by J. J Marric
"Until it crashed, and the driver was killed, a chap named Cartwright. That the job?"
"That's the job. Cartwright's father didn't say a word at the inquest, but Si told me he's looking for a chance to even things out."
"They both sound right," Ryman agreed thoughtfully. "Just get me more details and talk to Si about it, but don't make any approach to these chaps yet; I might get a better idea." There was a hard glint in his clear blue eyes as he stared across the park; he was now sitting up on the couch. "Give it all plenty of time to soak."
"Okay, Keith."
"And don't worry," Ryman added. "I must know two or three millionaires who'd gladly pay a few thousand for their angelic offspring, and when the kid's missing, there'll be the biggest hunt ever. We won't mention ransom until we've pulled the bank job, either. It's a certain winner."
Stone said, "Sure," and finished his drink and went out.
Ryman settled down on the couch, wriggled himself comfortable, folded his hands across his chest, closed his eyes, and appeared to doze.
Police Sergeant Maybell was cycling round his district in Hammersmith, stopping to talk to every constable on the beats, whether green or experienced, and also having a word with the traffic-duty men. He led a somewhat prosaic existence, and enjoyed it. He had a plumply comfortable wife and three children, two boys in their late teens and a girl aged eleven. He was fifty-nine, and did not intend to retire until he was sixty-five, when he would have to. He was a thoroughgoing and conscientious officer, who seldom recalled the fact that many years ago he had been instrumental in catching a burglar, named Daw, who had been sentenced to ten years' imprisonment for robbery with violence.
Nothing really sensational had affected Maybell's life since then.
Detective Officer David Archer, at twenty-seven, was one of the seven policemen who had volunteered for the attempt to get Micky the Slob out of the van Doorn. Archer had a great deal in his favor. He was good looking; he had done well in a public school, spent two years at London University, and then decided that he wanted a career in the Metropolitan Police, because he thought it would give him more scope than an ordinary civilian job. He was extremely ambitious, without offending anyone by it and without having the slightest desire to tread on anyone else's toes in order to get ahead. Six months ago he had taken the chance to stop the smash-and-grab raider's car and knew that as a consequence he had been put into the detective branch much earlier than he would normally have hoped.
Recently, he had acquired an even greater reason for being ambitious.
He had become engaged to be married.
He was at the dockside near the van Doorn, feeling a little superfluous, like most of the men now kicking their heels at Micky the Slob's bidding, when Gideon stepped out of a big black car; the sight of Gideon's bulk, and the way he swung his arms as he strode toward Hopkinson, the girl and a little group of divisional men, sent a kind of electric shock through every watcher.
Archer had a strange impression: that everyone near him wanted to raise a cheer.
Gideon had the same feeling, and it took him completely by surprise. It was some time since he had been among any of the divisional police when they were in strength. He knew that he was something of a legend in the Force, that every one of the twenty thousand men on it knew that Gee-Gee was George Gideon's nickname, and that there was a kind of rude affection in their use of it, as there was for Hippo Hill's nickname. But it was only occasionally that Gideon had a sense of real enthusiasm passing itself on from the men to him. They had read the Sunday newspapers, of course, and were all solidly behind him; had this been a different occasion, they would probably have given a spontaneous cheer.
Hopkinson came forward, leaving the girl. He saw Gideon studying her, and said as he drew up:
"That's her, George. If we could stretch her out to normal height she'd be quite something. But what's brought you?"
"Had an idea," said Gideon.
"You're changing!"
Gideon hardly noticed the words, and continued to look at the girl, with her dark hair, her fine coloring, her bright, bold eyes. She was aware of his scrutiny and did nothing to try to avoid it.
"Let's have it," Hopkinson urged.
"Right," said Gideon, and looked away from the girl. "She's got a conscience, or she wouldn't have come. You say she said she couldn't sleep last night, because Taylor had died and because she was afraid of what the Slob would do."
"That's right." Hopkinson didn't yet understand.
"She in love with him?"
"Incredible though it may seem, yes."
"He with her?"
Hopkinson was frowning, and the bright sunlight, pitiless on his face, showed up every tiny line and every gray hair.
"That's how the story goes."
"What about his wife?"
"He keeps her, doesn't he? But I don't see what you're driving at," the divisional man said.
"The girl did a lot for Micky the Slob," Gideon said, "and now she knows that he's had it. She's got guts and a conscience, too. Think she could reason with Micky?" Gideon kept watching her. "Think we could persuade her to go down and plead with him?"
"It wouldn't work, George," Hopkinson declared, and his expression added: "You must be slipping or you wouldn't even suggest it."
"That's right, it wouldn't work," Gideon agreed. "But if he's really fond of her, and thought she was actually outside the door while our chaps were breaking it down, would he use the nitro? That would mean blowing her to smithereens, as well as our chaps."
"God!" exclaimed Hopkinson. "That's an idea. But who—"
"This is a job we can't delegate to anyone," Gideon said. "That's why I came out. Mind if I talk to the girl?"
"You carry on!"
"Name of Rose, didn't you say?" asked Gideon, and went toward the girl, towering high above her head. He smiled as he stood in front of her, and spoke very quietly. "I want to tell you how grateful everyone is for your courage," he said deliberately. "Not only the police, but the crew of the ship are, too. Are you also willing to help us get Micky out before he can do any more harm?"
She hesitated for a long time. Then:
"How?" she asked.
Chapter 11
THE CAPTURE
Inside the cabin, Micky the Slob was reclining on a bunk, his head bent so that he did not touch the bunk above him. It was a large cabin for a small ship, and there were four bunks with plenty of space to move around. Men's clothes were draped on hangars in several places. Four sets of shaving brushes, toothbrushes, tubes of toothpaste and of shaving cream crowded the big shelf on the one dressing table. On a chair by the side of Micky the Slob were a large slab of plain chocolate and some packets of biscuits; on the floor were two bottles of beer and an empty glass. He kept his porcine eyes half closed, but stared at the door all the time.
Sticking in the neck of an empty beer bottle was a cigar-shaped container, and inside this, looking like a fat cigarette, was a tube of nitroglycerine. The experts at blowing doors and safes had perfected a way of carrying the explosive, and for a price it was possible to buy a stick like this. It was enough to blow open three or four powerful safes or strongroom doors; enough to wreck this cabin and start a fire that would destroy the ship.
The explosive, in its container, looked like a kind of candle.
A crackling came from the loud-speaker built into the ceiling; Micky glanced upward, but saw only the crisscross lines of the steel latticework of the bunk above him. There was a sound as of someone blowing, and then a different voice from Hopkinson's. Micky sat up, opened his eyes wide, and bent his head so that he could look up at the loud-speaker.
"Glad you've been sensible so far, Micky," the newcomer said, and there was a deep, authoritative note in his voice. "We've got someone here to help you to see the wise thing to do. Rose Lemman's on her way down the gangway to see you. We've pulled her in."
Micky was still sitting, crouching, head twisted so that he could see th
e loud-speaker. It was never possible to be sure what he was thinking, and his expression seldom changed; but now his lips were set tightly, and there was no sign of a slobber.
"She did the best thing she could for you," the man with the deep, hard voice went on. "Don't let her down. She'll be just outside your door by now."
Micky eased himself forward and got off the bunk. His leg was within an inch of the beer bottle with its high explosive "candle." One kick, and it would fall over, out of its safety packing; the concussion would be enough to make it explode.
"And she knows what's good for herself, too," Gideon went on. "She knows that if you do any more harm, we'll have to charge her with being an accessory to Taylor's murder. She'll be the only one left we can get for that job, and she helped, all right. But if she persuaded you not to blow this ship to pieces, we shall be able to make things a bit easier for her. You could help us. She says she didn't know you were going to murder Taylor, and you're the only one who can say whether she did or not. We want to believe her," the speaker added, and broke off abruptly.
Micky muttered, "That's Gideon."
A little frothy saliva was gathering at the corners of his mouth, and his lower lip began to drop, as if he could not support it any longer. He looked like an imbecile as he stared at the silent loud-speaker, licked his lips again, and glanced down, as if unthinking, at the "candle."
He bent down and picked it up.
Gideon said, "You're the only chance she's got, Micky. Give her a break."
Micky was breathing noisily through his mouth. His big hand was tight about the beer bottle, but he still stared at the ceiling. Then came Rose's voice, very distantly, and the direction of Micky's gaze changed swiftly; he watched the door.
She must be just outside.
"Micky," she called, "it's no use trying any more, it won't do any good, honestly."
He didn't answer.
"Micky," she called again, and he could tell that she was much nearer; there was a break in her voice. "It's all U.P., don't you understand? I did my best, but they got me. They'll make me swing; they hang you for killing a copper even today."
Again she stopped.
Micky the Slob held the bottle even more tightly, raised it, and yet continued to stare at the closed door. He heard nothing for what seemed a long time; and then the voice of Gideon came through the doorway, so he had left the bridgehouse and was just outside.
"All right, Rose," he said. "You've done your best. Just stand over there."
Rose gasped "Micky!"
"He won't let you down," Gideon said, "I'm sure of that. Micky, be careful with that nitroglycerine; it's nasty stuff to handle. We're coming in now. Just move aside, Rose, you're in my way."
"Micky, don't blow us up!" Rose pleaded; and then there came three smashing blows on the wooden door, the steel of an ax glinted, disappeared, glinted twice again; then a gaping hole appeared in the wood, and a man was visible behind it. This man thrust his hand through the hole and groped for the key on the lock. He touched it. He was all Micky could see, just a big hand, thumb and forefinger on the key now; turning. The bottle seemed to be slipping from Micky's fingers. Saliva dropped.
"Keep back, Rose!" Gideon said sharply. "I don't want you—"
He drew his hand back through the hole, and a moment later the door swung open. Micky did not even move, and Gideon, with two men just behind him, stretched out his hand and took the bottle; he did not wrench at it, or show any violence, just drew it away easily.
He said in a strange, quiet voice, "Okay, Micky, don't let's have any fuss, and we'll do all we can for your Rose."
Micky the Slob did not speak. A man behind Gideon, tall, young, good looking, slipped handcuffs on the prisoner, chaining him to his own wrist. Other men came hurrying. There was no sign of Rose Lemman outside the cabin, but she was at the top, staring down at him, crying.
When Micky reached the top of the companionway, with men all round him, he looked at Rose's eyes, and said:
"You don't have to worry, they'll see you right. Won't you, Gideon?"
"We'll see her right," Gideon said.
Micky the Slob smiled.
When he had gone, when the crew was coming back on board, and when the police were questioning the master and others about the fact that the Slob had hidden here, Gideon was driving back to Scotland Yard. He felt rather tired but very satisfied. By his side was the small tape recorder on which Rose had recorded everything that Micky the Slob had heard her say. Young Archer, of NE Division, had suggested the tape recorder.
The ruse had worked, and that was the only thing that mattered.
When Gideon got back to his office, the first thing he asked the middle-aged sergeant on duty was:
"Anything from Bournsea?"
"Not a word."
"Thought we might have two strokes of luck at the same time."
"If you can call it luck," the sergeant said. "Certainly lucky you weren't blown to smithereens, sir. It was nitro, wasn't it?"
"It looked like nitro, it was packed like nitro, and it terrified me the same as nitro would," said Gideon. "It's upstairs in the lab, being tested. If you hear an explosion, you'll know it was the real stuff. Anything in?"
"They got the killer at Scarborough."
Gideon's eyes lit up.
"The child killer?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"The father."
"Oh, God," breathed Gideon.
"What people do," the sergeant said flatly. "They picked up Sammy Lees for the fur job the other night; forget when it was. AI Division reports a six-year-old child missing, and they want half the blooming Force to go and help them; you've only got to mention a missing child and they blow. Nasty job out at Portobello Road: knife fight. A white man and a Jamaican are in the hospital, the blackie might die. The white chap started it, out of jealousy. Picked up Teddy the Loop over in CD. Copped him with the sparklers lifted from Samson's of Piccadilly the other day, so they've started a search of his house. Looks as if he's got plenty tucked away under the floorboards. Couple of small holdups, one in Putney, one in Tottenham. I don't know how you like it done, but I've scrawled everything down: date, time and all details as far as I know. Need four ears and four pairs of hands on this job."
Gideon was looking at him very straightly.
"How long have you been here, Jim?"
"Five years longer than you, George!"
Gideon began to smile.
"You've done me a world of good," he said. "Thanks. Chief Inspector Bell will be moving in here for a while, and you'll have to nurse him. You've got the right approach to this job."
The other man's eyes showed real alarm, and he raised his right hand to his almost bald head.
"You leaving? Oh, I get it—you've been made Assistant Commissioner! Well, no one ever deserved—"
"Take it easy," Gideon said. "I'm not likely to get an A.C.'s job, whether I want it or not. I'm going to concentrate on building up a case to convince the Home Office and the Treasury that we need half a million quid, and that'll keep me busy for a while."
"Always did believe in miracles, didn't you?" the sergeant said.
Gideon grinned.
He looked up, a little after six o'clock, and was surprised to see Rogerson coming in. The Assistant Commissioner had two evening newspapers in his hand, and he was smiling dryly as he asked:
"Seen these, George?"
"No. What's in 'em?"
"Glutton for publicity, that's your trouble," Rogerson gibed. And there was Gideon looking up at himself again from each front page. There was young Archer, too, and of course Rose Lemman. "No one who knows you is surprised, but if you stick your neck out again while I'm in charge of this department, I'll reprimand you in public." Rogerson's smile had an edge to it. "And I'm not resigning, I'm applying for six months' sick leave instead. You'll have to do your own job and mine from now until Christmas."
Gideon took a chance.
"Carry
ing on as usual," he said.
Rogerson chuckled.
George Arthur Smith read the evening newspapers, and all about the search for himself.
Micky the Slob was allowed to see one paper in the cell at Cannon Row.
Sergeant Maybell read the front page just before going off duty.
"That Gideon must have joined the Force the same month as I did," he confided to a sergeant who was taking over for the night. "Never looked back, he hasn't."
Dave Archer read the story while with his fiancée, who was very pleasant to look at, who dressed well, and who knew exactly what she wanted. Just then she was a little scared.
"Don't be too much of a hero, Dave, will you?" she asked.
All the Gideon family read it, and Kate's anxiety was almost overshadowed by the great pride of the children.
Millions of people read the story. . . .
Keith Ryman was one of them, and he stood staring at the photograph of Gideon, while his Helen, in bra and panties, peered at the reflection of her pretty, pert face in the mirror.
"Now there's a man to get," Ryman muttered. "That would draw them off all right."
"Say something, pet?" called Helen.
"Nothing that matters," Ryman called back, still staring at the photograph.
Gideon went to the Yard next morning with only one real regret in his mind: that the Bournsea job was going cold on him. He had already talked to Hill by telephone, and Hill had reported another night without any results at all.
"We've talked to ninety-eight per cent of the licensed dog owners," he had said. "There's always the odd few who don't take out a license, but they're going to be much more difficult to get at. There's been plenty of time for the swine to kill his dog, of course, so we're well on the way to checking on dogs that have disappeared. At least we've a fairly good description."
