John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport Страница 10

“I wondered whether you’d like to go out to a meal?” he suggested.

“I’d rather not, dear,” Kate said. “You don’t mind cold beef, do you?”

“Tell me the time when I mind beef, however it comes!” Gideon retorted.

The truth was, he realised, that Kate didn’t want to make the effort of dressing to go up to the West End. Well, that had happened before, and she seemed bright enough -bright enough to be vexed with Malcolm when he came dashing in only to say he had to go out again.

“Malcolm, you haven’t had a solid meal —”

“Pooh, been eating all day! Just got to put a collar and tie on.” He rushed upstairs, and Kate was more put out than Gideon would have expected. But when he appeared again, spruced up, face shining, hair brushed, tie straight as a rod and shoes newly-polished, she appraised him with amused affection, and did not ask the obvious question. When he had gone, husband and wife looked at each other across the kitchen table and laughed.

“Girl-friend,” Gideon hazarded. “His first?”

“George, dear,” said Kate, “his twenty-first! For a detective -!”

They laughed together, and Gideon thought comfortably: she’s all right; it was just the heat. He turned to the sports page of the Sunday Sun and glanced through an enthusiastic editorial under headlines which trumpeted:

GREAT MONTH OF SPORT!

First Test-the DAKS — Wimbledon — The Derby With Wimbledon beginning tomorrow, the second England v. South Africa Test Match starting at Lords on Thursday, the DAKS Tournament at Wentworth providing the first major golfing event of the season and the Southern Counties Swimming Championships at Crystal Palace, this week begins a great month of sport.

Add polo at Windsor, where the Duke of Edinburgh will be playing, Greyhound-racing, Hot-rods at Wimbledon, rowing on the Thames, Cycle racing at Herne Hill and Athletics in half-a-dozen sports centres and stadiums, and we have a truly record June ahead of us. And the week after next with the Derby and the Oaks thrown in, will be furiously exciting.

At Wimbledon, six out of the first eight top seeds in the Men’s Singles are professional: three American, two Australian and one from Ecuador. Some of the unseeded players . . .

As Gideon read, it struck him with redoubled force that if any one man was to keep his finger on the pulse of London’s sport, he would need to be chosen quickly; it was already plenty late enough. And as the name and mental picture of Chief Inspector William Bligh kept recurring to him, that of young Tandy dropped into the background.

Bligh was due if not overdue for a superintendency; but everything which could possibly go wrong for him had gone wrong, in the past two or three years — including a divorce. There had been no breath of scandal, but somehow among certain authorities divorce of itself carried a connotation almost of stigma: an inherent suggestion that a police officer should give a perfect conventional example in his personal as well as his official life. Gideon believed, quite simply, that every man’s private life was his own and should only be considered officially if it could have an adverse effect on his work. Significantly Bligh, either because of tensions and emotional crises, had failed on several cases, including one which had received a lot of publicity. On the other hand, he was an ardent and exceptionally well-informed sports enthusiast, and did a great deal of work for the Metropolitan Police sporting associations.

Gideon tried to put him out of his mind, but only half-succeeded.

Kate went to bed early, and Malcolm came home late, with one or two smears of badly wiped-off lipstick on his mouth. Half-amused, half-thoughtful, Gideon pretended not to notice. But he was uneasily conscious of the fact that ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ of this generation took things for granted which still shocked him a little and would probably upset Kate a great deal. Well, at least Malcolm looked happy . . .

Kate was up at her usual seven-thirty, next morning, singing under her breath as she cooked breakfast. Penelope called, to say she would be back next day, instead of that evening.

“Had a wonderful wow of a weekend!” she told Kate.

“Wonderful wow of a weekend!” Gideon echoed, as he drove to the office. He was still half-amused, and a little preoccupied. Penny had once seemed very serious over a boyfriend — had, in fact, been engaged to him — but these days, seemed to have a variety of beaux. Now that she travelled with the orchestra, of course, she was home much less.

“And she’s twenty-five,” he reminded himself. “Don’t you forget it!”

He reached his office a little after, nine o’clock. It was warmer again and much more humid than over the weekend; the duty policeman in the hall was already looking damp and sticky.

His own office was cooler and the fan working — as far as he could judge no one else had been issued one. Who—?

His thoughts stopped him in his tracks.

“Could Scott-Marie have — ?” he muttered, incredulous. Then more strongly, derided himself. “Nonsense! It couldn’t be!” But he was thoughtful as he took off his jacket and put it on a hanger before turning to the reports Hobbs had put on his desk. The top one was about Charlie Blake’s murder, and Gideon opened it to find a cabled message: Telephoning Monday two o’clock London time Hopeful of results Lemaitre.

There was a report on the autopsy, a note that the inquest was to be held next day, and several more statements from passers-by who had seen Blake, including one from a night-watchman at a tea warehouse who claimed to have seen him get into the taxi. The watchman’s name was Dingle.

On the file dealing with the feared demonstration at Lords Cricket ground, there was a copy of Charles Henry’s report, two shorter reports from Detective-Constable Juanita Conception, and a few notes from Henry which were clearly intended to demonstrate the way he was sticking to the job. One note read:

It is now confirmed that a party of well-trained professional agitators is coming from the United States, travelling Tourist Class on the S.S. France. The name of the leader is Donelli — Mario Donelli: an American citizen of Italian extraction.

There was another file, giving a summary of the cases of shop-lifting, pocket-picking and bag-snatching over the past three months. Gideon glanced at two columns which provided the comparative figures for this year, and the same period in the previous year. A note in red, in Hobbs’ writing, said tersely, Average increase: 32%. So it hadn’t been imagination or over-sensitivity on his part; these crimes were very much on the increase.

“Have to do something about that,” he grimaced, thinking aloud. “I wonder if Hobbs is through? If he is —”

There was a tap at the door and Hobbs came in.

He looked very hard at Gideon, as if half-expecting some kind of reaction or reception. It was so much out of character that it at once reminded Gideon of his deputy’s apparent hesitancy on the Friday. He waited for an explanation, but Hobbs quickly became himself again. His greeting was formal enough to tell Gideon that someone else was in the other office; someone who might overhear what was being said.

“Good morning, Commander.”

“Good morning, Alec.”

“We’ve an emergency this morning,” Hobbs told him.

“What kind of emergency?”

“About two pounds of heroin, stolen from a pharmaceutical chemist.”

“Oh,” Gideon said heavily. “What was the chemist doing with it?”

“He’d bought it from an acquaintance in the trade and was distributing it among addicts, and selling it abroad,” Hobbs answered promptly, startling Gideon. “It’s a somewhat unusual case, sir. We wouldn’t have known about it, if the owner hadn’t come and told us.”

Gideon pushed his chair back, slowly.

“A confession?”

“Yes, sir. He came straight to the Yard and asked for you. He’s in my office, now.” Hobbs, in his way, was pleading with Gideon to see the chemist; pleading with him, also, to handle him gently. He knew Gideon’s particular hatred of drugs, especially the pushing of drags among the young. He knew also that it was one of the forms of crime about which Gideon could really be harsh; blackmail, and any form of cruelty to children, were others. Now, he stood four-square — pleading; so unlike Hobbs: “He will give any help he can.”

“He could have started helping by not—” Gideon cut himself short. “Who is, he where’s he from, when did it happen and how long has he been here?”

Hobbs replied as if he had foreseen the questions and had carefully rehearsed the answer: “John Cecil Beckett, of 27g, Edgware Road. He is the owner of a small chemist shop and has two assistants; one of them his wife, one a young man who hasn’t turned up this morning. A small window at the side of the shop was forced, and the thief presumably got in through that. Nothing else was stolen, as far as Beckett knows. He’s been here about half-an-hour. He wasn’t really fit to be questioned until ten minutes or so ago — he was distraught.”

Gideon granted, “How is he now?”

“Fair.”

“I’ll see him,” Gideon conceded, knowing there had never been any doubt that he would. I’ll come into you in a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you,” Hobbs said simply, and half-turned.

“Before you go, Alec.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What about your nominees for the great month of sport?”

Hobbs smiled faintly as if appreciating the change of subject, and again answered with the utmost speed and precision:

“Tandy and Bligh, Commander.”

“Then we both think Bligh would be all right, so let’s talk to him. Do you know where he is?”

“Over at Madderton’s Bank,” answered Hobbs. “They had a raid there, last night.”

“Big one?”

“Biggish, by the sound of things.”

“H’mm . . .  ” Gideon frowned, then ordered: “Well, just the same — send someone to replace Bligh. Have him here by eleven o’clock.”

“He’ll be here,” Hobbs promised, and went out.

Gideon moved to the window, very deliberately. He had already recovered from his reaction to the news of the drug theft, but had not recovered from his surprise at Hobbs’ manner, nor from awareness of his own extra-sensitivity over Hobbs, Kate, this pedlar in drugs — even Charles Henry and Police Constable Juanita Conception. And he had a feeling that he was not concentrating enough on any one case.

After a few minutes, however, he felt much less moody and self-analytical. The boats, gay and graceful, were already on the move with their summer crowds, and two gaily bedecked launches went slowly by with huge banners proclaiming: TO WIMBLEDON RETURN. He had never seen that before. The morning air off the river was fresh enough and there was so little humidity that he suspected a sudden change of wind direction in the past half-hour.

He went to Hobbs’ door, tapped, paused for a fraction of a second, and went in.

A man in his middle-twenties at most, straw-coloured hair sticking up as if neither combed nor brushed that morning, was sitting back in the armchair watching smoke curl upwards from the cigarette in his knuckly hand. His face was very pale and his eyes enormous-and he was quivering: almost as if he were an addict himself and was badly in need of a shot.

He sprang up.

“Mr. Gideon!”

“ ‘Morning,” Gideon said gruffly.

“Mr. Gideon, I  — I-can only say I’m desperately sorry! I wouldn’t have touched it, but my wife isn’t well and — and I’m doing so badly at the shop.” He deplored his own excuse at once. “God knows I know I shouldn’t have touched it! But I did feel I could control the — the people who bought from me. And I had a — deal in hand to get rid of the filthy stuff. I — oh, God, get it back, sir! Get it back! If the thief starts on a new round, God knows how many will suffer.”

It would have been easy to say: “You should have thought of this before.” Instead, Gideon said: “We’ll get it back, but we’ll need your help.”

“I’ll do anything — anything I can!”

Gideon looked at Hobbs, and asked: “Is Mr. Charlesworth in, do you know?”

“Yes.”

“Take Mr. Beckett along to him, and make sure Mr. Charlesworth has all the assistance he needs.”

“I will,” said Hobbs.

“I’m sorry — bothering you, sir,” Beckett muttered. “But I knew you would do all you could — I knew you would! I’ve -I’ve a cousin on the Force, sir, and he -he absolutely swears by you. You will get the stuff back, won’t you?”

“I’ll be greatly surprised if we don’t, and very soon,” Gideon assured him. He glanced at Hobbs and motioned slightly towards the communicating door, and Hobbs nodded almost imperceptibly in return: he would be straight back as soon as he had finished with Beckett.

As he strode back into his own office, Gideon wondered how it was possible that a man who knew so much about heroin could contemplate making money by selling it illegally, and wondered why Beckett’s attitude had changed so much? He was suddenly and much more vividly aware of just what a danger the stolen stuff represented.

Two pounds of it! And a tenth of a grain could make an addict-half a grain a week keep him happy, by rotting his body and his mind. Gideon was suddenly possessed of the same sense of urgency as Beckett had shown.

Who had the stuff now?

“How much have you got?” a man demanded.

“Enough,” said the sharp-featured chemist’s assistant who had stolen the heroin from Beckett.

“Can you keep up a supply?”

“I can keep it up. Can you keep paying?”

“I can pay.”

“Who are your customers?” demanded the assistant.

‘‘You’d certainly like to know!”

“I want to be sure I get my money. Who are they, Jenks? I don’t want to know their names — I just want to know how well they’ll pay.”

The man named Jenks — thin, middle-aged, with a strangely pale complexion and a slight cast in one of his almost colourless grey eyes — put a hand to his pocket and brought out a bulging wallet. He took out a wad of notes and thrust them into the young chemist’s hands.

“There’s plenty more,” he said flatly. “Plenty more! I’ve got a market in a school — a private school. Don’t worry about your money. What they can’t find themselves, their wealthy families will pay. No one wants scandal, do they?”

Very slowly and deliberately, the young chemist counted the money — in all, nineteen ten pound notes — nodded, and turned away.

CHAPTER NINE

Chance in a Life Time

Chief Inspector William Bligh was in the strong-room at Madderton’s Bank when he had the recall message: “Report to the Deputy Commander at once.”

The moment he read it, Bligh’s heart dropped like a stone. He had been called out early and assigned to this investigation, and his first thought had been that the great men were giving him another chance: Madderton’s, one of the few remaining private banks with its headquarters in the West End, was an influential one. The raid was bound to get a lot of publicity and if he could pull off a quick result, that could only benefit him.