by J. J Marric
"He said, 'Ask Mr. Gideon if he would like to lunch with me.' If so, will you meet him in the main hall at twelve forty-five."
"Thanks," said Gideon. "Tell him yes."
That was at half past eleven. He had no idea what the public relations officer wanted. The man was on the Civil Staff, and most of the C.I.D.'s public relationship was handled by the inspector in the Back Room; this inspector would soon be clamoring for a statement to give to the pressmen who waited on the Embankment, thirsting for news.
Now that the rush of the morning's work was over, Gideon had a reaction which he didn't much like: a kind of mental vacuum. He knew that he was expecting a call from the Commissioner, and it didn't come; he expected one from Rogerson, too, and Rogerson didn't call.
He put a call through to Rogerson's office.
"I'm sorry, sir," said his secretary, "but he has been with the Commissioner for the last half hour and I believe they are lunching together."
"All right, thanks," said Gideon. "I'll call him again this afternoon."
It was not often that he felt any sense of anxiety, but he found it difficult to settle and would have given a lot to know what his two superiors were saying. In a way it would be better if he could leave the general work to a deputy, and get on with the preparation of his own "case," but Riddell certainly hadn't the qualifications to deputize. Bell? There was no report from Bell in the morning's accumulation, and that was unusual; it certainly did not mean that Bell had nothing to report. He put a call through to Bell's office.
"Mr. Bell's not been in this morning, sir."
"Hmm," grunted Gideon. If he called Bell's home it would suggest either anxiety which wasn't really justified, or that he was checking up on him. Bell was too reliable a man for that. Gideon decided to wait. It was an unsatisfactory morning in every way, and he began to wish that he had not agreed to have lunch with Popple. He did not know Popple well, but knew nothing against him. The man had a lively sense of humor and a ready tongue, and some of his notices which had been sent round, about sport, pensions and other internal matters, had been quite lively. He had been on Fleet Street most of his life, and was now in his middle forties, a few years younger than Gideon.
They met in the front hall.
"Where are we going—the pub across the road?" asked Gideon.
The "pub across the road" was in Cannon Row, and subsisted almost exclusively on hearty-eating and long-drinking men from the Yard.
"Not on your life; we're going to a slap-up place," said Popple, and reminded Gideon of Hopkinson; he was nearly bald, and had merry blue eyes in a plump face set on an unexpectedly small body. "On the house, too. I don't often take VIP's out to lunch."
"What does he want?" wondered Gideon cautiously.
They went to Quagg's, where the lunch was excellent, the atmosphere luxurious and the service almost unbelievable. Popple suggested wine, but Gideon stuck to lager; wine could make him heavy-eyed, and dull his wits. They had a table far away from others to make sure that they could talk without being overheard, and when they were waiting for their sweet, Popple said:
"Patient chap, Gideon, aren't you?"
"Wouldn't be much good at my job if I wasn't."
"No. What made you weigh into the Old Man like you did yesterday?"
"Who told you about it?"
"I picked it up."
"Hm." Gideon became very wary indeed, reminding himself that this was one of the Civil Staff, who might be trying to find out enough to report back to the Secretary; one could never be quite sure how a thing like this would go. "Well, I didn't weigh into the Old Man, I just made a plain statement of fact."
Popple grinned.
"That's one way of putting it. Needn't make a mystery out of it, I suppose, but I wanted to see how you'd jump. I happened to be in the Old Man's office yesterday afternoon, and there was a transcription of the notes the secretary had taken. What you had to say had been extracted verbatim. You set 'em all by the ears."
"Daresay," said Gideon, and was still very wary.
"How much of it did you mean?" asked Popple.
"If I'd known you for five years instead of one, I'd have your skin for that."
"Everything?"
"And more."
"Syd Taylor a case in point?"
"Yes."
"Heart and soul in this, George?" Popple had never called him "George" before. He was asking questions in quick succession, and watching Gideon very closely.
"I am."
"I could help," announced Popple.
The waiter came up with the fruit salad and a double ice cream for Gideon, and pancakes for Popple. Gideon considered all this while the waiter hovered. Popple ordered "coffee when we've finished," and waved the man away.
"How?" asked Gideon.
"Friends in Fleet Street could do a lot and I've a lot of friends," Popple answered. "I was told when I took this job on that the chief thing was to improve the public relationship—sell the Yard and the Force generally to the press. You may not have noticed, but we get twenty per cent more space in the national dailies than we used to, and most of the extra is on the front page. Good, aren't I?"
"I'll tell you when I know."
Popple chuckled.
"Drop the defenses, George, I'm not going to try and pull a fast one. I'm going to give you the opportunity you couldn't get if I wasn't on your side. It depends how much this business of economy cuts really matters to you. Were you serious when you said you'd be ready to drop down to super rank again?"
"Yes."
"Will you take other risks?"
"I might," said Gideon, cautiously. "What kind?"
"Unless something exceptional crops up, and I don't think it will, the Sunday papers will have very dull front pages this week," Popple told him. "They'll be made up tomorrow night, and short of an earthquake or a train disaster, they'll be full of froth. I could get three of them for certain if a highly placed officer at the Yard would state publicly that in his opinion the Yard will be in Queer Street if more money and more men can't be found. If I said it, no one would really listen; it'd get a small paragraph at most, and I'd get a kick in the pants for indiscretion. But—"
Gideon just looked at him.
"You've never said much to the press," Popple went on. "In fact I don't remember you being quoted for months. You needn't say much, either. The newspapers will tart it up for you." When Gideon continued to stare but didn't speak, Popple continued on as if a little embarrassed. "I'd broadcast it myself if I thought it would do any good, but I'm sure it wouldn't. I'm as sure you would. All you need say is what you've already said to the Old Man. You might hint that if the C.I.D. doesn't get an extra grant for staff and the renewal of equipment and installing more modern stuff, that there'll be the biggest crime wave ever. I've got some new figures, just in," Popple added. "Last year's total of indictable offenses in the Metropolitan area was up by—guess how much?"
Gideon said slowly, "Fifteen per cent."
"You psychic? Fourteen point seven per cent."
"I can add up, too."
"You can also make prophecies; you can prophesy to the press that next year it will be up another twenty-five per cent, and the year after that thirty per cent, unless drastic steps are taken to increase recruitment, pay the present staff more, and—How many resignations from the department did you have last year?"
"Seventeen," said Gideon. "Nothing to matter."
"Straws in the wind. They hated leaving but they've got wives and families."
Gideon sat very still, until he picked up his spoon again. The ice cream had gone mushy. He put the spoon down and pushed the plate away. Conflicting thoughts were chasing each other in his mind, and he wanted time to think this out; on the other hand he realized that it might be now or never. He could see its enormous advantages. He had avoided seeking personal publicity since he had become Commander, for the men doing the work in the field needed it, but he was often named, and was quite sure that if he made a
pronouncement it would get good space in the newspapers. If Popple could get it onto ten million front pages on Sunday morning, it might be a big step toward rousing public opinion. One part of his mind was eager and willing, but there was a cold shadow of doubt in the other.
What would be the effect on the Commissioner?
If Scott-Marie resented it, what would he do?
It could not be dismissed as an indiscretion; no one would believe that Gideon would be so indiscreet. It would be a powerful shot in the battle he had started without meaning to. The Commissioner would almost certainly disapprove, strongly. On the other hand, there could not be a better opportunity, for the newspapers could play up the attack on Taylor and the escape of Micky the Slob.
He could refer the suggestion to Rogerson or to the Commissioner first.
They would say no, of course; neither could possibly agree that such a statement should be made.
If done, it would have to be wholly on his own responsibility, and he would have to be prepared to take all the consequences. He did not know the Commissioner well enough to be able to guess what they would be, but began to see the situation even more clearly. So far as the staffing position went in the C.I.D., things could hardly be worse. Seventeen resignations in a year were not many, but they were a hundred per cent up on the previous year. This statement would attract mass attention, and even if he got a kick in the pants, might gain the extra money and the extra drive for new men.
The waiter came up with the coffee.
"Well, how about it?" Popple asked, when the man went off.
"How long can I have?" asked Gideon.
"Ten o'clock in the morning."
"Will you be in?"
"No, home. I'll contact you."
"Right."
"Mind telling me which way you lean?" asked Popple.
"Your way," Gideon answered, "but there may be snags in it that I can't see, and I don't mean snags for me. I'm due to prepare a case, anyhow."
"I know about that, but if you get your case you might find yourself up against another political crisis, or a revolt in East Europe, or—well, you know as well as I do," Popple said. "Ten million Sunday-morning breakfast tables at least, George—and you'll have your pretty picture on each of them."
"That's one of the things I'm afraid of," said Gideon.
They did not say much more, and Gideon gave Popple a lift back to the Yard. Once there, Gideon went up the stairs rather than in the elevator, where he would probably have to talk to others. Head thrust forward and looking massive, he made his way to his own office. He opened the door, deciding that the best thing he could do now was to get rid of Riddell for the afternoon, and then saw Joe Bell sitting at his, Gideon's, desk.
His expression made it obvious that Bell had brought trouble.
"Taylor?" demanded Gideon.
"Yes," answered Bell. "He's gone. I happened to be there. So was his wife."
Chapter 6
HEADLINES
Gideon had been known to say that when the machine of the Yard was properly geared, it would run itself; all it needed was oiling. There was some truth in this, although he did himself less than justice. It had been true during the day or two which followed the conference, for he had thought so much about Taylor and the staff problem that other matters, the routine oiling of the machine, had little more than cursory attention. By good fortune, it was a slack time; early summer often was. No big cases developed, either in London or the provinces, although three major arrests were made, each by a Yard man in the provinces, as the result of weeks of patient investigation.
Gideon did everything that had to be done mechanically that Friday afternoon, and left the office about half past five, reaching home soon after six o'clock. The two younger girls were home but getting ready to go to their tennis club, and by half past six he was alone with Kate.
She was always surprising him; and she surprised him when she said quietly:
"Is Syd Taylor dead?"
"Good lord," said Gideon, and took her hands. "So you can really read me like a book."
"I can't think of anything else that would weigh on you like a ton," said Kate.
"I've something else weighing about ten tons," Gideon told her. "Let's go into the front room, I could do with a drink, and I'm not hungry yet. Had a smack-up lunch." He led the way and poured himself a stiff whisky and Kate a gin-and-Italian. Then he told her the whole story of Popple's suggestion. He had not realized before how often he talked to Kate about the Yard's problems, although seldom about actual cases, but this was so much more than a problem of the Yard.
"If I do it, it really could be a boomerang," he said, "and it might not come to a question of resigning from Commander's rank. I might be demoted."
"What do you want to do?" asked Kate.
"If everything else was equal, I'd talk to the press." When she didn't comment, Gideon went on: "But it's not so simple, Kate. We're really beginning to see daylight, financially, and—"
He was surprised to see her break into a smile.
"We have to live with ourselves, too. I don't see that you can do anything else but talk to this reporter, George."
"Sure it won't make too much difference to you if things should go wrong?"
"We managed on Chief Superintendent's pay for years, and they won't demote you lower than that," Kate said, still calm and practical. "But I've a feeling that it will work out all right." She half persuaded him that she meant that. "What about the evidence that manpower shortage is dangerous, dear? I suppose Taylor's death is all that's needed?"
"To make the first impact, anyhow," Gideon agreed.
He remembered, then, that for a few unreal moments on the previous day he had almost hoped that Taylor would die so as to ram home the truth of what he had said at the conference. He shook the self-reproach off, but it kept coming back. He felt it keenly next morning, a little after eleven o'clock, when Popple brought in a surprisingly youthful-looking man, with the manner and fuzzy hair of a cartoon fanatic, who asked only three questions that mattered:
How long had Gideon felt like this? The answer was several years.
Did Gideon think that the murder of Detective Sergeant Taylor was a direct consequence of the shortage of men? Yes.
Did others in the C.I.D. share Gideon's anxiety?
"Don't bring any of the others into this," objected Gideon. "But if you want to get an idea of how many feel like it, ask a dozen senior officers who've retired in the last year or so."
"Good idea," the Fleet Street man said, and smiled as if he really thought it was. "Now, what about some personal details about your wife and family, and especially about this son of yours who wants to join the Force. Would you encourage him?"
Gideon wondered how a journalist had got that item of news. Via Popple?
"Not unless there's a reasonable chance that if he joins the Force will have enough staff to cope."
"And how do you see the future of crime, Commander? Will it increase or decrease?"
"It will increase enormously if we aren't able to clap down on it, good and hard."
"And can I quote you as saying that?"
"Yes," answered Gideon, heavily.
Just before twelve o'clock, when the Fleet Street man and Popple had left, and he was in the office with Riddell, clearing up for the weekend, an urgent request came in from an East Coast town for help in an investigation into a murder of a seven-year-old child. It was one of the nasty cases, although probably quite straightforward once the police had interviewed enough people, but the Bournsea killer was still at large. Almost certainly this story would be used by the Sunday newspapers as the current sensation to support what Gideon had said. There was nothing he could do about that, but it wasn't the real proof. They could have double the present C.I.D. strength but could not stop the occasional "amateur" murder, the outbreaks of viciousness, the sex crime or the hate crime. These were not truly part of the war, but they would appear to be.
Gideon
called in the superintendent who had been to Bournsea, and told the telephone operator not to put calls through to him. He went into a small room, leaving Riddell to look after routine matters. Saturday midday was usually slack.
The superintendent, a big, flat-footed man named Hill and nicknamed Hippo, was older than Gideon, a sound man of little imagination. He had a remarkable memory and, what was more rare, knew how to use it. His thick, straight hair was usually untidy, and today was no exception.
"What we have to find out is whether this could be tied up with the Bournsea job," Gideon said. "I know it's three hundred miles away, but there are a lot of similarities. Care to go up and have a look yourself, or rather send one of the chaps who worked with you?"
"Funny thing," Hill said, in a plummy voice, "the wife wanted a weekend by the seaside. I'm going to take her to Bournsea. Thought I might have a word with the coppers down there, as I happened to be on the spot. Pity to disappoint the wife, wouldn't it be?"
"We can't do that," said Gideon, already in a better humor. "Like to send Evans to the East Coast by himself, or take young Peto with him?"
"Send 'em both," advised Hill promptly. "Bit of experience and ozone won't do either of them any harm. They won't need long; should be able to tell whether there's anything for us to work on in forty-eight hours. I can go up Monday if there's any need."
"Let's do it that way," agreed Gideon. "The chief constable's not one of the high-horse type; he won't mind being fobbed off with a D.I."
"Can always tell him the C.I.'s and the superintendents on the cab rank are up to their eyes," said Hill. "And that's not far wrong, either. I don't like complaining, George, but do you know how much holiday I've got due to me, last year and this?"
"Don't tell me."
"Six weeks."
"So you haven't really had a whole week off in eighteen months," said Gideon heavily.
"That's right, and you ought to hear what the wife says about it. There are times when your name's mud. I told her that when you took on the job things would be better, see." He gave a grin, and his great jaws opened. "Nothing like a little joke, is there? Having any luck with the campaign, or is the Old Man regarding you as a bolshie?"
