Gideon’s Sport g-1 Page 13

  “Yes,” he said gruffly.

  “I’ve got Mrs. Gideon for you at last, sir.”

  “Oh.” His thoughts veered again: he had a sharp little stab of fear, and all else vanished from his mind. “Put her through. After a pause, he spoke a little over-heartily: “Hallo, Kate! I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “I know — I’ve been out,” Kate said, vaguely; and usually she was precise. There was a pause, almost an awkward silence. Then they both spoke at once:

  “Why did you want — ?”

  “I’d hoped to be early, but —”

  They both broke off and then, spontaneously, they both laughed. The fact that Kate could laugh so freely persuaded Gideon that she had no great anxiety, and he felt a great sense of relief.

  “But something cropped up,” she filled in for him, lightly.

  “How on earth did you guess? But I will be in to dinner — seven-thirty at the latest,” he promised. “Is Penny back yet?”

  “She dashed in and dashed out,” Kate said. “Half-past seven then, dear.”

  “Yes, fine. ‘Bye.” Gideon rang off, reflected how calm and composed she had sounded, then caught sight of a note pinned to the Outdoor Events, June, file. He pulled this towards him and read: “C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty. A.H.” Gideon glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten minutes past five. He rang for Hobbs but there was no reply. He called Information and asked if there was any news from AB.

  “Nothing new, sir. They haven’t got the devil, yet.’’

  Devil. Young devils, Gideon grunted and rang off. He drummed his fingers on the desk, with an undertone of anger and resentment, and was still drumming when his telephone rang again. He grabbed it.

  “Gideon.”

  “The Press Officer would like a word with you, sir,” said the operator.

  “Put him through.” The Press Officer, colloquially known as the Back Room Inspector, had an office with a door opening on the Embankment. There were always a few Fleet Street men hovering there in the hope of a sudden sensation and at times when big news was breaking, such as this, there might be two or three dozen,

  “Commander?” Gideon recognised the Welsh voice of Huw Jones, the Inspector on rota at the Back Room.

  “Yes, Will?”

  “I’m sorry to worry you, Mr. Gideon, but the boys would like to know if you have any special message for them.” Every end of sentence and end of phrase went upwards in what sounded like a Welsh lilt but which could also suggest a Pakistani or an Indian from the northern provinces. “About this poor girl whose face was slashed, they mean.”

  “Haven’t they talked to Mr. Henry?”

  “Yes, indeed they have-but they would like a message from you.”

  Gideon hesitated, looked at the unopened files on his desk, and said: “I’ll come down in five minutes, for five minutes.” He rang off on the Welshman’s obvious delight, pulled the files towards him and opened them to glance at the latest note in each.

  In the Body in the Thames Case was the note: “Departure time Lemaitre’s plane delayed. New E.T.A. London Airport 12.30 p.m. tomorrow.” On the Madderton Bank Case: “The Chairman of Directors telephoned you twice.” There was another note: “Chipper Lee has been picked up and questioned, Knowles is now in charge.” Knowles would know what to do. He rang for Hobbs again and again there was no answer, which was unusual: Hobbs normally left a message if he were going to be out for long. He rang Information.

  “What’s the latest on Detective-Constable Conception?”

  “A message has just come in, sir,The cheek injury is superficial. The lip injuries are serious and seven stitches have been inserted.”

  So she wasn’t likely to be able to talk for some time. Poor kid. She wasn’t much older than Penny!

  “Anything else the matter with her?”

  There was a pause, before the answer came: “Only shock, sir.”

  Only shock! Gideon rang off with a grunt and strode out of his office and off down to the Back Room. When he opened the door, after the near-silence of the long corridors, it was like stepping into a particularly crowded bedlam. At least thirty men and women, the women heavily outnumbered, were crammed together in a room not really large enough for half as many.

  Tall, dark and thin-faced, with rather heavy-lidded but unexpectedly bright blue eyes, Huw Jones was the only one present with any real elbow-room. He sprang up from behind his desk in a corner as one of the reporters held the door open while Gideon squeezed through.

  Silence fell, strange and sudden. Gideon broke it, by saying: “I’ve just five minutes, I’m afraid that will have to suffice. A brief statement, first: Detective-Constable Conception is suffering from shock and is not yet able to make a statement. I do not know when she will be able to. The murdered man was Kenneth Noble, one of an Action Committee believed to be planning some kind of demonstration against the South African touring team at Lords during the Second Test. We want to interview another member of the Committee: Roy Roche — R-O-C-H-E — whom we believe may be able to help us with our inquiries in connection with the murder. A general call for him has gone out.”

  He stopped, without warning, but a man was ready with a question.

  “Do you think Roche was violent because he felt the police officer had betrayed the cause, Commander?”

  “If you’re asking me whether I personally believe that the discovery that a trusted ally of a Peace Group had been a spy would turn an ordinary man into a killer — no,” Gideon stated flatly. “I have simply told you the bare facts.”

  “Do you think there could be any other motive?”

  “Obviously there could be. I don’t yet know what the motive was — nor who committed the crime.”

  “Did you personally know that the policewoman was on this assignment, Commander?” This came from a little gingery woman with sharp, rather feline-looking green eyes.

  “Yes..” Gideon stated flatly.

  “Do you think it’s fair to use agents provocateurs, in — ?” began a thin-lipped, pallid-faced man.

  “Nonsense,” Gideon said bluntly. “Detective-Constable Conception was not an agent provocateur. She was doing a difficult and dangerous job extremely well.”

  “Was the raid on this so-called Action Committee due to her investigations?” another man asked.

  “No. She was reported missing. Chief Superintendent Henry took very prompt and very effective action. We knew we were dealing with a group of extremists who under pressure might cause serious disturbances. We did not know that one of them might be an incipient murderer. We don’t know — as has already been made clear — whether the murder was a result of the Action Committee’s plans or whether the Action Committee was used as a cover. When we find the man we wish to interview — “

  “Any news of him, sir?” a man interrupted.

  “No. I really — “

  “Do you think the Action Committee will call off its campaign, Commander?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, I hope they’ll be shocked into seeing sense and so changing their minds.”

  “Don’t you think they believe they’re the ones who do see sense?” asked the thin-lipped man. “Haven’t they every right—?”

  “Don’t expect me to get into political arguments,” Gideon interrupted with a kind of bluff good humour. “I don’t think any man, ever, has the right to cause, incite or commit crimes of violence of any kind. And now I really must go.”

  “Commander —”

  “Mr. Gideon!”

  “Commander, one more question!” a big man squeezed into a corner boomed out, above all the others. “Will the police make the same kind of effort over the attack on a coloured police-officer as they would if she were white?”

  The booming voice fell silent, and over the room there fell a hush. The man with the thin lips seemed to be sneering, as if saying: “Now answer that, you smug so-and-so!”

  Gideon looked at the questioner, pursed his li
ps and answered: “Exactly the same. Possibly a little more, if that were possible.”

  “Because she’s coloured!” spat the tight-lipped man. “That’s inverted prejudice, and you know it!”

  “No,” Gideon answered, equably. “Because she’s a woman!”

  The thin-lipped man fell silent, as if abashed, and someone called: “Nice going, Gee-Gee!” while someone else murmured: “Bloody good answer!” And more of them made a note of that reply, than of any other he had given. Raising a hand in a ‘good-bye’ gesture, he nodded to Huw Jones, then went out. He felt reasonably satisfied that he had made the important points, and at least he had drawn the fire from Henry.

  He felt suddenly cold in the corridor, which told him how hot it had been in that room — and how hot he had got under the collar. He saw very few people on the way back to his office, and as he opened the door, heard Big Ben strike the half-hour; so he was exactly on time. He went to the window for a moment but was too restless to stand and contemplate the scene. The truth, he told himself, was that he wanted time and a clear mind to think about what Alec Hobbs had told him about Penny and Kate, and instead there was hardly time to breathe. To give point to the thought, a telephone rang as he turned to his desk.

  “Gideon,” he grunted.

  “This is Henry.” The AB Superintendent seemed to be having trouble controlling his voice. “We’ve got Roche cornered, thank God!”

  “Cornered?” Gideon asked sharply.

  “He’s locked himself in a disused cafe in Swiss Cottage,” Henry explained. “And he’s got a gun, sir. One of our uniformed men challenged him and was shot at. We don’t know for certain, but there may be others with him. I’d like —”

  “Go on!” Gideon urged, as he broke off.

  “I should like to tackle him myself, sir,” Henry said. “I’d like permission to carry a gun.”

  Gideon was silent for a long time; too long, he knew. But a great deal was flashing through his mind in those moments, one lightning thought following another like a film run at double speed.

  Roche trapped: good.., And Henry wants to redeem himself ,.. But might he take unnecessary chances? . . . A gun could only be issued in a known emergency but would certainly be justified . . . And Gideon himself would have liked to tackle the killer, too: in the circumstances, it would be almost a reflex desire with any policeman .., But his job was here — to lead, guide, advise, decide. Henry was obviously standing or sitting like a statue . . . Is he the right one to trust with a gun? . . . But if not, who ought to be sent? . . . Indeed, there was hardly time to send anyone else . . .

  “Are you — are you there, sir?” Henry could not keep quiet any longer.

  “Yes. Have you a Justice of the Peace handy, to sign your permit for a gun?”

  “Sitting by me, sir!” Henry’s voice took on a positively lyrical note.

  “Then go ahead,” said Gideon.

  He repressed the impulse to say: “Be careful.” One had to trust senior men like Henry, and they could only be judged after the event. But Henry, whatever his feelings, replied with studied calm: “Very good, sir.”

  “I’ll be in my office,” Gideon told him, and hung up. It flashed into his mind that if the capture of Roche took too long, it might prevent him from getting home at half-past seven; but the thought was gone almost as soon as it formed. He spared another moment to hope devoutly that in his anger, Henry would not lose his head, then glanced again at the note: C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty.

  It was now almost a quarter- there went Big Ben: it was a quarter to six. He glanced at the whisky cupboard, then looked away and rang for Hobbs, who opened the door so quickly he might almost have been standing there.

  “Is Bligh there?” Gideon asked him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  ‘I’ll see him,” said Gideon. And as Hobbs stood aside, Bligh came in, looking so happy that he was almost smug.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Variations in Crime

  “Good evening, sir,” Bligh said. “I’m sorry to worry you but I would be grateful for guidance on one or two aspects of this outdoor activity.”

  His ruddy-hued face was bright, eager, deceptively youthful. In a man of forty-odd whose private life had been so disrupted and who had had such a long bad run, it was surprising. Was he over-eager, Gideon wondered? And in his own present mood, he hoped the man would not talk of trivia. But the ingenuous opening gambit at least stopped him from saying: “I haven’t long, Bligh.” There was something about the man which made Gideon feel he hadn’t really been aware of him before. It was clarity of eye, directness, frankness — something difficult to define.

  “Go on,” Gideon said, as the door closed on Hobbs.

  “Would it be possible, sir, to have a meeting, just a short one, of the Superintendents and officers in charge of the Divisional Stations and sub-stations in the areas most affected? Wimbledon, St. John’s Wood, perhaps Epsom and Banstead, with whom we shall have to co-ordinate?”

  “Why a meeting?” asked Gideon, intrigued.

  “Well, sir, there isn’t much time for me to go and see each officer, and —” Bligh paused and for a moment looked self-conscious, although still eager” — well, sir, most of them are senior in rank to me and it takes a little time to tell each one what I’m trying to do. If they were all together here, and if you could possibly outline the plan yourself, I wouldn’t have about eight or nine different explanations to make. What’s more, as they asked questions, we’d bring out different aspects; might bring out a lot of revealing local sidelights. I’m sure it would save a great deal of time, sir.”

  And stop some of the Divisional Superintendents from being bloody-minded, Gideon reflected.

  “Yes,” he said, “Good idea. Draft a memo and we’ll send it out tonight.”

  “Er-would this do, sir?” asked Bligh, snatching a slip of paper from his pocket as if by sleight-of-hand.

  Taking it, Gideon felt lighter-hearted than he had for a long time. He looked down quickly, to hide his smile, and read: “A conference will be held in the small lecture hall here at (say 11 a.m.) tomorrow, June 5th to discuss special preparations to be applied to the major outdoor sporting events of the month. Please attend, with any officer or officers with special knowledge. This does not include crowd-control.”

  Lifting the telephone, he rang Hobbs. “Have I any special programme for tomorrow morning? . . . Mark off eleven o’clock to eleven-thirty for me, will you?” He rang off, put in the time, 11 o’clock, and signed the circular. “Have Information get that off, Bligh, and include neighbouring divisions -anyone you think might be helpful.”

  “I will, sir! Thank you.”

  “Anything else?” asked Gideon.

  “No, sir, I think everything is under control. Would you care to have details of the preparations so far?”

  “Later,” Gideon told him. “Certainly not tonight.” He drew his chair up to the desk in a gesture of dismissal and Bligh went out, obviously very pleased with himself. For a few moments Gideon felt a reflected glow of satisfaction, but it soon faded. He was almost living Henry’s life, at the moment, and would like nothing more than to be on the spot. But he must leave this job to Henry. He had to go through all the reports on his desk, attend to all the things he had not had time for during the day. There was at least forty minutes of solid reading, and he must have time to think over each case.

  He rang Hobbs again,

  “What time are you going tonight, Alec?”

  “I’ll be here until eight o’clock, at least.”

  “Gome in at seven, will you?”

  He hung up and began to go through the reports; the Madderton Bank robbery, the threat to the Derby and Charlie Blake’s murder, the dozen and one cases which had risen, like scum, to the top of London’s crime. But he was never free from shadowy thoughts of Henry, of the injured girl, and of the risk that Roy Roche might yet cause serious trouble. And every now and again, he had a
quick mental image of Kate.

  Superintendent Charles Henry first placed a cordon of uniformed men about the shop and street where Roy Roche had taken cover, so that windows, back and front, were under constant surveillance. Next, he sent small groups of men up on to the roofs of the building opposite and behind and on either side, to make sure Roche could not escape over-the roof-tops.

  He supervised everything himself, as if his whole life, his career, depended on success, and that success could only come by slow, deliberate action, making sure every gap was closed. He was not only acutely conscious of the injury to Juanita Conception blaming himself for taking no precautions against such an attack; he was grimly aware that the raid had been carried out almost carelessly. He had never dreamed that there was more to do than round up a few young hotheads for questioning about Juanita.

  Murder had not even seemed a possibility . . .

  This time, he was not going to make the slightest mistake.

  He had taken over an empty shop, nearby, and had a trestle table with a quickly drawn plan of the area, showing every approach to the hiding-place, with the positions of every man involved. He was satisfied, now, that there was no way in which Roche could escape. The next job was to call on the man to surrender. And he had no way of knowing whether Roche was alone, or how much ammunition he had, or anything about the situation. He went outside and found a small van waiting, loud-speaker fixed on its roof-rack; he felt that he could get nearer, in this van, than he could in a police car.

  He stood for a moment, watching the shop hide-out.

  No one was in the street, all approaches were blocked, and residents were directed to their own back entrances. It was a short thoroughfare with only twenty-one houses on either side. Next to the empty cafe where Roche was hiding was a greengrocer’s; on the far side, a butcher’s; and all about, the usual mixture of clothiers, newsagents and tobacconist, shoe shop, a sub-post office, a betting shop-and even a small garage with two petrol pumps standing on the kerb.

  A sergeant came up.

  “Couldn’t be a tighter net, sir.”