by John Creasey
A sergeant came up.
“Couldn’t be a tighter net, sir.”
“I hope not,” Henry said. “I hope—” He broke off as a manhole cover on the pavement caught his eye.
Scanning the street, he saw similar covers outside most of the shops, and realised, with a sickening sense of failure, that he had forgotten the cellars. Forgotten them! And there was probably one beneath the building where Roche was hiding.
These cellars could be used for coal, storage, sometimes simply as an extension of the shop above. It would be simple enough for Roche to get from his own to the one next door, if he wanted: he would only have to knock down a few bricks. Henry’s breathing became shallow as he stared at the manhole outside the empty cafe”: Roche might have escaped already.
There was now only one way to find out. But first, he had to fix those manholes: make sure Roche couldn’t appear from one and start shooting. The man who had been so confident was looking at him in puzzlement.
“We want a concrete slab over each one of those manhole covers,” Henry said crisply. “There are plenty at the builders’ yard in Highway Lane. Get it done at once.”
“Right, sir!” The sergeant hurried off, obviously stung to action by sudden understanding of the reason for the order.
At that time, Barnaby Rudge was sitting in a high comer seat at the Centre Court, watching the favourite for the Men’s Singles, Bob Lavis, playing an unseeded Russian. There wasn’t a spare inch of space, and the sun shone on white and coloured shirts and dresses, on shielded eyes which moved with the ball, as it hurtled or spun or was lobbed over the net. Except for the burst of applause when a point was scored, there was near-silence, broken only by the voices of the umpire and the linesmen. The match was in its fifth set. The unknown Russian, wearing an eyeshade, was crouching to meet Lavis’ service. If he could break it this time, he might well pull off the sensation of the day.
Lavis’ service was a true cannonball. He stood poised, at match point. The Russian, a dark-skinned man with Mongolian features and black hair matting his legs and his forearms, crouched as if immobile.
Lavis served: Whang! Fourteen thousand pairs of eyes moved with the ball as it struck the far corner. It should have aced his opponent, but with a powerful spring that was a miracle of agility, the Russian reached and returned it.
There was no power in the return, however, and it dropped slightly to the favourite’s right. Lavis moved across and, perhaps in a momentary loss of concentration because he was so sure that this was the end, he struck the ball with the side of his racquet. There was a gasp from the crowd, the ball hit the net near the top, and fell back into his own court. As Lavis stood staring as if he could not believe it, there was a roar of applause.
The Russian, giving no sign that he had even noticed this, calmly crossed to the other side of the court to await the next service and a ball-boy scooped up the ball and scampered off-court again. After what seemed an interminable time lag, the umpire called: “Deuce!”
Lavis wiped his forehead, caught the two balls a boy bounced towards him, and moved across for his next service.
And netted.
He served again, a little more carefully. The ball swerved and as the Russian pounced and struck with almost wild abandon it shot back past Lavis — and smacked into the ground with an inch or two to spare. There was another, louder roar of applause, another delay as the umpire waited for silence, then:
“Advantage, Serov.”
He pronounced it Seer-ov.
Barnaby watched, lynx-eyed, every step, every movement Lavis made, for he still believed Lavis would win. If he did not, there would be others to watch and study, for Serov would never get through to the final — not even the quarterfinals-by this power game alone. He took far too many chances, although on his day would be almost unbeatable.
And now, Lavis let fly with all his strength and skill — and aced Serov, who did not even attempt to return the ball. The applause was terrific, but neither more nor less than that accorded the Russian.
“Deuce!”
Lavis let fly again, with another ace which left Serov standing.
“Advantage, Lavis!” called the umpire: “Match point!”
Lavis put his body and his heart into his next service. The Russian made a prodigious leap and reached the ball, but could not get it back over the net.
“Game, set and match to Lavis.”
The Russian acknowledged the applause, and at last Lavis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. There were the usual end-of-match pleasantries, then the two men walked off together.
Barnaby Rudge was smiling very faintly. Lavis was known to have the finest, fiercest service in the world, and he, Barnaby Rudge, knew that his own was immeasurably superior. Well, he had another game tomorrow: he must go to The Towers and practise.
Lou Willison was at The Towers, but did not go to join Barnaby in the kitchen or the court. He was with a friend who had just come in, and Willison’s baby-face was darkened by a scowl, and by the shock of disappointment.
“I can’t place it, I tell you,” the other man, an Englishman, was saying. “I can get a hundred on, here and there, but no big money.”
“But it’s crazy!” blurted Willison.
“It looks to me as if you tried to put too much on in one bet,” said the other. “It was a mistake.” He tossed back a whisky-and-soda, and went on: “There’s only one firm we haven’t heard from.”
“Who’s that?” Willison asked sharply.
“Jackie Spratt’s.”
“Jackie Spratt’s? But isn’t that one of the biggest?” Willison almost screamed.
“Yes, it is, but—”
“If they’ll take the bets, why do you say you can’t place the money?”
“I never use Spratt’s, if I can help it,” the Englishman explained. He had a long face with long features and a lugubrious expression, rather like a horse, and the similarity was heightened by long hair which drooped over each temple. “I’d put on a couple of hundred at six of their shops.”
“Get the rest on,” urged Willison. “Get as much on as you possibly can!”
That was about the time when John Spratt entered the company’s Putney High Street shop, and went through to the back room. The shop was closed, for the day’s racing was over, but a dozen clerks were still busy, some of them chalking up the Tote prices and other details on huge boards. A woman cleaner, blue-smocked, blue-bonneted, was mopping the synthetic tiles of the floor. The manager, a chunky, middle-aged man with a heavy jowl and unblinking, expressionless eyes, stood up from his desk.
“Good-evening, Mr. John.”
“Hullo, Fred,” John Spratt greeted him, pleasantly. “Is our friend here?”
“Waiting in there.” The manager inclined his head towards a second door.
“Has he said anything?”
“Just says he’s got to see you — it’s very important. And I daresay it is, to him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He does a lot of leg-work for Archie Smith, I can tell you that. He wouldn’t do that for long, if he weren’t reliable.”
Spratt nodded, and went into the other room.
Sydney Sidey was sitting at a small table with an Evening News spread out in front of him, reading the back page. He pretended not to notice the door open but as it closed, sprang to his feet, letting the newspaper fall. He was painfully thin, gawkish, awkward-looking, with huge hands and feet.
“Good-evening, Mr. Spratt!”
“Hallo, Sidey.” Spratt’s manner was still pleasant, but he went on: “I hope you haven’t wasted my time. I’m a very busy man.”
“Oh, I know you are — I assure you I haven’t!” Sidey spluttered. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Spratt — it’s very important, I promise! I’ve got photographs—” He delved in the inside pocket of his jacket: “I wouldn’t have troubled you, if I hadn’t been sure.”
“That’s good,” Spratt murmured.
/> “It’s about this American darkie — Barnaby Rudge,” Sidey told him, eagerly. “Honest, Mr. Spratt — I can tell you that that man will win the Men’s Singles this year — and I mean Wimbledon! And I also happen to know that Mr. Smith-Archie Smith, you know — won’t take money on him to win, says he’s not quoted. And I thought —” A cunning glint appeared in his eyes: “I thought it would be worth a pony to you, if I tipped you off not to take any money on this guy. He’s going to win, Mr. Spratt!”
Sidey was fumbling with the photographs, as he talked, haste making him even clumsier than usual.
“I doubt it,” Spratt told him, drily. “What makes you think he will?”
“He’s got a service no one can stand up against-it will absolutely demoralise his opponents, Mr. Spratt! I’ve been watching him, and I’ve seen them all — I’ve seen the very best — but I’ve never seen a service like this one. It’s a rocket, never mind a cannonball! Look.” He had the small prints spread on a table, now-twenty of them, in all — and they showed Barnaby Rudge in all manner of poses. They were cleverly taken at a different point in each service so that they made almost a moving picture, and something of the enormous power of the man suggested itself. Spratt studied them intently, and said at last: “He looks good.”
“He’s a world-beater,” Sydney Sidey asserted solemnly. “An absolute, world-beater!” Seeing that Spratt was obviously impressed, he went on, emboldened: “I thought if you’d let me have a pony, Mr. Spratt, and put a hundred on the nose — you can hedge it okay, that’s not so much -that would make us both happy.”
John Spratt looked at him as if looking at an insect, and Sidey went absolutely still. Then Spratt took a small wad of notes from his pocket and slapped it on the table.
“If you want to put any on, Sidey, do it yourself.” He picked up the pictures, one by one, and then as he shuffled them like a pack of cards, he asked: “Where are the negatives?”
“I — I’ve got them at home, Mr. Spratt.”
“If you have any more prints made,” said Spratt, with a pleasant smile, “I’ll skin you alive. Just keep your mouth shut, Sidey. I get to hear everything that goes on, and I’ll soon know if you talk.” Casually, he added: “I could use a man who can keep his mouth shut.” Then with a brief nod, he went out.
“He gives me the bloody shivers!” Sidney Sidey told himself as he watched him walk away.
Barnaby Rudge, fully satisfied with his latest practice, had a shower, dreaming away happily. He was a little puzzled because Willison hadn’t come to see him and the car was outside, but with his peculiarly single-minded nature, this did not worry him at all. He was going to win Wimbledon! He knew he was going to win.
“We’ll leave it to you, as always, John,” Matthew Spratt told his brother. “Don’t you agree, Mark?”
“John’s the hatchet-man,” Mark agreed, mildly.
“The only question is how to fix him,” John said. He picked up a copy of the latest Evening Standard and there was a screaming headline about arrests and a murder in Hampstead. A line caught his eye: “-believed to be connected with a plot to interrupt the second Test Match as a protest against apartheid.” His eyes held a sudden glint: “Now, if we did this cleverly, it could look like a nice piece of race hatred, couldn’t it? What we need is a Fascist short of money.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. In fact, I think I know of one,” said Matthew.
By that time, the crowds were leaving Wimbledon in droves, and the pick-pockets and the bag-snatchers were skilfully and unobtrusively busy. One of them was young Cyril Jackson, and he had a very good picking: seven wallets and four good watches as well as a couple of fountain pens. When he counted his spoils and assessed the value, he asked himself why he should hand it all over to Aunty Martha. She would never know how much was in the wallets, would she? If he helped himself to a few quid, no one need be any the wiser.
And that was the time when, twenty minutes late, Gideon reached home.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Husband and Wife
Kate looked a little drawn, Gideon was quick to notice. Her eyes were a shade too bright; her smile, voice and laughter were off the edge of naturalness. Unless ; . . unless he was feeling a greater tension than he realised, was studying her more closely because he was more sensitive.
There was another quality about her which this increased perception emphasised. She was a strikingly handsome, most would say a beautiful woman. And as she moved — to do the most ordinary things: take a leg of mutton out of the oven, sprinkle flour to thicken the gravy, strain the Brussels sprouts — he was very much aware of her lissomeness. There was nothing in her movements tonight to suggest that she was physically under par.
As they were alone, they ate in the big, old-fashioned kitchen. Gideon, in his shirt-sleeves, carved: the mutton was perfectly done, the outside golden-brown and crisp, and the sharp knife went through it butter-easy. And the potatoes roasted with it had a crispness and tastiness which was exactly right. He had a glass of beer with his meal and Kate had cider; but for his anxiety about her, he would not have felt a care in the world. For there were few times when Gideon’s mind was so choked with the urgency of the Yard’s affairs that, whatever the pressure, he could not push anxiety away for a while and relax. But he could never remember so relaxing, except at home with Kate.
She had made deep-dish apple pie, the pastry crumbly-short, the way he liked it. And with it, there was double-thick cream. He must force himself to eat it, as he had forced himself to eat the meat; Kate must have no suspicion of how desperately worried he was about her.
“More, dear?” she asked.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Oh, yes, you should.” Kate smiled. “It’ll do you good.”
“Well — but what about the children?”
“Malcolm’s having a fish-and-chip supper with his gang, and Penny will eat before she comes in.”
“In that case . . . !” He broke off, forcing a smile, for she was already replenishing his plate.
He ate more slowly, but still with assumed relish. At last he pushed his plate away and smiled at Kate as she placed a cup of coffee in front of him. She smiled back with complete naturalness, obviously happy.
“Bless you, Kate!” he said. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal like that for ages.
“You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”
“Every mouthful,” he assured her. Then despite himself, could think of nothing to say. A sudden constraint seemed to fall on them both and he could hear the ticking of the frying-pan-shaped wall clock.
“Kate,” he said, at last.
“George,” she began, but stopped.
He wondered whether Alec Hobbs had telephoned to prepare her; there was no way of being sure. As she fell silent, he started again: “Kate, I talked to Alec Hobbs, this morning — or rather, he talked to me.”
The flare almost of alarm in her eyes told him that she had not been forewarned. And there was heaviness in his heart at this proof that he could alarm her, over this or anything else.
“About Penny?” she asked huskily.
“And about you.”
“George —”
“Kate,” he interrupted, “there may be a thousand and one reasons why you haven’t told me this or haven’t told me that, but just now I’m only concerned about one thing.” He paused, and her expression pleaded: “What thing?” So he told her quickly: “About your health.”
Her eyes grew very, very bright; tear-bright. When she closed them, tears forced their way through. He sat, gripping the edge of the table, not wanting to move to comfort her and comfort himself, until he knew the truth. And now she frightened him simply because she was frightened: she would not behave like this if she were not. His knuckles whitened as he watched her trying to speak; saw her lips quivering. Still he sat there, and now his own eyes were stinging as he had not known them sting for years.
“George,” she managed, at last. “Oh, George, I-I am wor
ried.”
“About what, love?” he asked gently.
“I — I keep getting pains. I — I keep thinking of cancer. Oh, George!”
He thought: Oh, my God, and she couldn’t tell me-she couldn’t tell me! There was both self-reproach and reproach for her in his mind, but it hovered on the surface and did not reveal itself even by implication. He had to sit here until she had finished; he dare not let himself move closer to her.
“The chances against it are pretty long, love,” he made himself say calmly. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes. I-I went to the hospital.” She had somehow not trusted or not been able to confide in the family doctor -probably because she knew he would tell, or make her tell, her husband. “I was X-rayed, today.”
“That’s where you were!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. George, I — oh, George, I’m sorry. I — I’m sorry, I —”
Now, she began to cry. And now, at last, he could go to her; stand behind her, hold her as she buried her face in her hands and the sobs shook her body as if she felt her world were coming to an end. He did not speak, or caress, or even move, until after a while he placed his lips against her hair. Soon, she calmed; and he placed his hands on her elbows and in a way he had often done with the children, eased her to her feet. Then he led her through to the sitting-room, and helped her into his own big armchair. As he raised her feet on to a pouffe, he remarked inconsequentially: “Did I ever tell you I first fell for your legs?”
“Oh, George!” She gave a funny, choking little laugh.
“Fact.” He turned to a sideboard and took out brandy and glasses, talking all the time: “I’d been out to Milton Park -it was the beginning of the Rugger season and I was pretty active, then. Nothing like so fat! And you were playing tennis-all knee-length white skirt and ankle-socks: what your darling daughter would probably call square, or what goes for square, today. And I was fascinated. Never seen such long and attractive legs. Mind you, my eyes did soon travel to higher things.” He was smiling down on her, now. He gave her the brandy, then perched on the arm of the chair. “So you had an X-ray?”
