by J. J Marric
"What's this, a Gallup poll?" Champion demanded.
"Could be."
"Only way you'll ever get the extra staff you're after is by getting public opinion behind us," Champion declared, "and as we're not allowed to go after public opinion, there isn't a chance. It's no use applying common or garden logic. This is politics, my boy, and the politicians are screaming for economies. This time they're going to get it."
"Who's been talking to you?" asked Gideon.
"Just a little bird," Champion answered.
If he knew, then the fact that Gideon had let off steam at the conference that morning was all over the Yard. He should have realized that was likely. As far as he could tell, it made no difference—except that Champion had made him very thoughtful about public opinion. That was a point. First get something to rouse public opinion, and then cash in on it. But how?
Gideon went down to his car and, as he heaved his great body in, realized that there was a kind of excitement in his mind, a knowledge that what had happened to Taylor might be the turning point in the fight he had on his hands. If Taylor died, it would be in every headline tomorrow morning.
"What the devil's got into me?" Gideon asked himself savagely. "He mustn't die."
Syd Taylor's wife was a small, wiry, alert-looking woman, whom Gideon had met at the police ball and occasionally at the police sports club. Obviously she knew as soon as she set eyes on him that he brought bad news. When he told her, he thought she would collapse; but she collected herself, and was soon ready to go to the hospital.
Even though she couldn't see Syd, she could wait; and two Yard men were there already.
The divisional men were outside the East End café when Gideon drove up, soon after he had left the hospital. There was a diagram on the pavement where Taylor had been found, and the whole area around the shop had been cordoned off. The woman café owner was complaining that no customers were able to get in, and she was going to claim compensation. A few dozen people stood about, including several children. The front door of the house where Micky the Slob had been staying was wide open, and Gideon saw the grinning man who lived there with his family. This was a sharp slap in the face for the police, and most of the bystanders were gloating.
Pratt, one of NE Division's senior chief inspectors, was supervising the work. Three photographers were busy, and another man was taking plaster casts of footprints in the dirt at the side of the road. Several bloodstains, just brown smears, led from a thick patch of Taylor's coagulated blood.
Pratt was a big man with a good reputation, and the quality of perseverance rather than brilliance. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, his black hair was heavily oiled and smeared down, and it would be easy to mistake him for a bookmaker's clerk.
He hurried across to Gideon.
"Was told you might look round, Mr. Gideon, very glad you've come. Any news of Taylor?"
"They're operating. They've one of the best surgeons, anyhow."
"I suppose that's something," Pratt said. He took off his glasses and began to clean them with a spotless and beautifully laundered handkerchief. "The devil of it is I feel largely responsible. There was an official request for a man to stand in with Taylor, but I decided that it would probably be a waste of time, so I refused. No doubt that the Slob took a chance because there was only one man watching him."
"Couldn't agree more," said Gideon.
"Thing that worries me is, where's it going to end?" asked Pratt. "I expect it worries you, too. It's about time the recruiting campaign really woke up. What's the use of plastering a few posters round the place, saying what a lovely life it is to be a policeman? Just tells people like Micky the Slob that we're hard up for men. Micky's not one of the brightest, but even he can see that. Some of the brighter boys are going to tell themselves that this is just their opportunity, that's my considered opinion." He talked rather as Worth wrote his reports. "A lot of people knew that Taylor was on his own, but most of them thought that he had someone else watching out of sight. Now that it's so obvious that we could only spare one man to keep a lookout for Micky—well, I'd expect a lot more trouble in the next few weeks. Wouldn't you?"
"It wouldn't surprise me," Gideon agreed. "Any idea who would be most likely to take advantage of the situation?"
"Could name a dozen," Pratt answered.
If he could name a dozen criminals quick enough on the uptake to see and to seize any special opportunity, then the other East End and Central London divisions could name at least three or four dozen between them. Deep down, Gideon knew, this had been responsible for the depth of his own feeling and for his outburst that morning. Once the well-trained, well-equipped army of criminals realized that the police could be caught on one foot, they would jump into the attack. It would not be organized because organized crime in London was very limited; but it would be spontaneous, and perhaps more dangerous.
"Name that dozen in a report, will you?" Gideon said, and switched the subject. "Any news of the girl?"
"She's been in digs at a house along the road, 57 Dock Street," Pratt answered. "Been there about three weeks. We've been after Micky the Slob for a month, so it looks as if she was planted there. I can't get a really good description but I'll dig something out. If Taylor could make a statement, it might help a lot. Think he's likely to come round?"
"Wish I knew," said Gideon.
He shook hands with Pratt, had a word with all the men working on the job, and went back to his car. Among the crowd, some of the people jeered, and there was a chorus of "Gee-up, Gee-Gee." A wag cried: "Also ran, Gee-Gee!" and won his laugh from the crowd. At his car, Gideon turned, looked at them, and then startled them by grinning and waving. Puzzled people watched him as he drove off.
"Looks almost pleased with himself," a man said to Pratt.
"Just putting up a show," Pratt said.
But in fact, in a queer way, Gideon felt exhilarated; he was seeing a lot of things very clearly.
There were two sides even to this war.
He got away from the docks, pulled into the side of the road, and flicked on his radio. Information Room answered almost at once.
"Gideon," he announced. "Any news of Taylor?"
"None, sir."
"The Slob?"
"No, sir."
"Flash me if there Is. Meanwhile, send a message to all Central London divisions and to EI and DI, say that I'll be calling. I'll do OP next, then EI, then work my way south of the river to CD, then north of the river. Got all that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks," said Gideon, and flicked off, started the engine again, and got off to a quick start.
Suddenly, he was in a hurry.
That evening, the child who played at the edge of the sea on Bournsea beach while the older children swam and dived and played saw the big dog that liked toffees leaping across the sands toward her. This time she did not look so frightened, but was a little uncertain, and glanced at the dog's owner, who was strolling down from the promenade. He reached the child, took out the bag of sweets, and said:
"Would you like to give him a toffee tonight?"
She looked even more uncertain.
"Try," he urged. "He won't bite you, I promise. Look, I'll hold your hand."
"All right," the child agreed.
The man unwrapped a toffee, put it on the palm of her small hand, then placed his hand beneath it, and held hers firmly. He placed his free hand, very gently, against the child's round little belly and, standing behind her, pressed her against him.
She stood stiff with fear of the dog.
It put its head on one side, took the toffee, and began to chew.
"See, it's easy," the man said.
The seven-year-old suddenly laughed with delight, looked into his eyes and said:
"I gave it to him! He took it away from me!"
"I told you he would, didn't I?"
"Yes, you told me," she agreed, and there was the birth of great trust in her bright eyes. "You said he would, a
nd he did."
She was young even for her age, and had a true simplicity. "Can I have a toffee?"
"Yes. Like two?"
"Yes, please."
"Here you are," the man said, and patted her head, patted her bottom, and then went back to his chair and sat, back to the promenade, watching her. Very few people were about, and the beach attendants were all having their time off; most of them were finished for the day.
When the elder children came back, dripping sea-water pearls, the man and the dog had gone. The seven-year-old did not tell them about the toffees she had had, but boasted gleefully about the dog she had fed out of her own hand.
"Garn," said the elder sister, "you're only making it up. Come on, we'd better hurry, or Ma'll give it to us." They toweled themselves vigorously and then made their way off the beach toward the back streets of Bournsea, where they lived. Their mother, who went out to work from eight until half past six, would expect supper ready when she arrived home.
Their father, a merchant sailor, was at sea.
It was not really surprising that on his jaunt that night Gideon saw another of the placards which had caught his attention at his own newspaper shop.
CHILD KILLER STILL AT LARGE
He hardly gave it a thought, for he had so much to do.
Keith Ryman was in a night club near his home when he saw Rab Stone, who came toward him, grinning broadly. There was a bubble of conversation, and no one appeared to take any particular interest in the two men.
"Well, how're tactics?" demanded Stone. "Coming along okay?"
"Just about to bear fruit," Ryman answered. "What's making you so happy?"
"I've seen Charlie Daw," answered Stone, "and it's all over the town, the cops are pulling their punches because they're short staffed. And it'll get worse before it gets better."
"That wouldn't surprise me," Ryman said. "We'll make our packet and be out of the business long before there's anything to worry about."
"Any specific ideas yet?" Stone inquired.
"When I'm ready, I'll tell you," Ryman said.
Chapter 5
FIRST BLOW
Hopkinson, of NE Division, was contemporary with Gideon; they had joined the Force in the same week, and followed an almost identical career to the Yard, until Hopkinson had been given a divisional superintendency; there was not a better man in charge of any London division. He was short, barely five feet nine, rather small-boned, and bald as a coot. His movements were brisk and sometimes he gave the impression that he was nervous; but he did not know the meaning of nerves. He had a widespread division, and only that part of it which was close to OP across the river, and had common boundary with QR, was really densely populated; there he found most of his trouble, most of his bad men.
He pumped Gideon's hand.
"Feel like a nip, George, or rather have a cuppa?"
"A nip'll suit me fine," said Gideon, and dropped into a big armchair; this was one of the few divisions where they had a chair large enough for him to sit in comfort. "Thanks," he said a minute later, and lifted his glass. "Here's to a busy night."
They drank.
"Always on the go," declared Hopkinson.
"You don't know what it is to be busy," Gideon scoffed. "Hoppy, I know you think Pratt's a pain in the neck, but he jolted me just now. Said that once it was known we really had only one man watching Micky the Slob, a lot of the boys would try to cash in, so we could expect a big bulge in the graph."
"S'right enough. How long have you been letting other people do your thinking for you?"
"He reckons that he could name a dozen boys in his manor who would be quick enough on the uptake to get moving right away."
"So could I."
"Thanks," said Gideon. "Go through the ones in your manor, pick out the bright boys who might see the chance, and pull 'em in, even if it's only for questioning. See if you can find a handy little charge so as to put 'em on remand for the usual eight days. Put as many of them as you can out of the way, and scare the others into behaving themselves for a few days. Got the idea?"
Hopkinson had bright little blue eyes.
"Pratt didn't think that up," he commented. "Ill see what I can do, George."
"You just do it," Gideon said. "And if you can pick any of them up tonight, fix that too."
"I'll bring a few in. I've got a few charges up my sleeve," Hopkinson told him. "I hoped that I'd get something bigger against most of the slobs, but I can see your point. If we can get our blow in first, it'll discourage them."
"Right," Gideon said.
He went off, feeling much better humored than he had expected to.
That night he covered eight divisions as well as made a visit to the City Police, where the superintendent in charge was as willing to co-operate as any of the Metropolitan Police chiefs. It was half past eleven before he finished, after being on the go all the time, talking to each man with the same enthusiasm. Some superintendents off duty for the night had even come in when they heard he was going to call.
He had the whole of London to cross when he left NE Division, and yawned a dozen times as he sent the car along the Embankment, touching fifty most of the time. It was a beautiful night, there wasn't a cloud anywhere, and a crescent moon was shining on the river. This was London as he loved it, the London that seemed to belong to him. He slowed down, but did not stop to get out. He felt very tired, and realized that high pressure at the end of the day took much more out of him than it had a year or so back. But at least he could feel sure that he had launched that attack, and won a few days of grace.
In a way, a sudden eruption of crime would have strengthened his battle with the Commissioner, but although he knew that, Gideon did not think seriously about it. Tactically, he'd won this round; strategically, he still had a big fight on his hands; but he was feeling in the right mood for a tussle.
Although it was midnight when he reached home, a light was on in the living room. Malcolm, his teen-age son, was curled up in an armchair with a book, and Continental music was coming over the radio. Malcolm put the book down, but didn't get up.
"Hallo, Dad."
"Where's your mother?"
"Gone to bed. She said I could finish this chapter."
"She didn't mean the book," Gideon said. "Put a kettle on and I'll make a cup of tea. Like one?"
"No, thanks," said Malcolm, "but why don't you go up? I'll bring the tea. Mum won't be asleep yet."
"Thanks, good idea," said Gideon, and went upstairs.
There was no news of Taylor and no interruption during the night, or up to nine o'clock in the morning, when Gideon left for the office; and no special news when he arrived.
Riddell was there, spruce, but obviously on his guard. "Oh, lor'," thought Gideon as he said good morning and rounded his desk. There were twice as many reports on it as usual, two big piles. He knew what they were, but what he missed badly was the summary of the reports which his normal assistants would have had ready. But he was in no mood to start putting Riddell in his place.
"I simply haven't the time to go through all of them," Riddell confessed. "I know how you like it done, but—"
"Forget it."
"The central divisions appear to have gone mad," Riddell said. "They're pulling in suspects by the dozen."
It was impossible to explain to him. Gideon tried new tactics, grinned, told him to pull up a chair, and said they would go through the memos together. Riddell sat down and picked up a pencil; Gideon saw that he had already drawn up a kind of report form, different from any that Gideon had seen before.
"I thought you would like an analysis of arrests made as there were so many." Riddell was cautious.
"Good idea," said Gideon. "Shall I sing 'em out? Here's ST Division, eleven arrests, all minor charges, let's see—six indictable, the rest non-indictable. Got those headings?"
"Yes."
Perhaps he was a good Records man, square peg in a round hole.
"Right," Gideon said. "Now—
"
Telephones started to ring, and they were interrupted a dozen times, but within an hour Gideon could see the whole picture. He sent for the superintendents and the chief inspectors who had been out on normal work, heard each one out, made suggestions about cases, picked up odd items of information and stored these away in his memory. That was his greatest asset: a memory which not only stored but pigeonholed. There were no new major crimes in the reports, and continuing inquiries ranged from murder to bank robberies, from a solicitor's fraud to West End vice. When he had talked to every man with a report to make, he put in a call to the hospital where Taylor was lying.
"Just heard a report to the secretary about that," the operator told him.
Gideon tensed.
"Good or bad?"
"Had as good a night as could be expected, but he's in a very serious condition."
"Ah," Gideon grunted. "Could be worse. Mr. Rogerson in?"
"No, sir, he expects to be in about noon."
"Thanks," said Gideon.
He took five minutes' respite, then studied the summary that he and Riddell had made. Riddell was now sitting at his own small desk, taking down a telephone message. The office was very quiet. Gideon saw that Riddell had totaled everything up; twenty-seven arrests had been made as a result of the new tactics, nineteen of them on non-indictable charges, and thirty-one men and three women had been at the different divisional headquarters for questioning.
Riddell put the receiver down.
"That was a report from Ollson up at Manchester. There has been no major charge. He thinks that he might be able to come down tomorrow and go into it with you, if you think it would be wise."
"Tell him to stay put until I send for him," Gideon said. "That'll please him."
"I'll send him a teletype message," promised Riddell. "There's one other message. The P.R.O. says he'd like to have a talk with you. Are you free for lunch?"
"His treat?"
