Gideon's River Read online

  ‘Sure they’re in?’

  ‘There’s a light on at their window.’

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Once most weeks,’ answered Singleton. ‘As a matter of fact I knew Jonathan before …’

  ‘Who’s there?’ a man asked from the other side of the door.

  Singleton raised his voice.

  ‘It’s Jake and a friend.’

  ‘Hang on a moment.’ There was a sound of a chain being taken out of its channel, then a creak as the door opened. The light from the hall was behind the man who opened the door, but a street light shone on to his lean, hatchet-like face. Gideon had an impression of an overpoweringly handsome man with shining dark eyes. ‘Hello, Jake,’ he said. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Commander Gideon,’ Singleton answered.

  Wild’s eyes widened almost ludicrously.

  ‘This is an honour. Do come in.’ He stood aside for the others to enter, then closed the door. ‘I suppose you’ve come because Mick is on the rampage again,’ he added. He said ‘Mick’ with a kind of friendly familiarity which surprised Gideon.

  ‘How did you know?’ Singleton asked quickly.

  ‘Jessie telephoned,’ answered Wild.

  ‘Clara’s sister,’ Singleton interpolated.

  ‘And I thought I’d better not release the street door from upstairs,’ Wild went on. He kept his voice low as he led the way up a flight of narrow stairs, which curved round at a landing. The ceilings were high, the walls dark, the landing lights dim. ‘How much does the Commander know?’

  ‘You can speak quite freely,’ Gideon said.

  ‘Then I will. He did get in once, three weeks ago, and really scared Clara. Until then she didn’t take his threats seriously, but she does now. Everything’s all right until he hits the bottle. Then it can be hell. I—my God, what’s that?’

  Across his words from high above their heads came a high-pitched scream.

  ‘Don’t!’ a woman cried, ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘He’s up there!’ cried Wild, and he sprang forward as if there were springs in the heels of his boots.

  The woman screamed again, in wild terror.

  ‘Micklewright!’ roared Gideon in a tremendous voice. ‘Stop that!’

  Then Wild tripped on the stairs.

  As he tripped and fell, he banged his head heavily on the wall, grunted, and sprawled down. Gideon was just behind him, the woman was screaming, a door on the next landing opened and a man appeared, calling out ineffectually. Gideon dodged as Wild slipped down another stair, then sprang over him, holding tight to the banister.

  Upstairs, a door slammed.

  Gideon took the stairs two at a time, swung round another landing, then, in the dim light, saw a door at the next one, shut and dark. Reaching the door, he tried the handle and thrust hard, but found it would not budge. Drawing back three feet, he hurled himself against it, his great weight making it creak and groan. He drew back again. The screaming had stopped. He had an awful fear that he was too late, and summoned still greater strength for his second attempt.

  With a deafening crash the door swung open.

  In front of him, back towards him, Micklewright had his hands round his wife’s neck. She was pressed against the wall, her head held tight against it, her eyes huge and staring, her mouth open, her teeth bared.

  Gideon swept his right arm round and struck Micklewright a tremendous buffet on the side of the head. Micklewright swayed and his grip on his wife’s throat slackened. Gideon hit him again. This time his hands fell and he staggered, struck a chair, and crashed to the floor. His wife, hands at her throat, was beginning to slide down the wall. Even in that strange and tense situation, Gideon noticed the beautiful shape of her hands, and the soft pink of the lacquer on her nails. He thrust an arm round her waist and drew her away from the wall, as Singleton said: ‘I’ll look after her, sir.’

  Seeing a couch on one side of the room, Gideon carried the woman over to it, laid her down gently, and drew back. She was breathing harshly, painfully. Singleton, pushing in front of him, knelt beside the couch and began to loosen the waistband of her skirt.

  Wild came in, limping.

  Micklewright began to claw himself to his feet.

  Wild glanced at him without expression, then hurried towards the couch.

  Singleton looked up at him. ‘Turn the bed down, get hot water bottles, then hot coffee,’ he ordered.

  ‘Right.’ Wild turned away, glanced at Micklewright again, then went out of the room. He said something under his breath; it sounded like ‘thanks.’ He disappeared. Gideon took Micklewright by the arm and held him steady. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, his nose was red and shiny, but his cheeks were the colour of pastry and his lips looked faintly blue. He kept moistening them and touching the side of his face as if wondering why it stung so much. His gaze did not focus properly, and he began to sway to and fro. Gideon felt a mingled disgust and compassion.

  And he began to face up to the things that would have to be done.

  First – get Micklewright to a police station; next, sober him up – no, next have a police surgeon and an independent doctor examine him, then sober him up. Get a psychiatrist to examine him, tonight. Charge him with attempted murder …

  Must he?

  He could charge him with common assault.

  No, Gideon thought, that would be impossible. Too many people had heard of his threats, dozens had probably heard him tonight. The neighbour on the landing below had heard everything and may have seen much. There could be no whitewashing. God damn it! Gideon suddenly roared within himself, there shouldn’t be any thought of whitewashing! What was the matter with him? The charge would have to be attempted murder. And as soon as Micklewright was at the station someone would tell the press and tomorrow the court would be crammed full to overflowing.

  As for the evening paper headlines …

  Again, but with less vehemence, he thought: oh, hell, what’s the matter with me? He did it. In another two minutes his wife would have been dead. He had a brainstorm while he was drunk.

  In fact, it wasn’t going to be as simple as that; but at least from the police point of view it was nothing like as bad as a charge of corruption.

  Singleton stepped to his side.

  ‘She’s all right now,’ he said.

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘And thank you, sir. If you hadn’t got that door down when you did …’

  ‘Where was Micklewright hiding?’ Gideon asked.

  ‘As far as I can find out, sir, he forced a downstairs window, came through the ground floor flat while the family was watching television, and let himself into the hall. Seems to have been hiding in a landing cupboard for a long time – before the alarm was raised, I would think. The cupboard stinks of whisky and there’s an empty bottle on the floor. God knows what he meant to do, but he was crafty enough to stay in hiding.’

  ‘Awaiting his chance, I suppose,’ Gideon said.

  ‘George … George …’ Micklewright began to mumble ‘George … Gee … Gee-Gee! Commander.’ He drew himself up to an unsteady attention ‘’Evening, sir.’

  There were other men here now, including Mullivan. Micklewright looked at them all as if puzzled, turned back to Gideon, and said thickly: ‘Commander Gideon, sir!’

  Gideon turned to Mullivan. ‘Take him, will you. Get our doctor and another G.P. and ask them to call a psychiatrist. Don’t charge him until I come – I’ll be with you soon.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Mullivan. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Er …’ Mullivan grunted, turned to Micklewright and gripped him lightly just above the elbow. ‘Come on, Mick,’ he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  Gideon m
oved across to a chair and sat down, a little annoyed with himself because he felt so very weary. Almost as soon as he relaxed, Jonathan Wild came towards him, limping, carrying a bottle of whisky in one hand and a glass and a soda siphon on a tray. He was smiling twistedly, but Gideon’s impression of a remarkably handsome man was stronger than ever.

  ‘Will you have a drink?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Wild poured out a generous tot.

  ‘Soda?’

  ‘Fill it up, please.’

  The soda water gurgled and fizzed.

  ‘Thanks.’ Gideon lifted the glass.

  ‘Commander, I can’t hope to tell you how—how grateful I am.’

  ‘You don’t need to try.’

  ‘But I shall try,’ said Wild. ‘And another thing, I would like you to know that I’—he hesitated—’that I really do love her.’

  Gideon thought: yes, I can see that he does. Aloud, he said: ‘I’m very glad she’s all right.’

  ‘And I want you to know that I hope it will be possible not to charge Mick.’

  ‘Mick’ again.

  Gideon frowned. ‘Assault is assault.’

  ‘He’s a sick man, Commander. Some will say I helped to make him sick. All I want you to know is that if there is any way I can help him now, I will.’

  ‘Mr. Wild,’ Gideon said, ‘we aren’t going to be vindictive. You can be sure of that.’

  Wild’s lips seemed to curl.

  ‘But the law is the law and because he’s an upholder of it will have to be punished with the utmost vigour. Yes, I see. Don’t you sometimes hate the law, Commander?’

  After a few moments reflection Gideon drank again and then replied: ‘If you want to invoke the aid of the law for Superintendent Micklewright, the best way is to get a lawyer who really knows what he’s doing. If the lawyer is briefed before he’s called to the police station, it will help.’ He finished his drink and went on: ‘I needed that!’

  ‘Another, Commander?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  There was a long pause, then Wild gave a jerky little nod, and said: ‘I’ll do just what you recommend.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE THREE MEN

  At about the time that Gideon was drinking his whisky and soda on the south side of the river, three men were sitting round a table in an apartment on the north side, less than a quarter of a mile from Scotland Yard. One of these was the big man with the guttural voice who had been in the disused shed at the Royal Docks. He wore a dinner jacket which was rather too small for him, and a big-winged bow tie; the unlit cigar jutting from his lips looked like an extension of his face. Opposite him in a high-backed armchair was a very much smaller man with a curiously baby-like face, smooth and peach-pink, and fair, silky hair. He was also wearing a dinner jacket.

  The third man was Hugh St. John, Sir Jeremy Pilkington’s chief aide.

  St. John wore the grey suit with green flecks that he had worn at the airport that afternoon. He was good-looking in an un-English way, with thick dark hair rising high from his forehead, a sallow complexion, full lips and a long, down-curved nose. There was something very finicky about his movements and his attitudes; sitting there he gave an impression of impatience, of disdain for his two companions.

  ‘I want to know exactly what happened in Paris,’ the big man said.

  ‘I don’t know what happened in Paris,’ St. John replied.

  ‘You are paid to get the information.’

  ‘Holmann, I am sure St. John is being wise not to claim to know everything,’ interpolated the man with the baby face.

  ‘That’s right,’ said St. John. ‘I get paid for telling you what I know. Not what you would like to know. I’m not sure that I get paid enough.’ There was a supercilious expression on his face as he glanced from the big man to the small man. ‘What do you think, Morro?’

  The baby-faced man said: ‘You will be well paid when we have the jewels.’

  ‘And if you don’t get the jewels?’

  ‘None of us will be well paid,’ murmured Morro.

  ‘What are you talking about – we are going to get them,’ said Holmann. His English was good but rather precise and with a momentary hesitation before certain words. ‘That is, if you do your job.’

  St. John leaned back in his chair. ‘The jewels will be on the River Belle. The value will be approximately half-a-million pounds. They will be insured for seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds, at Lloyd’s. In all there will be seventy-two different pieces – twelve models will wear six pieces each. The models will be given the jewellery only two or three minutes before they appear before the guests. Cheap costume jewellery will be used at rehearsals, including the dress rehearsal an hour before the real event occurs. Each piece, with a numbered tag, will be taken out of the portable fire-proof safe and given straight to Gentian, who will pin it on to the model and will take it off when she has finished. An insurance representative, two Securial officers, and I, will be present all the time. I will take the jewels out of the safe and hand them to Gentian, and he will give them back to me to put back into the safe.’

  He paused, to sip from a big brandy glass.

  Morro murmured: ‘It is very thorough.’

  ‘It must be thorough,’ Holman said. ‘This is good, I agree.’

  St. John gave a wry, thin-lipped smile.

  ‘I am glad you think so. There will be spotlights shining on each model in the bar where she is given the jewels. The safe will be under a spotlight all the time. The jewels will be in the full view of at least six people every moment, and for most of the time in full view of hundreds – including some very important policemen.’

  ‘What is that?’ exclaimed Morro.

  ‘Of Scotland Yard?’ asked Holmann.

  ‘Pilkington has invited Commander Gideon and his wife, Deputy Commander Hobbs and a friend, and two officials from the Thames Division,’ St. John informed them. ‘There will be Customs officers as well as Thames Division officers on board all the time.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Holmann was quite unflustered.

  ‘The portable safe will be locked by the Securial officers and kept on board overnight, with a four-man armed guard on duty,’ continued St. John. ‘Police, Customs and Securial officers will escort it from the bank to the River Belle and back late on the Tuesday evening. The Customs will check item by item on Tuesday evening at the bank and it will then be collected by the different jewel-merchants who are lending it for display on Wednesday morning.’

  Morro was looking earnestly at Holmann.

  ‘It is very thorough, isn’t it? Our only opportunity to get the jewels will be as they are brought to the river, or as they are taken from it.’

  ‘There will be at least twenty Securial men at the landing stage and on the Embankment, and probably twice as many police,’ St. John answered, and when neither of the others spoke he went on: ‘Now do you see why I doubt if we’ll get the jewels, Holmann?’

  ‘You are paid to provide information,’ Holmann said, drawing at the unlit cigar. ‘Not to consider whether we shall get them. Or how we shall get them.’

  ‘I don’t think you can,’ St. John retorted. ‘That’s why I wonder whether a thousand pounds is enough for the risk I’m taking. If you make an attempt, and fail …’

  ‘I do not fail,’ said Holmann, harshly. ‘Have you a plan of the ship?’

  ‘I’m no draughtsman, but I’ve some rough drawings.’

  ‘Did I not understand that Gentian had drawings of the interior of the ship so that he could perfect the décor?’

  ‘He has only one copy.’

  ‘There are such things as cameras.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said St. John. ‘I’m not going to take that much of a risk. I’ll pass on what I learn in th
e way of business but I won’t do anything which will point to me if I were seen or caught.’

  ‘St. John …’ Morro began, nervously.

  ‘It is a reasonable attitude,’ said Holmann, unexpectedly. ‘We do not want him caught any more than he does himself. Show me these rough drawings, please.’

  St. John lifted his flat, black briefcase from the side of his chair, unzipped it, and took out a folder. He opened this and handed it over the table to Holmann, then looked at the brandy decanter.

  ‘Please,’ Morro said. He pushed the decanter closer to St. John, who first selected a cigar, clipped the end, cut it, and then helped himself to more brandy. Holmann was scrutinising the drawings which were in dark pencil and had a number of annotations and indications of dimensions. He looked from one page to another – there were four in all – and finally back at St. John. He was smiling faintly; the curve to his lips made him look vaguely like a tiger.

  ‘These are good,’ he announced.

  St. John bowed sardonically. ‘They’re the best I could do.’

  ‘How did you do them?’

  ‘They were done for Securial, and I kept a copy.’

  ‘Good,’ repeated Holmann. ‘These sizes, are they accurate? Especially the width of the doors …’

  He asked questions, searchingly, most of which St. John was able to answer. Holmann seemed even more satisfied when he had finished. He placed a podgy hand on St. John’s shoulder, then took out a fat wallet and selected a number of ten pound notes. He placed these in front of St. John.

  ‘I hope you will feel better rewarded with this extra money,’ he said.

  Without counting the notes, St. John picked them up and nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And you are not likely to be called on for any other service until after the River Parade,’ Holmann added.