by J. J Marric
"Did you notice a child playing along at the edge of the sea?"
"I daresay I saw twenty children playing there," Smith answered, and managed to smile. "I'm afraid I don't take much notice of children, though, being a bachelor. I just came for a swim as I do most Saturdays and Sundays."
"I see, sir. Did you notice a child playing with a dog?"
Smith stared at him without the slightest change of expression for a moment, and then his lips twisted in a kind of smile, and he replied:
"There were several dogs, there usually are, but the only one I noticed was a bulldog. What kind of dog do you mean?"
"I'd like to know about any kind you saw playing with a child," the detective said.
"I can't honestly say that I remember anything like that," said Smith, frowning, as if with the effort of concentration. "And I'd left the beach after my swim by half past three. My mother—I live at home, you see—wanted some shopping done, and I always do the shopping for her. I must have been home for tea at five o'clock." He shrugged, as if that disposed of the question.
His interrogator said, "Thank you for your frankness, sir; you may have been a great help. May I have your name and address?"
Inwardly, Smith's heart was pounding.
Outwardly, he was very calm.
"Why, what good will that do?"
"It's often helpful if we can compare two lots of evidence, sir." The detective was not looking at Smith, but at two plainclothes men some distance away who were talking to an elderly woman; she was pointing down to the sea's edge. "Something you saw may give someone else's memory a jerk, or something they saw might help yours. It's not likely we'll need to worry you, sir, but we might."
Smith said, reluctantly, "Well, I suppose that's reasonable. My name is Sanderson, and I live at—" there was the merest moment of hesitation before he went on—"seventeen Brindle Street. That's the big estate at the back of the town."
"I know Brindle Street." The detective wrote the name and address down, nodded briskly, then went to join the elderly woman, who was pointing again; quite a crowd had gathered round her and the plain-clothes men.
She was saying, "It was a big dog, a bit of a setter but with a spaniel's ears and face, browny-red in color, but not a bright red like a red setter. It wasn't yesterday but the day before that I saw them. The little girl was frightened of the dog, and the man was reassuring her. I thought it was very nice of him to take the trouble. You don't think . . ."
"Could you describe the man, madam?" the detective asked.
Smith, just within earshot, stared out to sea and inwardly cursed a child nearby who was crying.
". . . didn't really see him, I'm rather short-sighted, you see. The dog was racing about, and it came quite close to me, but the man . . ."
Smith did not hurry away, but walked past the mob of sightseers, saw a man with a heavy jaw not far along, then took the short cut to the town that he usually did. He reached the shop, a mile away from Brindle Street, a little after six-thirty. He heard Nicky, his dog, frisking in the kitchen. He went in, and the dog leaped at him, licking his face, pawing his clothes; his voice was sharper than usual when he told it to get down. His mother was out; she was at chapel, and would not be back until nine o'clock or after, for she always went to friends for supper after the service. Smith went to the back of the shop premises and lit a fire in the hot-water boiler, a small gray stove.
The dog sat and watched him.
Then Smith went to a small shed, took down a tin plainly marked poison, and carefully shook some of the lumpy white contents onto his hand. He hesitated and watched the dog staring up at him, head on one side, tail wagging slowly, obviously asking for a walk.
"Won't be long," Smith said. "We'll go down to the beach. That right? Down to the beach?"
The dog waved its tail vigorously.
Smith went back to the kitchen, opened a small packet of dog food, and tossed one or two crunchy pieces to the dog; each time the piece went deep into the dog's throat and he hardly troubled to chew.
Then Smith tossed the potassium cyanide.
The bones didn't matter; he could always bury the bones.
At half past ten that night, Hippo Hill telephoned Gideon. Two people had seen a dog answering the same description, a cross between a spaniel and a red setter, one on Thursday, one on Friday—no one had seen it on Saturday, so far as the police could find out.
"And neither of them can describe the man who talked to the child," Hill said. "It's going to be a long job, George."
"That's what I was afraid of," Gideon said glumly.
About the same time, a few miles away from Hurlingham, Keith Ryman was at the bar of a little Mayfair night club. His Helen was dancing on a small floor, and Ryman, there with a party of eight, was talking to Rab Stone. The atmosphere was surprisingly clear and clean. The police had never attempted to close this club up, for as West End clubs went, it was as clean as a whistle, and it gave reasonably good value. The only fact that had ever interested the police was that occasionally tricksters and vice men came here, but the types could be found anywhere, and there was no regular clientele of that kind.
No police watchers were here tonight.
Ryman was saying, very quietly, "I told you before and I'll tell you again, Rab, this is the time, all right. Hit 'em hard in four or five places at once, to distract them, and then stage the big show. And there's a sure-fire way of distracting them just now."
"What way?"
"We want to pick up a couple of kids—like the Bournsea job."
Stone exclaimed, "Gawd!"
"Don't you like the idea?" Ryman glanced round to make sure that no one was within earshot.
"It would work all right," Stone agreed.
"Can you get the job done?"
"I daresay," Stone said, "but—"
"Getting cold feet?" Ryman demanded.
"It's not that, Keith, but I wouldn't like anything to happen to kids."
"Of course we can't kill any kids, we don't want to be caught on a murder rap, but we could snatch two or three, couldn't we?" Ryman said. "There's that case up in Scarborough in the papers this morning. Kids are always being kidnaped, and it won't do them any harm if they're not hurt. Only got to feed 'em for a day or two."
Stone was still uneasy.
"It might be difficult, Keith. I don't know anyone who could handle that kind of a job." When a man came up to the bar, he stopped talking and sipped his drink. Helen passed again, still grimacing; the stout man had her tightly in his arms. Ryman and Stone moved further away from the bar. "I could lay on holdups, smash-and-grabs, even—"
He broke off.
"Don't tell me you've got an idea," said Ryman, a little sardonically.
"There's something good we could lay on," said Stone, so softly that Ryman could only just hear him. "We could fix one or two attacks on coppers; that always draws 'em—like wasps round a honey pot they are if one of their own chaps gets hurt. I was talking to Si Mitchell this morning—we were having a pint together—about that copper who was killed. Si was saying there were one or two coppers he'd like to dig a grave for. Now we could work out something on that, Keith, find two or three chaps who've got it in for the coppers and fix it up." He was talking as the thoughts entered his mind, and there was a glitter in his eyes; and there was sharp interest in Ryman's. "Why not two one day, two the next? Different parts of London, too. Keith, that's a stroke of genius, that is—an absolute stroke of genius!"
"Could be," Ryman conceded.
"Don't be modest; it was really your idea, I've only dressed it up a bit. One in the East End, say, one right on the doorstep here—Soho, I mean, not this doorstep. Why not come out Greenwich way, and another to Hammersmith or Ealing? Each job would be done by a different individual; that's the beauty of it. Even if the cops got all four, they couldn't trace it back to us. All we have to do is to get Si to—"
"It'll take some working out," Ryman interrupted, an edge of excitement in h
is voice. "I'd say we'd better do a job with two coppers and two kids, but you may be right. The only important thing is to get it laid on properly, so that the cops are stretched out so tight they'll snap if they get another big job. Rab, we're onto something, and when you come to think about it, it's damned funny. Gideon of the Yard gave us the idea!"
Stone laughed immoderately.
The music stopped, and Helen disentangled herself from the fat man except for her hand; he held on to it tightly. The two dozen couples on the floor headed for tables or the bar.
"What about Helen, is she going to be okay?" Stone asked, checking his laughter.
"Don't worry about Helen," Ryman said. "Do you know what she's got for a heart?"
"I give up."
"A diamond, Rab, that's all, a bloody great diamond. And she wants to get bigger and bigger hearted every day!"
"So long as you can trust her."
"I can trust her with everything except thinking. If she has to think, she gets in trouble," Ryman said, and stretched out his hands for his Helen; the stout man relinquished her with obvious reluctance and gave a jerky bow. Helen took Ryman's hand and looked up at him with beautiful eyes: eyes which really looked starry, and around which the eye make-up hardly showed.
"He was beastly, darling. Do I have to be nice to him any more?"
"He's a very wealthy man," Ryman told her solemnly.
"It looks as if it would take dynamite to separate him from any of his wealth," Helen said.
"Just a beautiful woman, my pet!"
"Well, next time he wants to dance with me, tell the band to make it a quick step. Even he couldn't get that hold with a quick step." Helen squeezed Ryman's fingers. "Are we going to stand at the bar all night, or are you coming to the table?"
She led the way to the table.
"Rab," said Ryman on the telephone next morning, "Helen's going out to Elstree. She thinks she may have a part. How about coming round for a drink? Twelve o'clock, say. Don't try anything on Si yet; let's give it plenty of thought. There's no hurry."
"You seen the morning papers, too?" Rab Stone asked, and laughed. "Okay. I'll be there."
Gideon had been in his office for two hours when Stone and Ryman made their appointment, and for one of these hours had been preoccupied with the Bournsea job. There had been no further developments, and there was no reasonable hope of quick results. The visit to every householder who held a dog license was being planned; in Bournsea and the surrounding district, the district from which bathers at the beach could be drawn, there were eleven thousand dog licenses.
"And then you always get the so-and-so's who are too mean to pay for a license," Hill said. "Half this town's so spread out, with a long drive to every house, that it'll take a week to cover it, and then only if nothing else happens. Not that we're likely to get another murder, unless we're dealing with a madman, and he strikes again while the hunt's on. Cheerful, aren't I?"
"Just keep at it," Gideon encouraged.
He rang off, and saw Riddell tapping his mouth as he yawned; Riddell had admitted to having a late night, and had been working at half pressure all the morning. The others were still away, one with his flu and the other on the second week of his holiday. Gideon could recall the man from holiday, but knew that he badly needed a rest.
Two telephones rang on Riddell's desk.
"Always thought these office jobs were cushy," he grumbled; then he lifted one and said, "Hold on," and then turned to the other and said, "Commander Gideon's office . . . Yes, Riddell speaking . . . What?"
He bellowed the last word; and for the first time Gideon saw him really excited.
"Hold on," he said explosively, and his eyes glowed as he stared at Gideon. "It's Bell. They've cornered Micky the Slob on a Dutch cargo boat—Customs chaps found him. He's locked himself in a cabin, says he'll set fire to the boat if we don't give him a chance. Bell says all our River chaps and all the other men we can spare are needed for the job. Micky means what he says."
Chapter 9
THE CYNIC
A cordon of dock police were thrown round the berth where the Dutch vessel van Doorn was tied up. The crew had been taken off, except for the captain and two engineers, and were in a group some distance away, watching. Fifty police were at different vantage points about the docks, all of them prepared for the one thing which was always possible with Micky the Slob: outside interference from his friends. Someone was almost certain to cause a distraction so as to give him a chance of getting away.
The chance was slight.
Six launches of the Thames Division were drawn up in a fairly narrow semicircle about the van Doorn, which was hardly more than a coasting vessel, bringing fruit and vegetables across the North Sea from the Hague. Each launch was manned with four members of the River Police, and several smaller motorboats, cruising up and down, were ready to make sure that no one could get aboard the van Doorn. Every man present knew that Micky the Slob could not escape this time, and every man had a picture of Syd Taylor in his mind's eye.
Yet there was fear that he might yet fool them.
In charge of the Divisional Police was Hopkinson of NE Division, and he knew the docks as well as he knew his own home. With the care of a military commander, he had blocked every possible escape route.
Bell was also there.
"Now what we've got to decide is whether to send a raiding party or whether to starve him out," Hopkinson said.
"What do you want to do?" asked Gideon into the telephone.
"Raid."
"Is he armed?"
"I don't know for certain, but I expect so."
"Is it easy to get to the cabin where he's hiding?"
"It's at the foot of a small gangway, and he's barricaded the doorway," Hopkinson said. "He's got some tins of petrol down there, and says that if we go down again he'll toss petrol out, and start a fire. He knows he'll hang for Taylor, of course, and doesn't care which way he dies. But we can't afford to have him stand us off again, George; he'll have everyone in London laughing his head off at us."
"Right," said Gideon. "You got the fire service there yet?"
"No."
"I'll lay it on," said Gideon, "and I'll lay on a couple of fireproof suits, too. We want a volunteer from the fire-fighting units, someone who really knows how to deal with a fire if it starts, and a volunteer from your chaps."
"Hopkinson."
"You keep out of it," Gideon ordered. "That's an order—don't go down that gangway. We can't risk losing top men. Can't you get a volunteer?"
"I can get dozens," Hopkinson said. "I suppose you're right. How's the big war going?"
"All right," said Gideon.
He rang off, and immediately called the superintendent who maintained a close liaison with the fire-fighting service, especially on all matters relating to arson. He made all the necessary arrangements, and then had a few minutes of respite. Riddell kept glancing across at him. On Gideon's desk were the usual reports, and he had not yet briefed half of the officers on the cases that had hung over from last week, or had cropped up this weekend. It would take fully two hours, and he had never felt less like working on that job.
Riddell said out of the blue, "You know your trouble, don't you?"
Gideon was astonished.
"Trouble? What's that?"
"You haven't grown up," said Riddell, looking almost smug. "Still wish you were a copper on the beat—you'd rather be going down that gangway than anyone else, wouldn't you?"
Gideon was surprised into a laugh.
"Perhaps you're right," he conceded, and leaned back in his chair, massive, tie hanging down, shirt open at the neck, gray hair a little untidy. Under his hand were the records of criminals, and crimes both small and big, wife beaters, drunks, pickpockets, shoplifters, small-time vice racketeers, organized prostitution, fraud, rape; requests for two men to be extradited, one from France, one from Germany. There were recommendations for arrest, recommendations for investigation into the acti
vities of private companies, three pending prosecutions for customs offenses, the beginning of a big probe into currency forgeries, with slush being produced either in England or just across the Channel. His job was to bring his great experience to bear on all of these things, to consider each and to advise the men who were doing the work of investigation; yet Riddell was right, he would give his right arm to be the divisional man who volunteered to go aboard the van Doorn. "Didn't know you were a big thinker," Gideon went on, and there was only a touch of malice in his words.
Riddell sniffed.
"Lot of things about me you don't know," he retorted. "I don't believe in keeping my nose to the grindstone like you do. Perhaps it's my conscience that's wrong. But for twenty years I've been in the Yard, and I've never known the time when we ever had a fair break. Supposed to dedicate our whole lives to it, that's what you say, in effect—and you do it. So do a few others, but there aren't many."
"If you're going to use the word 'dedicated,' nine out of ten of our chaps are," Gideon found himself arguing.
"Maybe," said Riddell, "but only while they're on the actual job. There are a lot like me, George, who decided years ago that if we weren't careful we wouldn't have any home and private life at all. The Yard doesn't own us, body and soul, you know. That's another angle you might put in this report you're going to draw up. They pay us only about half of what we'd get in a commercial job which needed half the brains, and treat us like a lot of bloody soldiers. At least, they would if we'd let 'em. And if you think you're going to make any impression on the Home Office and the VIP's you're making the biggest mistake of your life. You'll be in favor while you sweat your guts out for them, and you'll probably get a medal and a pretty speech, but policemen—they're not people. Why, they're not even civil servants! Take it from me, Gee-Gee, it's time you stopped banging your head against a brick wall, and just settled down to giving a fair day's work for a fair day's pay. That's all you're paid for and all you owe them."
