by J. J Marric
"Something will turn up," Gideon said, unhelpfully.
"I hope to God we don't get another kid murdered." Hill could not have sounded more concerned if he had been talking of his own children. "You're keeping your end up, anyhow, but don't go and get yourself hurt. We need you for a bit longer."
"You'd forget me inside a week," Gideon said.
But the remark cheered him up very much.
The first job he did at the Yard was to study all the circumstances of the Bournsea murder, hoping to discern some factor which had been missed, but he saw none. It looked like a model operation of its kind, with the Yard and the County Borough and the County Police all dovetailing well. Twenty thousand inquiries had been made in three days. The peak had been passed, of course; men wanted for their normal duties would go back to them today. At least Hill was as good a man as they had for it.
He hadn't mentioned Riddell.
The sergeant had prepared all the reports and had them on his desk as efficiently as Gideon's absent chief assistant could have done.
"I'll have him here with Bell," Gideon decided, and his thoughts were lured off the problems in front of him for several minutes while he contemplated the difficulties involved in presenting the case for the Home Secretary. It was an unpalatable fact that the pressure of the two main inquiries, at Bournsea and at the London docks, had made it impossible for him to do more than skim the surface of the "case." Even now, he had to put consideration of it aside, and call in the officers dealing with the divers cases on his desk.
He got through this quickly.
"I'll spend the afternoon drawing up a kind of brief," he consoled himself, and forgot the "case" as he thought again of Bournsea.
It was a beautiful afternoon at Bournsea, and there was no outward sign of alarm on the beaches. Yet parents kept a closer watch on their children, and every dog, from Peke to Labrador, was watched warily. In the hot back streets of the town, police and detectives worked patiently. Hill had a brainwave, and consulted the post office and the main delivery trades, the milk and the bread. All postmen and roundsmen were asked to take special note of any dog answering the description of the handsome mongrel, and particularly to report if any such dog appeared to be missing. As postmen did a daily coverage, they might produce a quick result.
George Arthur Smith looked cool and neat in his short white jacket as he served the customers who drifted in. The afternoon was never a busy period for the grocer's shop, and he had plenty of time to look out of the window and the doorway. The small shop served a neighborhood where there were many young families in small new houses, and he saw the children as they passed on their way home from school.
It was a little after four o'clock.
Two or three children always came in for a small bar of chocolate, a few sweets, a packet of chewing gum; and some of the older boys came to try to buy some cigarettes. All of these goods were kept handy, near the doorway, and Smith watched the children approaching. Here they took different roads, and most of them looked each way carefully. A small group of boys and girls, all very young, reached the shop and stood looking in at the window.
Smith saw one girl with fair hair tied with a bright pink ribbon, her face aglow with eagerness, her eyes cornflower blue. By comparison, the other children were pale and uninteresting. Smith watched this eager child, saw her forefinger stubbed against the window, and began to gulp; he could never understand the effect golden-haired children had over him. Most children left him cold, but any girl with golden hair made his blood race. He wanted to be alone with them, to hold and caress them, to make them still and silent. He did not consciously remember the neighbor's child and his own "sweetheart," only knew that his heart beat so fast that it seemed as if he would suffocate. And whenever a girl was still and silent, he had a terrible headache.
All three children moved quickly, and came into the shop, the fair-haired one showing a sixpence in her hot palm.
Smith moistened his lips, and then smiled.
"Hullo, and how are you?"
She looked straight at the sweets counter, pointed, and said:
"I want one of those and one of those."
"Little girls should say please," chided Smith.
"Please."
He selected the wrapped sweets and handed them to her one at a time; each time his fingers slid over her chubby little hand lingeringly; she did not seem to notice. She handed him the sixpence. He hesitated, then decided it would not be wise to refuse, so he squeezed her hand tightly, took the coin and said:
"Come and see me again soon."
She stared at him as if he puzzled her, and then danced out, with the others waiting to share the sweets. Smith wiped his forehead and stood very still. He watched the sun shining on that fair hair as, dipping into one of the bags, the child went past the window.
He went to the door and looked along at her until she turned the corner.
A postman on his way home cycled past, nodded to him, but did not look back. Smith went into the shop and then into the little back parlor. His mother was in the garden, pulling up a few weeds, and he saw her standing still for a moment, looking at the kennel. Soon afterward she came in, and her first words were:
"It's a funny thing that dog hasn't come back. I've never known him away for so long before."
"I'm worried in case he's met with an accident," Smith said glibly. "He was always difficult crossing the road."
"Well, it's a funny thing," his mother repeated.
Smith stared at her.
She looked up at him with weak, watery eyes and he could not be sure what she was thinking about; certainly she stared at him much longer than she usually did. She could not read the newspapers, and he usually read her the headlines and any spicy paragraphs; but she listened regularly to the news broadcasts.
Had she heard about the search for a dog?
If she had—
She said, "Well, if you're going down for your dip today, you'd better get off, Georgie. I'll look after the shop until you're back."
He hated her calling him "Georgie."
"Thanks, Mum." He had already decided that he must not go to the beach for a long time in case anyone recognized him; but he did not want to say so, for he had made a habit of a daily swim for years. "I'll get my towel and trunks." He went upstairs in the little house, came down with the roll of swimming clothes, went to the garden and stuffed them in his saddle bag, then cycled off. The sight of his dog trotting alongside him on the cycle was quite common in the neighborhood; the kind of sight that people saw so often that it was hardly noticed.
He cycled along a street of small new bungalows and bright new gardens. Just in front of one house a group of children were playing, among them the fair-haired child.
She did not notice him.
He wondered if she lived at this house, and noted the number: 51.
He cycled on but kept away from the beach, although he missed the gaiety and the life, the splashing water and the children who were forever playing. He could not rid his mind of the fact that the police were swarming over the beach and questioning everybody. He kept thinking of the detective who had questioned him, and the fact that he had given a false name and address. He was frightened.
Later, when he had gone out to the pictures, his mother found the towel and the swimming trunks, all quite dry. She felt the clothes with her skinny fingers, time and time again. Then she went out and looked at the kennel, where their dog had been for several weeks, since they had bought him. She had prayed that the company of a dog would help George, who seemed so lonely and was undoubtedly a little peculiar.
When they had first had the dog, they had not been sure whether to keep it, so they had not taken out a license. That didn't matter now, but she was remembering a conversation she had had, late on Sunday evening, with the wife of a local police constable. It had been about the murdered children.
The police were looking for a man who often went swimming at the beach with his dog
.
"Georgie," Mrs. Smith said in a hoarse voice. "Oh, Georgie."
And, soon:
"What shall I do?
"It can't be him, it can't be!"
That afternoon, Dave Archer was much more intent on watching his Drusilla, as she prepared to serve, than on returning her service. She looked good, although in fact she was not beautiful. He preferred women who were tall and slim to the buxom kind. She had long, beautiful legs, no one could deny that.
She aced him.
"Game and set," he called, and went to meet her at the net. "Jolly good game you played."
"You weren't concentrating. I think you were thinking about that man Gideon."
Archer burst out laughing.
"Didn't enter my head," he said, "but a little later I'll tell you what I was thinking about." He slid his arm around her waist and squeezed.
"Careful," she said hastily. "Everyone's staring at us."
"Let 'em stare," said Archer, and he looked gay, handsome and strong. "Let's give 'em something to stare at, too." He swung her round and kissed her; she was laughing when he let her go.
"Horace," said Mrs. Maybell, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you for some time."
"Is there, dear? What's that?"
"Do you think you could avoid night duty in future?"
"Well, I could put in an application," said Maybell, "but I don't think I'd have much luck. Not worried at being at home alone at night, are you, after all these years?"
"I'm not worried about me," his wife said. She was a pleasant, plump, gray-haired woman, with rosy cheeks, a small nose and calm eyes. They were alone in their bedroom, getting ready for bed. "I'm worried about you. I don't think it's good for you to be on nights so often."
"Been doing my share for thirty-one years," Maybell reminded her.
"Well, it's time someone else did it for a change."
Her husband grinned at her and gave her a quick, almost impersonal hug.
"Wanting a bit more company in bed, that's your trouble," he said. "I can't say I'm not with you, but joking apart, Liz, I'd never get off nights; couldn't do the job properly if I didn't take my turn. Don't you worry about me; I'm good for another twenty years, most of it with a pension. When I'm home all day you'll wish to goodness you could shove me back onto the beat."
"If I haven't seen too much of you in thirty years, I don't see why I should see too much in the future," his wife said. "Oh, don't be daft!" She slapped his hand away from the V of her nightdress.
But she was smiling.
Chapter 12
GIDEON PREPARES
Bell was one of the few men at the Yard who would not need briefing to stand in for Gideon. On Tuesday morning he was at the office at eight-thirty, and so was Culverson, the gray-haired sergeant. When Gideon arrived, just before nine, they had the morning reports in perfect order, and a few notes added for Gideon's special interest. It had been a quiet night, and a goodish day the day before. Gideon looked through the reports, made one or two comments, and then said to Bell:
"You'll see all the chaps, Joe."
"Yes. What shall I tell them you're doing? Having another photograph taken?"
"Tell 'em that I'm preparing the case for the prosecution," Gideon said, and smiled grimly. "The A.C. is taking some sick leave, so I'm going to use his office. I won't be far away. Let me know if there's anything fresh on the Bournsea job, won't you?"
"We won't keep anything big away from you," Bell promised.
Gideon went along to Rogerson's office, a larger one than his own with a single big desk. It was a better-than-average room, with a thick-pile carpet, a few filing cabinets and some easy chairs: a kind of conference room-cum-lounge. He went to the window and looked out on the same pleasant river view that he had from his own office, and then opened the door which led to a smaller room, where Rogerson's secretary was sitting at a typewriter.
She was fifty, birdlike, brisk.
"Good morning, Commander. Would you like me to come in now?"
"Soon," said Gideon. "You know what we're going to concentrate on, don't you?"
"Yes, and not before it's time," she said.
So even Miss Sharp approved.
Gideon went back to the desk, loosened his collar and tie, took out his big pipe and stuck it, unlit, between his teeth. He began to write, in slow and deliberate hand, making a list which began:
1. The Yard.
2. The divisions. Make out separate sheet for each division.
3. Make out separate sheet for each department at the Yard: Fingerprints, Records, Photographs, Ballistics, Laboratory, etc. etc.
4. Talk to each department head and each divisional superintendent, telling them exactly what I want.
5. Get angle from Popple and the Solicitor's office. (Ask the O.M. if I can have Keen.)
6. See other commanders and get their angle.
He put this sheet aside, after studying it, and then without haste started working on another, heading it:
DETAILS REQUIRED
1. Actual number of staff now attached.
2. Break this down into (a) C.I.D. (b) uniformed (c) civilian.
3. Get comparative figures, year by year, since 1939.
4. Get statistics of crimes in each division and break down to (a) indictable and (b) non-indictable.
5. Prepare graphs, for each division and the Yard, comparing (a) crime statistics and (b) staff figures.
6. Prepare a comparative graph for the whole of the department.
(Purpose of all this: to show how crimes increased as staff decreased. Necessary to bring in the uniformed figures—better butter up the U. chaps a bit, need many more men on the beat, etc.)
He studied this for ten minutes or more, altering a word here and a word there. He could just hear the typewriter going in the next office; Miss Sharp was clearing up everything that Rogerson had left for her to do. There had been no single telephone call in half an hour, no opening door, none of the continual rush and tear of his own office. He wondered how Bell and the sergeant were getting on; damned funny about Culverson, he had been wasting his time doing odds and ends, little more than a messenger because of his sprained ankle, and he could make a real job of assistant to the Commander. He was too old for promotion, that was the trouble; unless he, Gideon, could persuade the next conference that an exception should be made. Or why not suggest that Culverson be transferred from the C.I.D. to the civilian branch, and turned into a secretary? That way he could get a couple of hundred a year more, and a better pension.
Gideon turned back to his list, and started a new one, after marking the others "A" and "B." He headed the one marked "C":
C.I.D. ONLY
Yard and Divisions
1. Request from each division and department details of overtime worked.
2. Ditto, holidays outstanding.
3. Average hours worked per man, per week.
4. Number of cases where shortage of staff specifically impedes necessary action. NB. These cases must each be substantiated by details, e.g. the Taylor case.
5. Estimated number of active C.I.D. men from detective officers upward needed to give absolute coverage. (Break this down by rank.)
6. Office space, etc. Additional space required.
7. Age of buildings, floor space available, etc., etc.
Gideon put his pencil down, took his pipe out of his mouth, and said with a one-sided grin, "I'm getting tired, or I wouldn't write crap like that." He read through each of the sheets again, then pulled a fourth toward him, headed it "D" and wrote:
In addition to lists A, B, and C, get confidential reports from all senior officers on the quality of their staff, and on members of the staff ill, or less than 100% effective because of overwork.
Get reports on general attitude of all staff (e.g. Riddell).
Find comparative incomes for different grades in the following:
Armed Services
Post Office
Civil Servi
ce
Industry
Commerce
in endeavor to show that men are making positive sacrifice at the moment.
Suggest rates of pay needed to stimulate (a) men already on the Force and (b) recruitment.
He put this aside, glanced at his watch, and was surprised to find that it was half-past eleven. He got up and stretched, trying to remember the last occasion when an hour and a half had passed without a single interruption; it seldom happened. But he was beginning to miss the constant flow of news.
There was a tap at the communicating door.
"Come in."
Miss Sharp appeared.
"The Assistant Commissioner usually has a cup of tea or coffee at eleven-fifteen, Commander. Would you like to make that a general rule, too?"
Gideon rubbed his chin.
"Good idea," he said. "Do we get that stuff from the canteen?"
"I make it myself, sir."
"Fine. I don't mind which. White coffee with a little sugar, or tea without sugar but a little milk."
"I shall bring you a pot, sir, and the milk and sugar separately," said Miss Sharp, in a tone of mild reproof. "I'm afraid it will be a little late this morning." She went out, closing the door silently behind her. Gideon was grinning at it when the telephone bell rang, startlingly loud in the otherwise silent room. He strode to the desk and lifted the receiver.
"This is the Commissioner's secretary speaking, sir," said a woman, briskly. "There will be a brief meeting of assistant commissioners—not of departmental heads—this afternoon at four o'clock, and Sir Reginald hopes you will be free to attend."
Gideon said, "I'll be there, unless something unexpected turns up."
"Thank you, sir."
As he rang off, Gideon raised his eyebrows and soberly considered what he had just said: that something might crop up to prevent him from doing the Commissioner's bidding. There were perks in the A.C.'s job, but he had never been sure that it would really attract him. The next six months would show, and meanwhile it was time he was very careful of what he said to the Commissioner.
