Lemaitre was determinedly troubled and disconsolate. He took out a packet of cigarettes and put one to his lips, then went still, obviously recalling that Gideon very seldom smoked these days, and that whenever he did, it was a pipe. He took the cigarette from his lips.
Gideon pushed an ashtray towards him, and with visible relief, Lemaitre lit up.
“Ta.”
“Have we anything else — anything about the actual murder?” asked Gideon.
“Not much-not enough,” answered Lemaitre, through a cloud of smoke. “I’ve seen his Missus, poor little bitch. I didn’t realise how much Charlie mattered to her. You can never tell, can you? The moment his back was turned she was an easy lay, but she’s absolutely prostrate now he’s gone. Bit of guilt involved, maybe, she —”
“Guilt?” interjected Gideon sharply.
“Oh, not guilt about this flicking murder. I meant about the boy-friends. Anyway, George, he left at eight o’clock last night for the Old Steps. Hadn’t told her he was coming to see me, she didn’t have any idea. I’d give a lot to find out who did know! He was going to walk-used to be a long-distance walker, did you know? That was the last wifey saw of him. He was seen by a couple of our chaps walking towards Wapping High Street, and that’s the last anyone saw of him, too. Except for one funny thing, George.”
“Yes?” prompted Gideon.
“He was seen by a truck driver — chap who’s often at the Old Steps-on one side of the road. High Street, I mean. He noticed a taxi, drawn up about half a mile from the park, and Charlie talking to the cabby, and when the taxi moved off, Charlie’d gone. He could have turned down a side street, or taken the cab. Mind you, might be nothing in it,” Lemaitre went on, warily, “I don’t want to take anything for granted. But I’m following it up. If Charlie was going to walk, he was going to walk, he wasn’t going to take any cab.”
“Have you traced the cab?”
“Started work on it just before I left H.Q. The truck-driver didn’t notice its number, but it was a black Austin with a mottled top, 1958 or 1959. Not too many of those still about-and those there are, are mostly owner-driven, these days.” Lemaitre paused just long enough to stub out one cigarette and to fight another before going on: “Got the autopsy report, that’s one thing.” He opened the briefcase. “Manual strangulation. No water in the lungs, nothing in the way of bruises or scratches. He was standing or sitting in front of someone who just put his hands round his throat and choked the life out of him.” Lemaitre drew very hard at his cigarette, but Gideon did not interrupt. Then Lemaitre” pushed a photograph of a thumb print, very much enlarged, and for the first time spoke on a note of elation. “When we get the bastard, that will fix him! On a patch of ointment he had on his neck. He used the ointment regularly, because he often had this rash in hot weather,” Lemaitre went on. “Bit of luck, that.”
“Checked Records?” asked Gideon.
“Blimey, yes!”
“Want any help tracing that taxi?”
“I’ve given it to Info, for a general call.”
“Not much,” admitted Lemaitre. “But in a way, it was plenty. He travelled first-class on the QE2, his once a season trip. Worked his passage with his cards, but he never was a card-sharp. Couple of men were talking in a corner of the smoking-room, and he was sitting with his back to them — they didn’t notice a little squirt like Charlie. Yanks, they were. They talked about the way they and someone in London were going to fix the Derby. Some new drug which couldn’t be traced once it was absorbed in the system. A slow—’em-down drug, which they’d give all the runners, except the one they were backing to win. The winner couldn’t possibly be involved — he would just be doing his best, not drugged at all.” Lemaitre stubbed out his second cigarette but did not light a third. “Charlie said they mentioned a couple of names and he was going to check on them.”
“Did he name these two Americans?” asked Gideon.
“Not to me,” Lemaitre said.
“Do you know if anyone else heard the conversation?”
“No, George. You know the problem; face to face with a man, you can pick up a lot you can’t on the telephone. That’s why I arranged to meet him. You know what a din there is over at the Old Steps-you can’t hear yourself speak unless you’re used to it and get in a huddle. When you’re talking, no one else can hear you because of the racket. You should have heard them last night —” He broke off, seeing Gideon’s expression, and changed the subject hastily. “Obviously the smoking-room stewards on the QE2 might have heard something. Mines of information, those chaps are.”
Gideon stared at him, but his thoughts had flown to the smoking-room of the S.S. Fifty States when he had sailed to New York a few years earlier. The stewards were indeed mines of information, maintaining a sphinx-like exterior whatever their secret knowledge. And they may well have heard the one particular and other relevant conversations. He noticed that Lemaitre had fallen silent, as if he felt this hard stare was of disapproval, as he asked: “Where’s the QE2, now?”
