Gideon's staff

by J. J Marric

  Crime Wave . . .

  When the government ordered a cut-back in funds for Scotland Yard, Commander George Gideon, head of the Criminal Investigation Department, knew that trouble was ahead. Murders, kidnappings, robberies could be expected. And he also thought that a master criminal might seize the opportunity to mount a crime wave.

  Gideon was right! And he took the biggest chance of his life by telling the truth to the newspapers. But—two child murders, two cop killings, and a murderer who threatened to blow up himself and a ship with nitroglycerin showed the government that he was right.

  Still, he had to face deadly peril to prove it.

  Gideon's Staff

  J.J. MARRIC

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 1

  AX

  "The trouble with criminals is that they don't learn their job," Keith Ryman said. There was a faintly sardonic smile on his handsome face as he stood by the bar in his flat, Martini in hand. The only other man present looked at him warily.

  "You'd better not say that to Charlie Daw."

  "Forget Daw; he's small beer," Ryman said. "I don't mean they're not good craftsmen. If you get the right man he can open a safe or pick a lock as well as a mechanic can fit a carburetor. The craftsmen are all right, but no one studies crime like men study big business or the professions," asserted Ryman, and smoothed down his fair, curly hair; now he was smiling broadly. "I think I could make a real go of it, Rab."

  "If anyone could, you could," Stone said. He was a smaller man, rather sallow, and his well-tailored suit and red-and-white-spotted tie and socks fell just short of being flashy as his manner was just short of being sycophantic.

  "No doubt I could," Ryman agreed, nodding his head as at a well-deserved compliment. "This is the time to begin, too."

  "Why's that?" asked Stone.

  "Don't you ever keep your ears open?"

  "Try me."

  "In the Regal bar last night there were two Scotland Yard men, crabbing like hell because they'd got to go back on duty. Remember?"

  Stone's eyes lit up with recollection.

  "That's right. They were—and moaning like stink because the Yard's short handed. One of them said they really need three men for every two they've got."

  Ryman sipped his drink, contemplated his crony, and, although he tried hard to restrain it, excitement made his eyes shine and pitched his voice a key higher.

  "That's it," he assented. "The police are short handed, and they don't say too much about it because it might encourage the crooked fraternity to put in overtime. They play it down all right, but a really smart man could find a way to take advantage of this situation, Rab. I think I'm the man."

  "You certainly get ideas," Stone said. "Anything in mind already?"

  "Yes," Ryman answered softly. "We've got to get them on one foot, Rabbie, put 'em off balance. That's the strategy; all I've got to work out are the tactics. Are you in on this?"

  "Believe me I'm in," Stone assured him eagerly. "I've got the right contacts, too. We'll make the best team in London." His excitement was less controlled than Ryman's. "How about another drink, to close the deal?"

  Ryman nodded, and Stone went to the other side of the bar to mix the drinks. Ryman said very little after that, but his thoughts were furiously active. He had real ability and a good mind, but a streak of weakness and a bigger one of cruelty had warped his attitude toward living. He made most of his money by his wits, often at cards, and the polish of a minor public school helped him with that and also served him well socially.

  Now he began to see himself as a man of genius, the only one with the intelligence to take advantage of a situation, and Stone fed his self-esteem with great skill.

  Although George Gideon, Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard, was also aware of the problem of manpower in the Force, he was not thinking of it the next morning. He was thinking about Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, the Commissioner. Scott-Marie was a somewhat remote person even to the other chiefs at the Yard. He took the chair at the weekly conferences of assistant commissioners and heads of departments, but appeared to hold the reins at Scotland Yard very lightly. That did not mean ineffectually. In the course of nearly thirty years' service, Gideon had known several commissioners, and none had done a sounder or more balanced job than Scott-Marie. He had the trick or the gift of getting the best out of most officers, and of finding the right man for the various key posts at the Yard.

  Nevertheless, Gideon was conscious of an invisible barrier between him and the Commissioner, and did not see how it could be avoided. Sir Reginald Scott-Marie had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, came from a long line in a family with ducal forebears and, before being appointed to this job, had held two key Colonial posts. George Gideon had been born to an obscure West London couple, had neither reason nor desire to think back beyond his grandparents, and in a sardonic mood would call himself "an old London Elementarian." In fact he had left school at fourteen. The barrier seemed more than social; it was in outlook, in understanding of the same people and situations, and in daily living. When Gideon got home he liked to take his coat off and do some decorating or carpentry, almost any odd job about the house except washing-up. Scott-Marie would put on a smoking jacket, burrow in Greek mythology, and even in these days would be waited on by butler, footman and maids. The Commissioner's wife was twenty years younger than he, and reported to be quite a beautiful woman.

  One of the troubles with which Gideon had grown up at Scotland Yard was the preponderance of the uniformed and civil-service men in the Force over the members of the Criminal Investigation Department. He found it increasingly difficult to be patient with some of the other departments and occasionally was annoyed because, combined, they carried so much weight. Scott-Marie did not appear to take sides, but sometimes Gideon thought that his years as a Colonial administrator had given him above-average understanding of the problems of the C.I.D. In these days, with the crime rate fluctuating from year to year but usually becoming higher, the department's problems were increasing alarmingly.

  A major one was that of getting suitable recruits. Gideon, who had the perhaps quaint idea that his chief job was to direct the investigation side of the department, found himself increasingly involved in such matters as the training of uniformed men, and recruiting for the Metropolitan Police as a whole.

  On the morning of the first conference in the month of May, Gideon was in his office, going over the report of the night's events and the morning's mail, with a chief inspector whom he did not much like or respect. His regular aide was down with influenza, his second choice was taking part of his holiday before the summer rush of the men with young families, and this particular C.I., Riddell, was not used to Gideon's likes and dislikes; he was a bit prosy, and had far too high an opinion of himself.

  He was sitting at one side of Gideon's big desk, Gideon at the other. The pile of reports, mountainous at the beginning of this session, was reduced to the last half inch. Most mornings Gideon saw the superintendents and inspectors handling the different cases, but the conference was due to start at ten, it was already a quarter to, and he had to leave more than he liked to Riddell.

  He glanced at the next report, which read:

  As instructed, I proceeded with a detective officer to 5
1 Canning Street, S.W. 3, to prefer a charge of breaking and entering against Eric Thomas Jones. On arrival, I was informed that Jones had not been home all night. On request I was permitted by Mrs. Jones to search the premises, and came to the conclusion that Jones had not spent the night there. His wife stated that she could give no information as to his whereabouts.

  Gideon felt as if he wanted to growl more fiercely with each sentence. The report was signed by a Detective Sergeant Worth, whom he knew comparatively slightly.

  "My God!" he exclaimed. "Does Worth always write like this?"

  "What's the matter with the report?" asked Riddell. "Quite straightforward, isn't it?"

  Gideon made himself say, "I'm glad you can find some merit in it. Why wasn't Jones watched? He was here in our hands yesterday afternoon. How'd we come to lose him?"

  "There was no instruction about having him followed," answered Riddell. He showed no sign of resentment, and probably did not notice the undertone of exasperation in Gideon's voice. He probably regarded Worth's piece of witness-box prose as a model report.

  "No instruction," Gideon echoed, and pushed his chair back. "You knew we were going to pick him up, didn't you? You knew—"

  "I wasn't in charge of the case; that was Bell's job. If Bell had wanted Jones followed, presumably he would have given the instructions."

  "Go and get Bell," ordered Gideon.

  Riddell now looked annoyed, but he pushed his chair back and got up, going out without a word. In his shirt sleeves and with his collar loose, Gideon stood up, went to the window overlooking the Embankment, and fastened his collar and knotted his tie. The day was pleasantly warm, the river looked bright, the red buses made vivid splashes of color on Westminster Bridge; a beautiful morning.

  "Instruction," breathed Gideon.

  He was glad of the three minutes' respite, so as to get a firmer hold on himself. It was useless to lose his temper with Riddell; the man simply hadn't the ability this job required. He thought that Bell had; Bell was next in line—but if he'd fallen down on a simple job he must be slipping. The conference would start in less than ten minutes, so there was really no time to go into details. That filled Gideon with self-annoyance; he ought not to have allowed himself to be goaded into sending for Bell.

  The door swung open, and Riddell and Bell came in. They made quite a contrast, and if looks were everything, Riddell was the better man. He was handsome in a heavy-jowled way, dressed more like a stockbroker than a chief inspector of the C.I.D., and looked immaculate; his brown eyes were alert looking and his hair was either dyed or of very healthy pigmentation. Bell was a shorter, plumper man, with untidy gray hair, and his trousers always needed pressing. He liked to smoke a pipe, and he had gray eyes which twinkled; a fatherly-looking chap, Gideon always thought, with a good, reflective mind. Obviously Riddell had "warned" Bell that Gideon was on the warpath, and there was no twinkle now; he was overformal.

  "Good morning, Commander."

  "Why the hell didn't you have Jones followed from here yesterday? You knew we'd want him before long, and that he'd slipped away before. We might be looking for him for months."

  "Had three men available and four jobs to do," Bell answered quietly, "and I thought that it was better to take a risk with Jones than slip up on the other jobs." He had an even, matter-of-fact way of speaking.

  Gideon thought: "He's right, and I'm the one who's slipping." He rubbed the end of his heavy chin, and saw Riddell with a smug I-told-you-so look on his smooth face. "You had two chaps on the Morrison job and one after the old woman, but what about the two who finished the work out at Walton?"

  "Sent 'em home; they'd been out two nights in a row."

  "So it boils down to not having enough men," Gideon said heavily. "I'm going along to the conference this very minute. I'll see if I can dig something out of the powers that be. Thanks, Bell. Let me know when you pick Jones up. What's this chap Worth like?"

  "Means well," answered Bell.

  "Oh, Gawd," breathed Gideon, and looked at Riddell. "I'll take a call about that Scottish job and another from Paris. Keep everything else away from me while I'm with the big noise, will you?"

  "Yes, Commander."

  Gideon saw Bell open the door for him, and stepped into the passage. Bell closed the door and followed him, but didn't speak. They reached the corner, Bell to go down in the lift, Gideon to walk down one flight of stairs and then across to the other building.

  "Joe," said Gideon, "do you ever long for the quiet life?"

  "Long for it? I sigh for it."

  "I mean really somnolent, like sitting in for me when I'm not in the office."

  "Cheer up, Race will soon be back," Bell said. Race was Gideon's chief aide. "And there'll never be another one like Lemaitre. You ought to have kept him away from the divisions. Voracious, those divisions are."

  "Meaning, you'd rather stay where you are?"

  "Depends. Is it worth another hundred a year?"

  "Shouldn't think so, but it might be," said Gideon. "Seriously, how'd you feel about it?"

  "Would jump at the chance of being with you," Joe Bell answered, and then the lift arrived. "That's if anyone has the privilege in future. You're going to be late, and I've been told that unpunctuality doesn't please his nibs."

  "He's not so bad," said Gideon.

  Yet he hurried, down the stairs and along the wide passage which linked the two buildings, his long stride covering a lot of ground. He was tall and massive, slightly round shouldered because of his height, with iron-gray hair which was swept straight back from a broad forehead. His eyes were the same color as his hair, and he did not yet wear glasses. He had a hardy-looking skin, and big but well-shaped hands and feet. He gave the impression of jousting an invisible adversary as he went along, and was quite aware that several men he passed, some C.I.D. and some on the civilian staff, turned and looked at him, and afterward whispered about him.

  The conference-room door was closed, and an "engaged" sign was pinned to it. He thrust the door open and stepped in. There was a small anteroom, another open door, and beyond this a long, narrow table; it was like a company board room in a prosperous business. The chairs were padded and massive, the table glowed with polish, and the walls were panelled in medium brown oak. "They find the money for this," Gideon thought. Scott-Marie was talking in his rather clipped way, hardly moving his lips. The other commanders, his own assistant commissioner, the other A.C.'s, the secretary, and the chief of the solicitor's office were there, as well as the public-relations officer. It was a group exclusively of men, mostly gray-haired, bald or balding, sitting a little self-consciously, as always at the beginning of a meeting like this.

  Scott-Marie had a cold-fish approach.

  There was one vacant chair, halfway along one side. Gideon went to it. Scott-Marie did not pause to acknowledge his arrival, but continued quietly:

  ". . . and so we have to accept the fact that the decreased budget of fifty thousand pounds is the worst we need expect this year, although I've been told that the Treasury is reluctant to admit that. It's useless to ask for more, so we shall have to manage. Wherever possible we must make economies, of course, and that is one of the tasks I want to talk about. How long will it take before each department can examine its methods and recommend operative economies? If we don't do something, we shall find them forced upon us, and it would be unwise to have to make cuts under pressure."

  He stopped.

  The gray-haired male stenographer taking notes stopped almost at the same instant.

  The Assistant Commissioner for the Uniformed Branch was the first to speak.

  "We keep everything under constant review, and know just where economies can be made, if it's essential. I don't approve of them, of course, but as it's part of the general government economy campaign, we will have to do it." He finished, smoothing a bald head with a great show of virtue, and sat a little more relaxed. The A.C. for Traffic said much the same thing, but grumbled more; he could have reco
mmendations ready in a week.

  Forbes, of Research, said rather gruffly:

  "If I chop off a fiver, it will mean I get less done. Don't they see that this is the one thing we can't afford to economize on?"

  "I agree about that," put in the Uniformed Branch A.C. "We need more, not less, uniformed police on the beat, I'm sure everyone will agree with that. However, if it is in the national interests, we'll have to do it."

  Most of the others had a little to say; none of them was satisfied; those who were not self-righteous in their willingness to make a sacrifice were glumly resigned to the inevitable.

  Gideon was at a disadvantage too, and it was his own fault. He liked to sit next to Hugh Rogerson, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, so that they could exchange notes and whispers on their common problems, but Rogerson was hemmed in by Traffic and Research. He was worried about Rogerson, in any case; he knew that the older man was not well, and was finding it more and more difficult to cope.

  Inevitably, the Commissioner looked at him.

  "What can you promise us, Mr. Rogerson?"

  Rogerson shrugged.

  "Nothing, I should think." He had a droll way and a sense of humor which Gideon liked; he got along extremely well with his A.C. and hoped that his health would not force his resignation. He leaned forward and looked sideways along the table at Gideon. "Can we pare off a bit, Gideon?"

  "It isn't yet a question of whether we can or we can't, we shall have to," declared Scott-Marie, "but the immediate question is how long will it be before you can assess the situation, and give estimates on the amount of economy you can achieve?"

  Rogerson shrugged.

  "Say a couple of weeks," he said. "Might be three."

  Gideon was sitting very still, back firm against his chair, big hands clasped on the table, staring at an inkstand. His reflection showed indistinctly in the high polish; so did those of the other men, and of pads and pencils. He was the only one present who hadn't yet spoken, was fuming inwardly, and hoped that he did not show it. He had shown his feelings too much this morning already; his mood was unreliable.