A Backwards Jump Read online

Gideon asked abruptly: “Did your husband have a woman friend?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He loved me, he was faithful to me.”

  “Quite sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Have you a lover?” Gideon demanded, harsh and accusing.

  She cried: “No, no! What an awful thing to say!”

  “Have you a lover?”

  “What are you talking about? What—”

  “I want to know who killed him,” Gideon said roughly. “I don’t want his murderer to get away. Who hated your husband, Mrs. Lee?”

  “No—no one hated him.”

  “Who hated him?”

  “No one!”

  “Did you hate him?”

  “No, I didn’t, I loved him!” She jumped up from her chair and stood in front of it, hands clenched, eyes blazing, in exactly the attitude he had hoped she would adopt. Her restraint was going, her self-control had almost gone, soon she would begin to cry; and crying, talk. Gideon was a policeman, first and last, his job to find the killer, and if she could help him he must make her. “Don’t stand there and accuse me of killing him,” she cried. “I loved him!”

  “Someone hated him.”

  “I didn’t, I loved him.” She took a step forward, and shook her fist at Gideon. Anger had brought colour to her cheeks and put life into her eyes. She was trembling, too; she was almost magnificent. “No one hated him except you bloody coppers, even when he was trying to run straight you wouldn’t let him.”

  “Mrs. Lee, someone killed your husband. You saw what they did. Remember?” She dropped back a pace, and raised a hand to her face, as if to shut out a vision of horror. Gideon almost regretted his cruelty, but went on without a pause: “I want to know who hated him like that. All you have to do is tell me.”

  She said in a low-pitched voice, as if words hurt her now: “No one hated him, and I loved him.”

  “Why try to protect a murderer, Mrs. Lee?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “That is what you’re doing,” Gideon accused. “You are protecting the man who killed Frisky. If you loved him, you owe it to his memory—”

  There was someone coining up the stairs; voices; a man speaking quietly, saying: “I know my rights.” Someone called up, loudly: “Mr. Hemmingway, Mr. Lyon insists on coming up.”

  Gideon was disappointed and annoyed but not angry; this was a continuing battle between the police and the powerful forces ranged on Frisky Lee’s side. There was time for one more effort.

  “Come on,” Gideon rasped. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Was it Ratsy?”

  He made her look at him, and saw the absolute look of astonishment in her eyes, as if she was bewildered by the question. But he wasn’t fooled. He felt sure that she knew who had killed her husband; he was almost sure that he knew why she dared not talk.

  Then her mother’s shrill voice sounded outside.

  “Well, you’ve taken your time, I must say.”

  Gideon caught a glimpse of Ada Lee’s mother, without the baby now, with exaggeratedly pointed breasts and a remarkably small waist; she would have passed for Ada’s sister anywhere. And the sharpness of her tongue was not reserved for the police: it was used on Gabriel Lyon, too.

  Lyon came in, a smallish, middle-aged man with a lot of iron-grey hair. He was immaculate, and had an air of confidence and assurance, a charming manner as well as a pleasant expression. He ignored Gideon and Hemmingway as he crossed the room, both hands outstretched. Mrs. Lee moved towards him, the colour receding from her cheeks.

  The young grandmother watched with those very bright eyes.

  “My dear Ada, I’m so very, very sorry,” Lyon said. He held her hands gently, and she stood with him until he guided her back to the chair. “I shall do everything I can to help,” he promised her, “and I know the police will, too.”

  He looked round at Gideon.

  “Won’t you?” he asked.

  “Bah!” ejaculated Ada’s mother, and walked away, as if nauseated; but her going proved her trust in Lyon.

  “We’ll find the killer quicker if Mrs. Lee tells us everything she knows,” Gideon retorted.

  Lyon spread his hands. “You can be quite sure that she will give you all the information she can, but she must have your sympathy now, Mr. Gideon. Her doctor will soon be here, and I’m sure he will order her complete rest.”

  “Mr. Lyon, don’t get in our way over this investigation,” Gideon said. “We’re going to dig deep into Lee’s past, and we’re going to uncover a lot of queer business. Don’t get in our way.”

  “I shall be anxious to help you in every way I can,” Lyon said, still smoothly. “Now, if you will be good enough to allow me to have a few minutes alone with Mrs. Lee, I would appreciate it.”

  A man, hurrying up the stairs, broke across his words.

  Gideon and Hemmingway were already on the move towards the doorway, when the man appeared; a sweaty, red-faced plainclothes man from the Division.

  “We’ve found—” he began to blurt out.

  “Hold it!” Gideon snapped, and actually hustled Hemmingway out, and closed the door; at least Lyon and the woman need not know what had been discovered. “Keep your voice low,” he ordered. “What have you found?”

  “Dozens of wallets and purses, cheap rings, fountain-pens, hundreds of things that have been knocked off,” the man reported, and he could not keep the excitement out of his face or his voice. “They were in Ratsy’s room, under some loose floorboards. Looks like a pickpocket’s hoard. Who’d have thought we’d find stuff like that at Frisky Lee’s?”

  “C’m on, George,” Hemmingway breathed. “Let’s have a dekko.”

  Three detectives were in the small room, which was spotlessly clean and well lighted. More hiding places had been found, some containing stolen jewels, others empty cases and boxes; but the one big hoard was enough to go on with. Fingerprint men were already testing some of the wallets, but Gideon, handling one, felt pretty sure of one thing they would find.

  There were children’s prints on most of these.

  There were children’s prints on nearly all of the shiny surfaces. The loot of the child criminals had been brought here.

  “We’ll keep quiet about this,” Gideon ordered. “The less Lyon knows the better.”

  “What a hell of a shame Frisky’s dead,” Hemmingway said, almost ludicrous in his longing to have a live Lee to charge with being in possession of these stolen goods. “Know what I think, George? We’ve only just touched the surface. They were in Ratsy’s room as a plant, of course – we’ll never fasten this on to Lee.”

  10

  GIDEON GOES HOME

  Nothing else incriminating was found, but men were still searching when Gideon and Hemmingway left.

  “Never been able to make my mind up about Gabby Lyon,” said Hemmingway. “Sometimes I think he’s the biggest crook this side of Aldgate Pump, and sometimes I think he’s on the side of the angels.” They were entering his office upstairs at NE Divisional Headquarters.

  “Know what you mean,” said Gideon. “Open a window, Hemmy, it’s like an oven in here.”

  Hemmingway thrust up a window, which opened on to the yard of the police station, where only one car was parked. Then the Divisional man moved to his desk, where there were several reports and photographs. His lips puckered into a whistle. Gideon sat on the corner of the desk and tried to be patient.

  “Ratsy’s prints on the handle of the knife, Ratsy’s prints on the window frame of Lee’s window, and on a newly painted drainpipe outside.” He shot an almost excited glance at Gideon. “Here’s some more. Ratsy was seen leaving the house about five o’clock this morning, by the fr
ont door, and seen to go back towards the back of the house about half-past six. The doc gives the approximate time of death as seven o’clock – not much later, anyhow. Looks as if Ratsy was thrown out of the house after a row, went to Tod Cowan’s and begged for a couch, crept out again when Tod had gone back to bed, then took his revenge on Frisky. If he lost his head, he’d show his hatred all right.”

  “No definite indication of the cause of Ratsy’s death yet, is there?” Gideon asked.

  “Give us a chance.”

  “Just hoping,” said Gideon mildly. “If he wanted to kill, why didn’t he do it before he left Lee’s house?”

  “What’s the matter with you, want it in words of three letters?” demanded Hemmingway. “He left, turned up at Tod’s place and established what he would call an alibi. Then he crept back. Not much difficulty about that, and Ratsy was the best man at climbing a wall in this Division.”

  Gideon nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “You yourself asked who hated Frisky,” Hemmingway said, “and God knows Ratsy had reason to. He was always getting the raw edge of Lee’s tongue, often the thick end of his boot, too. Everyone knew he was bound to turn sooner or later, and we’ve got the mother-in-law’s evidence about his mood,”

  “Oh, yes,” Gideon agreed. “Want to know something?”

  “Try me.”

  “I don’t want Ratsy to be the killer,” Gideon said. “That would be too easy. I want the killer to be someone who’s worked with Frisky Lee for a long time, who can still hold the lid on this mess, until we get him.”

  “See what you mean,” conceded Hemmingway. “But evidence is evidence, George. Wonder if we’ve picked up anyone trying to sell hot stuff yet?”

  “What we want is a second-in-command,” Gideon went on. “When we get him, we can find out who’s training these kids, and what else is going on.”

  A telephone rang as he finished, and Hemmingway picked it up.

  “Superintendent speaking.” He listened for a moment, then his face brightened up, and he grinned across at Gideon. “Go on—who else? . . . I see, okay. Yes, keep off Fraser all the morning, and the others. Ta.” He rang off and his grin was the grin of a happy man. “That was the C.I. who’s watching Mick Fraser. We’ve got the house surrounded. Picked up three boys on the way to him with hot stuff in their pockets, hoping to unload and get a bit of cash before everyone knows about Frisky Lee. Gee-Gee, this is going to be one of the big mornings!”

  “Somebody has to have some luck,” said Gideon. “Want me any more?”

  “No, but let’s go downstairs and have a pint,” suggested Hemmingway. “I can do with a wet, wouldn’t mind a sandwich, either. Might hear the cause of Ratsy’s death before we’ve finished, too.” He led the way downstairs, looking bright and cheerful because the things that he had always wanted to happen, were happening: crooks who had done their jobs and had been sitting on the loot for days, weeks and even months were going to try to unload this morning. At least three were booked for a long stretch, and with luck there would be dozens more. Whichever way one considered it, much of the credit would come Hemmingway’s way; it looked as if he would retire in a blaze of glory, and with his Division cleaned up as well as it would ever be.

  They had beer and some hefty ham sandwiches.

  The cause of Ratsy’s death was still not known when Gideon left the Divisional office, but within five minutes of entering his own, at the Yard, there was a call from a satisfied, almost a smug Hemmingway.

  “Ratsy died from natural causes, that’s established,” he said. “He’s been under the doctor for cardiac troubles for years. Any sudden or unusual exertion brought on an attack, and this one was fatal. Two more witnesses turned up who saw him coming away from the back of Lee’s house, too. It’s all cut and dried, George. And we picked up two more of the boys with their pockets full of loot, this time at Robo’s place. What’s the betting we won’t get that dozen before the day’s out?”

  “Keep it up,” said Gideon. “Thanks, Hemmy.” He rang off, and sat back in his big chair for a long time, his face greasy with sweat, the tie hanging down and the ends of his collar loose. His face was set and hard. He picked up the pipe which he hadn’t lit all morning, groped for matches and struck a light. He remembered the look in Mrs. Lee’s eyes when he had mentioned Ratsy as a possible killer, and felt more than ever sure that she thought she knew who the murderer was, and certainly did not suspect Ratsy.

  He picked up a telephone, and said: “See if you can get me Mr. Gabriel Lyon, at his Whitechapel High Street address, or else at 3, Medd Alley, Aldgate – the name there is Lee. Let me know what happens.” He rang off, and drew at the pipe; and it was sweet. He dabbed his forehead again, looked out at the grey skies and wondered if the storm, obviously on the way, would cool the city.

  Then he pulled a note-pad towards him, and jotted down several things, including the fact that he had seen that cowed boy from Hyde Park in the Lane that morning.

  The indications were that Lee had become so bold that he had used his own house as a storage place for stolen goods. There was a possibility that the loot had been planted, but it was not very great. Obviously he, Gideon, ought to be feeling very pleased with himself. If Lee’s death sent all those thieves rushing to sell their stuff, then Lee’s part was absolutely certain: this was complete vindication of all his theories.

  Yes, he ought to be feeling cock-a-hoop.

  A telephone bell rang.

  “Mr. Gabriel Lyon, sir.”

  “Where’d you find him?”

  “At the Medd Alley address, sir.”

  “Thanks. Put him on.” So Lyon had been with Mrs. Lee for nearly three hours already. “Hallo, Mr. Lyon.”

  “Good afternoon, Commander,” said Lyon, in his pleasant voice. “How can I help yo?”

  “You can tell Mrs. Lee that she needn’t worry about anything happening to her baby, we’ll see to that. She’ll be quite safe if she’ll tell us who killed her husband.”

  Lyon was silent for a moment, obviously not expecting such bluntness.

  “I’m serious,” Gideon went on.

  “I’m sure you are,” said Lyon, as if perplexed. “I had no idea that you or anyone else seriously thought that Mrs. Lee knew who had killed poor Lee. As you know, she’s quite distraught, and I’ve had a doctor to see her. He’s given her a sedative, and insists that she must be kept quiet and without visitors for the rest of the day. The moment I can talk to her, I will find out whether she is frightened.”

  Was he a smooth-tongued hypocrite?

  “All right, if that’s the best you can do.” Gideon did not sound enthusiastic.

  “Before you ring off,” said Lyon, “I wonder if I may ask you this: have you any grounds for believing that the baby has been threatened?”

  “I think Mrs. Lee is frightened, and mothers frighten easily over their children. Mr. Lyon, have you noticed the recent crop of child pickpockets?”

  “Yes, and deplored it greatly.”

  “Know where they’re being trained?”

  “If I had any idea, I would inform you,” Lyon assured him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gideon.”

  “Good-bye,” said Gideon.

  It was half-past four. Tea would be ready at home, the younger children would be on their way back from Sunday School, Prudence and Penelope would be out with their boyfriends, Kate would be relaxing. He had done plenty for a Sunday, and every possible angle was being checked. He had to remember that his was really an office job, he could not be out on the prowl, much though he sometimes longed to be. And he had to remember that Lee, the fences, and the pickpocket ring, were only part of the overall picture. He must not let it obsess him. He called the Yard exchange, and said: “Telephone Mrs. Gideon, and tell her I’ll be home, hungry, in about half an hour, will you?”

  “Y
es, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Gideon.

  At Brighton, Marion Carne had a wonderful day, and Robert now seemed as enthusiastic as she about the business they were to start very soon.

  At his home, Dick Sparrow worried his problem, feeling sure that Dennis had driven his wife to her death, but not seeing the slightest chance of bringing it home to him.

  At Hyde Park, on this, his Sunday off, Police Constable William Smith was hanging about, hoping to see the boy and the vicious woman; so far, none of the plainclothes men had been able to help him.

  In three different parts of England the police investigated reports that Sheila Crow and her father had been seen, and each report proved false. In London, Mrs. Crow, still with her sister, went about as if in a dream-world.

  Not very far from Petticoat Lane, Peter Wray was in the cupboard, crying, his back raw from strokes with a knotted rope. He had failed that morning; worse, he had nearly been caught dipping his hand into a woman’s handbag.

  Throughout the East End police there was jubilation, for already fourteen thieves who had been sitting on their loot, knowing that the cooler it was before they sold it the more valuable it would be, had been caught approaching the homes of known fences. They were all broke; none of them could have lasted much longer without some cash, and they had made a desperate attempt to get some before the police traps went into operation.

  Hemmingway drew up a comprehensive report, which virtually put the onus of the murder of Frisky Lee on to Ratsy Roden, although the inquests were yet to be held and most of the formalities were still to come.

  At the three-in-one luxury house in Medd Alley, the police searched intensively, but found nothing more to help. Ada Lee’s mother remained aggressively in charge of the baby and her daughter and two servants went about in silence, the room where Lee had been killed was sealed off, and the room opposite was sealed almost as tightly by one of Lyon’s girl clerks, who was at the door ostensibly to go in if Mrs. Lee wanted anything.