Criminal Imports Read online

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  Criminal Imports

  (Gideon’s Lot)

  First published in 1965

  Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1965-2011

  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 Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 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

  0755117581 9780755117581 Print

  0755118618 9780755118618 Pdf

  0755126262 9780755126262 Kindle

  0755126270 9780755126279 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.

  A Madman and His Prize

  It was after ten o’clock before Nina Pallon was given some dry biscuits and lukewarm tea. The man who had jabbed the hypodermic needle into her was with her while she ate, but he did not say a word. In desperation she asked: “Are you holding me for ransom?

  No answer.

  “Please tell me! I’ll give you anything, anything at all, if you’ll let me go.”

  Her voice was almost inaudible. Her head ached with awful throbbing which beat time with the dynamo. Hardly a minute seemed to pass free from the roaring sound, which now seemed not only above her head, but inside it. She cried.

  He took the arm he had freed and tied it to the little bed again. He got up, went out, and closed and locked the door.

  “Let me out, let me out, let me out!” Nina cried.

  There were twenty men within fifty yards of her, but none could hear because of the other noises, and the thickness of walls and floor.

  Commander George Gideon, with precious little time on his side, knew he had to find the girl before her mad captor slipped over the edge.

  1: Three Calls

  The telephone on George Gideon’s desk at New Scotland Yard rang a hundred, sometimes it seemed a thousand times a day. A call might come from the room next door or from ten thousand miles away; there was no way of telling at the first ting! or the first buzz. Most of the calls brought some news of crime. They might be of crimes solved or crimes committed minutes ago. They might be trivial or significant, sensational or pedestrian. They might presage a tremendous upheaval at the Yard, a manhunt which would affect every man and woman there, from Gideon’s few superior officers down to the newest office girl in the secretary’s office. No week went by without tidings of murder being carried along those lines, no week passed without news of robbery, violence, blackmail, forgery, theft by hold-up or smash-and-grab. All these and all other crimes had their accompaniment of shock and grief, loss and despair for the victims, brief moments of triumph for most of the criminals, deep satisfaction for those among them who had become professional, expert and virtually safe in their calling.

  These things were part of the warp and weft of modern society, whether one liked it or not.

  Gideon did not like it, but as the chief executive officer of the Criminal Investigation Department of London’s Metropolitan Police, it was part of his job; over the years it had become part of his being.

  Like so many things, the telephone was taken for granted. Each of the three on that flat-topped desk with its built-in trays marked Post In - Post Out - Pending - Urgent - Closed had a different ringing sound. The telephone nearest his right hand was the internal one; it had a low pitched call, more buzz than ring. The second one, a little farther away, was from the Yard’s switchboard; it had a muted ring and seldom rang more than once. The third, for which he had to reach over the others, was his outside line. This was the least predictable of them all.

  On an afternoon in May, a fine warm day with full promise of summer, Gideon was sitting at his desk which was at right angles to the window, studying a report of a police court hearing at Bow Street. He was frowning because there were aspects of the case he did not like from a police point of view. Benito Dolci Lucci, of Milan, had been committed for trial on a charge of procuring, and released on two sureties of £5,000 each, put up by a business partner and his solicitor. The fact that Lucci was wealthy did not mean that he was a ringleader even by proxy in London’s vice, and Gideon had some doubts about the testimony of two of his departmental managers, although it damned Lucci. He had agreed to the charge because Vic Parsons, one of the Yard’s shrewdest C.I.D. superintendents, had pressed for it. Parsons’ latest report was quite objective, and Lucci had impressed him favourably in the dock; one of the witnesses had not.

  Gideon looked at his second-in-command, Lemaitre.

  “Lem, is Vic Parsons in?”

  “Old Dog’s Collar?” Lemaitre looked up, a pale, bony faced man with slightly prominent eyes, thinning black hair which he brushed sleekly back from a shiny forehead. “Shouldn’t think so. Last I heard he was having another go at the Lucci job.” Lemaitre, deeply involved in reports on a North Country post office robbery with murder, gave a mechanical tug at his red-and-white spotted bow tie, and looked down at the papers.

  Gideon made a note on his jotter: “Check if P’s in, 4:30.” It was now a little after three.

  As he finished, the Number 2 telephone bell rang. Automatically he reached out for it. A truck growled past on the Embankment outside the open window, and although he heard the operator speak all he caught was the last word-York. There had been some sabotage to machinery in two Yorkshire woollen towns recently, and the Yard had sent a man to consult with the local police. Gideon took it for granted that this call was from York.

  “Put him through.”

  There was a longer delay than usual, and squeaky noises on the line were followed by sounds which were loud one moment and faint th
e next.

  “Hi there, George.” Unexpectedly it was an American, his accent clear and loud. “Good to be talking to you again.” The voice was somehow familiar, but Gideon could not immediately place it. What American would be calling him from the north of England?

  “Hallo,” he said, putting vigour into his voice. “Who’s that speaking?”

  The man began: “What–“ and then the Yard’s operator interrupted hastily.

  “It’s Captain Nielsen of New York, sir.”

  New York!

  “Good lord!” exclaimed Gideon. “What are you doing in London, Kurt?”

  “I certainly wish I was there, I wouldn’t mind what I was doing,” Nielsen said, sounding as if he meant it. “I’m tied to my desk here in New York, and that’s where I’m likely to stay and swelter all summer. George, there are two things I can do for you and one you can do for me. How about a deal?”

  Gideon was over the surprise, and thinking rapidly about outstanding matters which had any connection with New York. At least one of the things Nielsen wanted to talk about must be urgent, but Gideon could think of nothing on the files.

  “Tell me what I can do for you, first.” He covered the mouthpiece quickly and called across the room: “Extension, Lem.” Lemaitre looked blank, then snatched a telephone off its cradle.

  “There was a bank job in Brooklyn last night, and a night watchman was injured. He says he heard two of the thieves talking, and one of them was British.” Nielsen half-laughed. “He said a limey! It was a very smart job. They opened the safe without blowing it, and we don’t have anyone in New York at this time who could do it so well. Can you find out who could do it on your side, and is out of the country?”

  “Do you want to hold on?” asked Gideon.

  Nielsen laughed. “I don’t believe even you could do it that fast, George. Cable me with descriptions and teleprint photographs, will you?”

  “Of course,” Gideon said. He saw Lemaitre put down his receiver gently, and get up from his chair. “What else?” he asked, puzzled by Lemaitre’s action, even more puzzled when his assistant started for the door on tiptoe.

  “That’s all I need from you right now,” Nielsen replied. “Any word about those Rite-Time watches?”

  “Not yet,” answered Gideon.

  Lemaitre was already out of the office.

  “I’ve got a feeling about those watches,” Nielsen went on. “Twenty thousand were stolen from a railroad truck in New Jersey, and none of them had been found over here. I think they’ve been shipped to Europe in large quantities, but are not being released to retail outlets yet.”

  “Haven’t any been exported by the manufacturers?”

  “Not to Europe, except to PBX stores. Any you come across are almost certainly stolen. Keep your eyes open, won’t you?” With hardly a pause, Nielsen went on: “Now here’s some really bad news for you. I’ve just been told that Abel Schumacher is on the Queen Elizabeth which is due at Southampton tomorrow afternoon. Abel is just about the best con man on this side, and he wouldn’t cross the Atlantic for chicken feed. He flew over to London about three months ago - we didn’t know until he flew back into New York a week later, and we wondered what he’d been up to. Now he’s gone back again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was preparing the ground the first time. He’s probably working on some innocent on board, and planning to make his killing soon after he reaches London. He’s booked in at the Bingham Hotel, and that’s money.”

  Gideon made another note. “Thanks. I’ll cover him. How about a photograph and a description?”

  “Both on the way.”

  “That’s fine.” There’s another New Yorker in London already, and I wish I’d known it before,” Nielsen continued. The tone of his voice changed, and Gideon sensed that this was the primary reason for the call. “He’s a Frank S. Mayhew, suspect on a rape-and-murder job in Connecticut last month. We knew he’d skipped but didn’t know where. Lives in an apartment with his mother on the East Side. She’s just gotten a postcard from him, telling her he had a good flight. It was mailed in London two days ago - the 7th. One of my men saw the postcard before it was delivered.”

  “Do you know the exact postmark?” Gideon asked.

  “S.W.1.”

  Gideon jotted that down.

  “Thanks. Just a suspect, you say?”

  “Don’t quote me, but he did the job, George. Girl of nineteen, sexy little tramp but no harm in her. She’d known him for about ten days, and her body was found in Central Park. He’d done just about everything. But Ma gave him an alibi and we couldn’t break it. That’s why we’re watching her - she knows what he’s done all right. We’d have booked him eventually, and he knew it. So he skipped. Try to find him, George.”

  Gideon said, “Want him for extradition?”

  “Not yet,” answered Nielsen. “We haven’t enough on him. This is just a warning. I wish it could be more.”

  Gideon also wished it could be. Unless he was virtually certain of his facts, the New York chief would not have telephoned, but Gideon could do little on the strength of such a warning. He could have a poster done for Divisional and Home Counties Police in the hope that a policeman would notice and identify Mayhew, and once the man was found he could have him watched in London - but even that precaution would be hard to justify for long.

  “How about his photograph?” he asked Nielsen.

  “I put a full report and pictures in the mail to you last night,” Nielsen answered. “When I got to thinking about it I decided to call you. We’ve had medical reports on him, and two psychiatric reports. He’s a psycho, don’t make any mistake about it.”

  “I won’t,” said Gideon. “Is that the lot?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “Enough to be going on with,” Gideon agreed mildly. “Thanks again, Kurt, and– oh! Hold on a moment.” His door had opened. Lemaitre had come in brandishing three forms from the Criminal Records Office, eyes aglow with excitement, breathing, “Hold him on!” Now Gideon realized what he had been doing, and had to suppress a chuckle. Lemaitre slapped the forms down in front of him, and cocked a thumb. “Hallo there,” Gideon went on. “I can name three of our top safebreakers who are out of the country, as far as we know. Ready?”

  “Okay, okay, you’re the quickest,” Nielsen said. “Go ahead.”

  “George Snider, five feet eight, dark-haired . . .” Gideon read out the names and descriptions of all three, and went on: “We’ll put copies of the records including fingerprints in the post tonight. I hope we’ve helped.”

  “I hope I’ve helped with Mayhew,” Nielsen said. “See you, George.”

  He rang off.

  Gideon put down his receiver and looked at Lemaitre’s grinning face. Lemaitre would crow like any cockerel for days over this. He lived in the absolute conviction that there was no police organization in the world as good as the Yard. Such pride would have mattered little but for his equal conviction that the American police were second rate. This wasn’t the moment for arguing with him, although the time would probably come.

  “Nice work,” Gideon said. “We’ve got a couple of new jobs on our hands.” He told Lemaitre about Abel Schumacher and Frank S. Mayhew, and was not surprised at the way Lemaitre scowled and said with obvious feeling:

  “Why the hell can’t they keep their psychos at home?”

  “We’re having enough of our own,” retorted Gideon dryly. “We’d better get busy. First, a reminder about those Rite-Time watches, then check with the Cunard Line to try to find out which passengers on the Queen Elizabeth due in Southampton tomorrow are booked at the Bingham Hotel. Also check with the hotel. We want Information alerted to send out a poster about Mayhew as soon as Nielsen’s report arrives in the post, too.”

  “That’s if he’s in London,” Lemaitre said sceptically.

  Mayhew was in London.

  On that calm, pleasant afternoon he was in Regent’s Park, a beautiful open space with the zoo in one section and the
canal running through another. He was on the bank of the canal, fifty yards or so from the road behind him and high above the canal in front. This was a clearing, surrounded by trees and bushes.

  Alice Clay was with him - pretty little, foolish little, sexy little Alice Clay. She lay on her back, her head pillowed on her hands which were linked behind her, for she knew that this posture gave an upward thrust to her breasts which fascinated men. Although she was so foolish and too keenly aware of her body, Alice was a pleasant enough person, nicer than most, generous, kindly, free of malice and of spite. She never went out with a man unless she liked him, either; it was the conquest and control that mattered most to her. She had enough money to live on, in fact almost too much for her own good. She did not need to work unless she wanted to, and most of the “work” she toyed with was for charitable causes.

  Just now her head was turned a little to one side. The hem of her skirt was inches above her knees, showing legs which were too full in the calves but very small at the ankles, unexpectedly small just below the knees. Lying flat, like this, her hips looked wide, her waist tiny and her belly flat, so that the rising mounds above had greater prominence.

  Frank was half-smiling at her.

  He puzzled her a little because he was looking at her neck, not at her bosom. He was ever so handsome, dark haired, sun-tanned, with fine flashing eyes and long, upswept eyelashes. She liked the way his nostrils were pinched in slightly, and the shape of his lips, which might have been carved from pink marble.

  He kept on moistening them, and she thought she knew why.

  She smiled at him.

  “Like it here, Frankie?”

  “It’s just right,” he said. “Wonderful.” He was lying on his side, facing her. The air was still and warm, and apart from traffic noises muffled by the trees the only sounds were the buzzing of insects. “Just great,” he added, and edged closer to her. “Are you okay?”