by J. J Marric
"You're worrying too much about it," Gideon interrupted. "It needed saying, even though I might have chosen the time and place better. I'm going to have a hell of a job trying to convince him, but that's no reason why I shouldn't try. Think he'd like to get rid of me?"
"I'm damned sure he wouldn't, especially as I'm on the move," said Rogerson. "Well! I must be off. Thought I'd warn you. I'll be going at the end of the month, so you've a week or two to show him how right you are. Shouldn't overdo it, though."
"I won't overdo it," Gideon assured him.
He knew exactly what Rogerson had meant: he had blotted his copybook badly, and must be very careful or he would lose this chance of promotion. The A.C. took it for granted that at this stage Gideon wanted to step into his shoes. Gideon did not think much about that when, at seven o'clock, he finished the desk work and left the office after a word with the chief superintendent on duty for the night. He knew his own reactions very well, and knew that his subconscious pondering and reasoning often enabled him to see the solution to a case which had been puzzling the Yard for a long time. He deliberately left a problem to "soak," knowing that the result would force its way into his conscious mind at the most unexpected time.
Had this manpower shortage been soaking? Had his outburst been the result of deep subconscious thought and anxiety?
Whether it was or not, he had to go and tell his wife, and prepare her for a dull evening companion. He was getting into his car, which was parked in the courtyard, when Joe Bell turned in at the iron gates. Gideon waited until Joe, looking rather tired, drew up alongside him.
"Going home already?"
"Just having an afternoon off," retorted Gideon, and Big Ben began to chime seven. "How's Eric Jones? All crocodile tears and promise of good behavior if he gets just one more chance?"
"As a matter of fact, George, I've a nasty feeling that between the time he left here yesterday and the time we picked him up, he salted away about fifteen hundred quid," Bell said. "I don't know whether we'll be able to find that, either."
"Good God!" exclaimed Gideon.
"You don't exactly look depressed about it," Bell observed.
"You'd be surprised how depressed I am," said Gideon. "Anything else special?"
"Only one job," Bell reported. "I've arranged for Syd Taylor to work overtime; he's watching for Micky the Slob. Don't argue about signing his overtime chit when it comes in, will you?"
"I won't argue," Gideon promised, but he didn't smile. "Is Syd on his own?"
"Yes."
"Shouldn't there be two men after Micky?"
"Oh, I don't think it'll matter," said Bell. "Syd knows what he's about, and if he thinks there's the slightest danger, he'll send for help. Can't afford two men to watch where one will do, didn't you know?" Bell kept a straight face. "We nearly lost a certain Eric Jones because of that last night. Remember?"
"Go and check with the night super, and see if he can spare another man to join Syd Taylor," Gideon said. "If he can't, make sure that the division checks with Taylor regularly, and ask Squad and Q cars in that district to keep an eye open. Micky the Slob can be a nasty customer."
"See what you mean," agreed Bell, "but Taylor can look after himself. I'll see what I can do, anyhow."
"Good," said Gideon.
For ten of his twenty minutes' drive home he was thinking not of the over-all problem but of Detective Sergeant Syd Taylor, one of the older sergeants on the Force. First and last, Gideon was a detective and a policeman, and his interest was in cases and criminals, in detectives and the job; administration came second. He was uneasy about Taylor only because he would have been uneasy over any one man watching for a near cretin like Micky the Slob.
Many men at the Yard and in the division feared that one day Micky the Slob would do murder.
A switch of thoughts carried Gideon back to contemplation of the fact that he had to tell Kate exactly how he had stuck his neck out. He could not be sure whether she would say he ought to retract as soon as he could, and so safeguard his present position, or stick to his decision. Four hundred pounds a year, even with income tax and other deductions taken off, made a big difference in comfort and a sense of security. Their large family—they had six children living and one had died—had made it impossible to save until a few years ago; now they were both saving and spending more, and living a pleasant life.
"She'll leave it to me," Gideon told himself, and then thought almost idly about Syd Taylor.
One thing troubled him more than anything else about Syd: he must be tired. He would be able to cope if he were fresh, but could he tonight?
"The trouble is that I want something to go wrong," Gideon grumbled to himself. "Time I shook myself out of it."
He was nearing the turning in King's Road which led to his home when he had to slow down behind a parked car, and this happened to be opposite the newspaper shop which served his home with the daily and evening newspapers. It was run by an old couple who were reliable with delivery, but who did not worry much about changing the placards outside the window. One of these was three weeks old at least, and read:
CHILD KILLER STILL AT LARGE
That was the Bournsea job. A seven-year-old girl had been lured from her friends by a man whom no adult had seen; the child's body had been found, two days later, after a search which had stretched the nearby divisions and the Yard to danger point. The child had been criminally assaulted and strangled; an ugly job. There was not a policeman in the country who would not work through night after night to find the beast who had committed the crime. Whether he was insane or not, they hated him with a kind of personal hatred.
The killer was still at large, so the old poster was not really dated.
Gideon had reviewed the investigation only two days ago, after the Yard Superintendent and his two aides, a detective inspector and a detective sergeant, had been recalled from Bournsea, where they had been assigned to help the local police. Although he had not thought of it at the time, Gideon knew that if the Yard had been able to call on plenty of reserve staff, he would not have withdrawn the trio; but after three weeks without result, it had seemed reasonable to leave the job to the local chaps, promising specific help if it were needed.
CHILD KILLER STILL AT LARGE
The hell of it would be if another child was taken.
The killer still at large was sitting in a deck chair on Bournsea beach. The sands were truly golden in the evening sun, the beach was comparatively empty, for it was nearly dinner time in the resort's hotels and boardinghouses, and the restaurants and cafés were full. Most families had gone away by then, but some children still played.
There was a group of four—three girls and a boy. The boy and two of the girls were nine or ten, and more adventurous than the youngest girl, who had shining fair hair, red round cheeks, and curiously rosebud-shaped lips. She wore just a pair of faded pink pants, and her little body was firm and beautifully brown.
The killer watched her at the water's edge.
The other children played fifty yards out in the sea, laughing and screaming, splashing and ducking each other. The smallest child turned, as all children will, when a dog went racing across the sands, and she crossed her arms over her unformed breasts and stood frightened, for the dog was nearly as tall as she.
The killer jumped up.
"It's all right," he called. "It's all right, don't worry." He shooed the dog, a happy-looking mongrel, part spaniel and part setter, and went to the little girl. "He won't hurt you," he assured her. "He's a very friendly chap."
Bright dark blue eyes made it clear that the child doubted it.
"Look," said the killer, and took a bag of sweets out of his pocket. He put a toffee on one hand and held it out to the dog, who put his head on one side, showed his pink tongue and white teeth, made quite a job of getting the toffee off, and then began to chew as if he were used to toffee sticking to his teeth.
The child laughed.
"Like a toffee?"
asked the man.
"Yes, please."
"Take one," he offered, and held out the bag. As she took one, he asked: "Do you often come and swim here?"
"My brother and sisters swim—I can't swim," she announced. "I can paddle."
"You'll be able to swim one day, too. Do you come every day?"
"Nearly every day," she answered.
"One of these days perhaps I'll teach you to swim," he promised, and his hand strayed to her lovely hair; he patted her head, and then left her, sitting down for another ten minutes before going off.
He whistled faintly, and the carefree mongrel, big but not much older than a puppy, followed him.
Chapter 3
SYD TAYLOR
Syd Taylor knew that he was being watched, as well as watching; and it did not worry him at all. Thirty-one years in the service of the Metropolitan Police, twenty of them in the Criminal Investigation Department, had taught him nearly everything he needed to know about his and any other police job. He was fifty-three, big, as hard and muscular as most men fifteen years younger. Physical fitness was his religion. He knew all the holds of jujitsu; he had won the M.P.'s heavyweight boxing championship eight years in a row, and had never been defeated—even today, although he had not entered for twelve years, he was likely to get into any final he tried for. He had a black belt, being one of the earliest judo enthusiasts in England. He could walk, run, jump and fight with anyone, and his athletic prowess had made him a major figure at the Yard.
If rough stuff threatened, send for Syd Taylor.
He had a wife, four children and a son-in-law. He had often been heard to say that he did not want to rise a step higher in the C.I.D.; he was a first-class sergeant, but didn't like responsibility and seldom wielded it well. He was given as much respect as many superintendents, most chief inspectors and all detective inspectors, and in those thirty-one years he had never seriously broken rule or regulation; he was a work-to-the-book man and could quote regulations against any Yard lawyer.
Everyone on the Force liked Syd, but a great number of people outside it had good reason to dislike him, because he did not hesitate to use his strength if it was necessary. Once he had fought with Micky the Slob and two men almost as powerful, had broken Micky's nose and another man's ribs, and driven all three off. He was afraid of nothing with two fists.
He knew a great deal about Micky the Slob.
The nickname was justified, for Micky was a short man with powerful shoulders, very powerful arms, a short neck and a big, flabby face. He had the look almost of a cretin, with porcine eyes, very fair lashes, hardly any eyebrows. He was not a cretin, but very cunning although not at all original. He lived in NE Division, near the docks, and his specialty was organizing smuggling and pilfering from ships. He recruited his men from foreign crews, foreign sailors waiting for a ship, lascars and some of the more dissatisfied dock workers. He preferred to work with gangs, which made it more difficult for the police to separate him from the rest. He would arrange for twenty or thirty men working on a ship, either from the crew or from the docks, to gang up on anyone who wanted to search him or the particular ship, and make it impossible.
He had been inside twice, once for three and once for five years. If he were caught again, he would go down for ten years, and possibly longer. He never hesitated to use violence if cornered, but did not like fighting for its own sake.
Ten days ago, he had fought a running battle with the Dock Police, injuring two of them, and had escaped with a small packet of industrial diamonds from Holland; he had probably got away with a dozen packets during the past five years, but this time he had been caught red-handed. The police knew the places where he was likely to be hiding out, and suspected one in particular—a big, rambling old house near the docks, now mainly one-room flatlets. The police had searched this house twice without finding Micky, but there was a strong possibility that he had managed to hide. So it had become a war of attrition, and the house was kept under surveillance by day and night. It was on a corner, and at the back was a high warehouse wall. There was only one way in which Micky could possibly escape, so it was sufficient to watch the house from one position, on an opposite corner.
On this corner was a dockside café.
Syd Taylor sometimes sat in a window seat, sometimes strolled up and down; at other times, relieved by a divisional man, he went off for half an hour. It was simply a matter of patience; knowing Micky the Slob well, Taylor was quite sure that his own patience would outlast the other's.
Sooner or later Micky would break out. He might even try to get aboard a ship and out of the country, but that was not likely. He lived apart from his wife, but she was being watched, too, which meant that the job took the combined efforts of two men most of the time, and three during the relief periods.
Taylor knew the district inside out. He had spent years at the divisional station when on the beat, knew half of the men who patronized the café by name, and most of them by sight. Nine out of ten were as honest as he; he felt absolutely safe while he was there by day, and believed that if trouble was coming, it would be at dusk when day was nearly done. Some of the Slob's men would try to distract his attention before he could summon help, and the Slob would slip away into London's darkness. It might be weeks or months before he was traced again.
Taylor also knew that before long the Yard would have to take off the watch; Micky the Slob wasn't that important, and if a big job came up, Micky would get a chance to disappear.
That evening, about the time that Gideon was talking to Bell at the Yard, Taylor came out of the café, and a big docker approached from along the street.
"Hullo, Syd, still wearing out the soles of your feet?"
"Giving them a bit of exercise," agreed Taylor.
"Pity you ain't got something better to do."
"Nothing better than putting a man behind bars," Taylor quipped.
The docker grinned and pushed past him, then whispered out of the side of his mouth: "Be careful around ten tonight, Syd." No one could see that his lips moved and no one else could hear the words.
Taylor grunted, and strolled along the street, more than ever certain of the fact that he was being watched from that house on the corner. The next patrol car and the next copper who passed could take or send a message to the division or the Yard; instead of being on edge, Taylor felt an anticipatory glow of excitement.
If this was going to be the night, he'd be ready; and he could thank his friends among the dockers.
Across the road, in an attic room where he could not be seen from the street unless he stood right in front of the tiny window, the Slob grinned as he saw the docker push past Taylor. He had a big, lose, slobbery mouth; that was why his nickname was so apt. Even his little eyes smiled, and he turned to a man who had just come into the room.
"Bert just told him."
"That's the boy."
"Get everything ready," the Slob said. He slurred his words but they were clear enough, and he turned away from the window.
Taylor was never left completely alone for more than twenty minutes; someone was always passing. A Squad car, back from a false alarm at a furrier's warehouse in the Mile End Road, made a detour and slowed down by the café. That was at twenty-five minutes past seven. Taylor, reading a newspaper as he leaned against the wall near the café, moved to the car. He was careful not to speak until he was bending down, and no one could lip read what he said; the most unlikely people had remarkable talent.
"Having a nice quiet time?" asked the Flying Squad driver.
"Until ten o'clock."
"What's that?"
"I've had a squeak," Taylor told him, and added with obvious pride: "That's what comes of having friends. You want to try it sometime. See that I've got company from about nine-fifteen onward, will you? I'd say that's the most likely time the Slob'll try for a break."
"When it's murky," the driver remarked. "Okay, Syd. I'll give the Yard a flash, and check everything when I get back
there. Any idea whether it's going to be big or small?"
"Assume it'll be a big crowd."
"Attaboy!"
Taylor went back to the wall and the newspaper as the car drove off. He experienced a tingling of even greater excitement, and felt not only satisfied but in a mood to congratulate himself for wearing down Micky the Slob before the Yard gave it up as a bad job. He did his regulation twenty deep breaths every half hour, and kept flexing his muscles, already spoiling for a fight; for he was quite sure in his own mind that there would be one.
The next man likely to come round was the sergeant from the division, calling on the men on the beat; he was due about eight o'clock.
A girl came out of one of the houses near the corner, and walked briskly toward him. She was very short and rather plump, with an enormous bosom sheathed in a thin, tight-clinging white sweater. She had big, curving hips, very small feet and startlingly trim ankles, and her coloring was remarkably vivid. Taylor had seen her dozens of times before, and usually she bobbed past him with a smile or a quip. As always, Taylor raised his hat, with exaggerated politeness. She gave him a wide smile and, as she drew up, asked the familiar question:
"Aren't you tired of holding that wall up?"
Taylor was ready for that.
"If it means seeing you twice a day, sweetheart, I'll hold it up for the rest of the year."
She stopped, and smiled up at him; she had a pert little face and shiny, smiling black eyes.
"Proper Don Jewan, that's what you're getting," she retorted. "It's a pity you have to waste your time; I wouldn't mind treating you to the Palais."
"We'll go dancing some other time."
"Don't exert yourself," she said. "Seriously, Syd, why don't you give this lark up? The Slob's not over there, he ducked long ago. You're making a mistake, honest you are. I didn't think you chaps at the Yard had so much time to waste."
