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  A Conference for Assassins

  (Gideon’s March)

  First published in 1962

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1962-2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755104412 9780755104413 Print

  0755117824 9780755117826 Pdf

  0755119282 9780755119288 Mobi

  0755120418 9780755120413 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  1: London’s Pavements

  The old and the young wives’ tale about the pavements of London being harder than pavements anywhere else had never impressed George Gideon, partly because he had long been aware of the usefulness of thick leather soles. In his school days and early adolescence, homemade soles had been hammered on to the shiny surface of new boots and shoes by his father, who had been hard put to it to make ends meet, yet determined that no son of his should ever go ill shod.

  Soon after he had been accepted by the metropolitan police as a constable, and stationed in Hampstead - just about as far away from his home in Fulham as one could get in the metropolitan area - Gideon had realized the importance of boots, shoes and feet which could stand up to a lot of use. His first extravagance had been to have boots made for him, with specially padded soles; his second had been to pay hard-earned money for the monthly attention of a chiropodist.

  To Gideon, always a man of down-to earth common sense, this had been the same kind of thing as making sure that the tires of his bicycle were inflated properly, and that the tread was never smooth. A consequence of this was that today, in his fifty third year, he could pound the pavements of London as solidly and purposefully as any newly appointed constable. Sometimes his legs ached; his feet, never. In those early days a glow of romanticism had seemed to turn the smooth paving stones to gold, or the promise of gold, and in a way he had never stopped looking for it, although there was no more rational man in London.

  Few things gave him more satisfaction than a walk through his own Square Mile, with Piccadilly Circus its heart. London had the comfortable familiarity of a good wife, and gave him just as much satisfaction.

  On a morning in May, just after nine-thirty, Gideon got off a bus halfway along Victoria Street and walked toward Westminster Abbey; there were few approaches to London which he liked better. He was on foot because his car was being serviced. A squad car would have picked him up, but he preferred to go by bus, even though it had meant queuing for ten minutes, then standing for another fifteen. Now he strode along, watching the late-arrival office workers darting into gloomy doorways and disappearing up narrow staircases or crowding round old-fashioned lifts.

  This part of London had changed very little in fifty years; none of the rectangular modern blocks of offices and flats yet gashed the sky line. Gideon strode along, head and sometimes head and shoulders above most of the people whom he passed, big powerful shoulders slightly rounded, thick iron-grey hair brushed straight back from his forehead,, head thrust forward - he walked as he lived, always knowing where he wanted to go, and finding the shortest way. He had a look of almost aggressive power. Every policeman on the route stiffened when he recognized the Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Two sergeants met at the approach to Parliament Square just after he passed.

  “Old Gee-Gee looks as if he’ll be on the rampage this morning,” one man said.

  “I was just thinking about him,” said the other. “I’ve known him for twenty years, and except that he’s a bit greyer he hasn’t changed at all.”

  “Dunno that I want him to change,” the first man reflected. “Do you remember the time when he said if we didn’t get more men on the force, he’d throw his hand in?”

  “Who doesn’t? Wonder why he’s walking this morning?” the second man mused aloud, and grinned. “Probably come to keep an eye onus, although we wouldn’t know it!”

  Gideon kept to the right of Parliament Square, passing the statue of Abraham Lincoln, so that he could see the courtyard of the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, all the recently cleaned gothic stonework, the intricacy of the carving, the satisfying, and harmonious whole. Then he reached the corner of Parliament Street, glanced along Whitehall toward Trafalgar Square, and made a pickpocket who was having an early session dodge quickly out of sight; there were many habitual criminals in London prepared to swear that Gideon had eyes at the back of his head. He turned along the Embankment, glanced across at the London County Hall, heard a moaning note from a tug on the river, and was saluted by two uniformed men on duty as he turned into the Yard and up the stairs to the front hall. The duty sergeant said, “Good morning,” and smiled. A dozen strapping, youngish men were waiting in the hall, and Gideon remembered that a party of Australian policemen from the Criminal Investigation Bureaus of five states were going to be shown round the Yard. The grey-haired sergeant opened the door leading to the C.I.D. section of the building, but Gideon turned round to look at the visitors.

  “Is Detective Inspector Wall here?” he inquired. A man with a rather big head, and a very brown face, took a half step forward.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Wall, from Brisbane.”

  “I’m Gideon,” said Gideon, knowing quite well that they had been told who he was as he had walked up the steps.

  “Glad to see you, Inspector. Your father was a Superintendent here when I was a fl
atfoot.” He shook hands with Wall, and acknowledged the others with a wave of the hand. “Enjoy the tour.”

  He went through the passage door, leaving a gratified and murmuring group behind him, and strode along to his own office. He knew that from the moment he had stepped into the Yard, old Joe Bell had been warned. Joe, his personal aide, was only a few years off retirement, and there were those who said that he should have retired at sixty, not waited until he was sixty-five. He was the best personal assistant Gideon had ever had, and would already have all the morning’s reports looked over and placed in order of importance. He was sitting at his desk, square behind the door. Gideon’s desk was slantwise across the wide window, so that he could get full advantage of the light from the Embankment. The office had pale-green walls, dark brown furniture, a carpet, two filing cabinets, several telephones and a couple of rows of books - from police manuals to bound copies of the Police Gazette, Gross on Criminal Investigation, Glaister’s Medical Jurisprudence, a dog-eared dictionary, and a current edition of Whittaker’s Almanac, as well as of the New York World Telegram’s World Almanac. This last was a regular Christmas gift from a friend in New York Police Headquarters.

  “Morning, Joe.”

  “Morning, George.”

  Gideon eased his collar, then took off his coat; it was warm, and the sun was gilding the windows. “How have the bad men been behaving?” inquired Gideon, and glanced out. The Thames’ boats were gay with striped awnings, for the up-river and down-river trips had already begun.

  “About average,” said Bell. He was a smaller man than Gideon, rather plump, round-faced, a little untidy, nearly bald, always apparently in need of a haircut. “You’d better have a talk to Abbott. He’s got a bit mixed up over the Carraway job - can’t make up his mind whether we ought to charge Carraway or just watch him. Apart from that, there’s nothing you need worry about until you’ve seen the A.C.”

  Gideon, glancing down at some reports on his desk, said absently: “Eh?” and then looked up. “What was that about the A.C.?”

  “I had a call put out over the air for you. Didn’t you get it?”

  “I walked.”

  “Oh, lor’,” said Bell, in dismay. “I thought you’d be all ready for the conference.” He was obviously perturbed. “Something’s up. I tried to get an inkling out of the A.C.’s secretary, but the bitch says she doesn’t know what it’s all about. Can’t we do anything about that woman, George? Ever since she got that job, she’s been . . .”

  “When’s the meeting due?”

  “Rogerson says will you go in as soon as you can?”

  “Where’s Abbott?”

  “Waiting next door.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Gideon picked up a telephone and said: “Mr. Rogerson, please,” and held on. After a moment, he heard Rogerson’s secretary. “Who wants him, please?”

  This was what Bell meant; the newly appointed but fairly long-in-the-tooth secretary who had been wished upon the Assistant Commissioner knew perfectly well who was calling.

  Gideon was tempted to raise his voice, but instead said mildly: “Commander Gideon.”

  “Just one moment, Commander.” There was a pause, and during it the door opened and Abbott came in. Abbott was a comparative newcomer to the chief superintendents’ ranks, and wasn’t yet sure of himself. Gideon had a feeling that the man might never make the grade; he was too often afraid that he might do the wrong thing.

  “Take a pew, Abbott,” Gideon said, and Rogerson came on the line.

  “Yes?”

  “How long can I have?” Gideon asked.

  “Can’t you come right away?”

  “I’d rather be ten minutes.”

  “All right,” said Rogerson. “We’ll turn up a bit late. Don’t be a minute longer than you can help.”

  “I won’t,” promised Gideon, and put the telephone receiver down and pushed his chair back. He knew that to Abbott, as to many men who did not know him well, he was something of an ogre; certainly a man to be wary and chary of.

  Abbott was shorter than many at the Yard, and that put him at a disadvantage. To look at he was the ideal strong man of the boys’ adventure books; his chin was square, his brown eyes deep-set, his eyebrows thick, well defined, and slightly blacker than his hair, which was beginning to turn from chestnut brown to grey. He moistened his lips.

  “Morning, Abbott,” said Gideon. “Carraway playing you up?”

  “I can’t make up my mind whether we have enough evidence against him to justify an arrest,” said Abbott. “Mind you, I’m pretty sure he’s our man. But his alibi for the night when Arthur Rawson was murdered might stand up. And if it does . . .” he broke off.

  “Seen Carraway himself since yesterday morning?”

  “Only for five minutes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s as bland as ever, Mr. Gideon. Seems to enjoy pretending that he doesn’t know that he is under suspicion of murdering his partner. The fact remains that he inherits the business, and he was in serious financial difficulty before his partner’s death. Apart from this alibi, we could make a good case,” Abbot said. “There’s another angle I’m following up. Carraway’s living with a young girl named Belman, Marjorie Belman. I thought she would turn out to be a hard-bitten bitch, but she seems a nice enough kid. I’m going to see if I can work on her to break the alibi.”

  “Go over it again, every aspect of it. Interview the three men who make the alibi for Carraway, then talk to that girl. Be here at six o’clock sharp this evening, and we’ll go over it together.”

  “I’ll be here on the dot,” Abbott promised. “Thank you very much, Mr. Gideon.”

  He backed out.

  “If you ever make him worth a chief super’s pension, I’ll buy you a dinner,” said Bell. “You going to leave the rest to me?”

  “Yes - but keep a check on that Australian party, make sure no one skimps with them in the Information Room and in Records. Send a personal note - no, wait a minute, I’ll do that myself.” Gideon lifted his telephone as he got up, and said: “Get me Mr. King Hadden, of Fingerprints.” He stood looking across at Bell, saying: “You have a word with the Black Museum, and make sure that they don’t overdo the sex and sadism stuff. Hallo, Nick - George here. You know we’ve an Australian party on the way round?” He grinned. “I know what you think about Cooks’ tours! Make sure they get a complete story on those prints you dug out of the pothole in Derbyshire, will you? Show ‘em that the Yard can solve a forty-year-old murder when it feels like it. And tidy your place up a bit... . You know damned well what I mean! Show one of your chaps a duster, clear away some of that junk in the corner, and don’t have too many dirty tea cups around.” He paused, chuckled, and went on. “All right, Nick, all right. I’ll look in myself and see whether you’ve had a spring cleaning or not.”

  He rang off, took his jacket off the back of his chair and went to the door. “Now I’ll go and see what all the trouble’s about,” he said to Bell. “I can’t think of anything that would need a special conference, unless the Home Secretary’s latest pronouncement on the state of crime in the country is causing questions from the Opposition. We haven’t got any big job outstanding.”

  “Nothing I know of,” Bell said.

  “I’ll get back as soon as I can,” promised Gideon, and he went out thinking about the summons and, a little uneasily, about Carraway.

  “And it’s got to be done as soon as possible,” Carraway was saying, about that time. He was a man of medium height, smooth-haired, smooth-shaven, with very dark-brown eyes. He looked into the scared face of Eric Little, one of his car salesmen, and took a packet of five pound notes out of the side pocket of his beautifully tailored, tan-coloured suit. He slapped the wad on to the palm of his left hand. “Here’s five hundred of the best, Eric. You get the other five hundred when she’s dead.”

  “Bruce, how do you know she’ll talk? How do you know?”

  “She’ll talk because she hasn�
�t got the guts to stand up to police questioning,” Carraway declared. “You know it as well as I do.”

  “Listen, I . . .”

  “Now you listen to me,” interrupted Carraway sharply. “You take her down to Brighton, and drown her. I don’t want any more argument. You’re getting a thousand quid for the job, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Bruce, Jorrie’s a nice kid . . .”

  “So what? There are thousands of nice kids. There was one you strangled, remember? You choked the life out of her because she was in the family way, and going to make trouble with your wife and kids. You got away with that, thanks to me. Now you’ll kill this other nice kid - my way. Because if you don’t, an anonymous telephone call to the police will make them ask a lot of awkward questions. Don’t give me that line about conscience.” Little muttered:

  “Okay, Bruce, okay.” He put his hand out and took the wad of notes. Soon, his eyes brightened. “Don’t you worry,” he went on. “I’ll put her down with the fishes.” He moved away and looked through the glass walls of Carraway’s office, to the rows of used cars, all marked: FOR SALE, and at the big sign which read: CAR HIRE - LOWEST TERMS. There was a slump in second-hand car sales and it would take him six months to earn five hundred pounds in commission.

  Carraway, who knew him well, could almost read his thoughts.

  2: Special Cause

  The office of Rogerson, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, was on the same floor but round a corner from Gideon’s. Rogerson was sitting on the corner of his desk, dictating to the middle-aged secretary, a Miss Timson, who had recently taken over from another middle-aged secretary who had unexpectedly decided to get married.

  Miss Timson was rather tall, slightly angular, always neatly and simply dressed, always freshly coiffured; except for her manner, there was no way she could be faulted. Her manner now said that even the Commander should have knocked.