Sport, Heat, & Scotland Yard Page 14

  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.”

  “Come 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 rooftops.

  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.”

  “I hope not,” Henry said. “I hope—” He broke off as a manhole cover on the pavement caught his eye.

  Scanning the street, he saw similar covers outside most of the shops, and realised, with a sickening sense of failure, that he had forgotten the cellars. Forgotten them! And there was probably one beneath the building where Roche was hiding.

  These cellars could be used for coal, storage, sometimes simply as an extension of the shop above. It would be simple enough for Roche to get from his own to the one next door, if he wanted: he would only have to knock down a few bricks. Henry’s breathing became shallow as he stared at the manhole outside the empty café: Roche might have escaped already.

  There was now only one way to find out. But first, he had to fix those manholes: make sure Roche couldn’t appear from one and start shooting. The man who had been so confident was looking at him in puzzlement.

  “We want a concrete slab over each one of those manhole covers,” Henry said crisply. “There are plenty at the builders’ yard in Highway Lane. Get it done at once.”

  “Right, sir!” The Sergeant hurried off, obviously stung to action by sudden understanding of the reason for the order.

  At that time, Barnaby Rudge was sitting in a high corner
seat at the Centre Court, watching the favourite for the Men’s Singles, Bob Lavis, playing an unseeded Russian. There wasn’t a spare inch of space, and the sun shone on white and coloured shirts and dresses, on shielded eyes which moved with the ball, as it hurtled or spun or was lobbed over the net. Except for the burst of applause when a point was scored, there was near-silence, broken only by the voices of the umpire and the linesmen. The match was in its fifth set. The unknown Russian, wearing an eyeshade, was crouching to meet Lavis’ service. If he could break it this time, he might well pull off the sensation of the day.

  Lavis’ service was a true cannonball. He stood poised, at match point. The Russian, a dark-skinned man with Mongolian features and black hair matting his legs and his forearms, crouched as if immobile.

  Lavis served: Whang! Fourteen thousand pairs of eyes moved with the ball as it struck the far corner. It should have aced his opponent, but with a powerful spring that was a miracle of agility, the Russian reached and returned it.

  There was no power in the return, however, and it dropped slightly to the favourite’s right. Lavis moved across and, perhaps in a momentary loss of concentration because he was so sure that this was the end, he struck the ball with the side of his racquet. There was a gasp from the crowd, the ball hit the net near the top, and fell back into his own court. As Lavis stood staring as if he could not believe it, there was a roar of applause.

  The Russian, giving no sign that he had even noticed this, calmly crossed to the other side of the court to await the next service and a ball-boy scooped up the ball and scampered off-court again. After what seemed an interminable time lag, the umpire called: “Deuce!”

  Lavis wiped his forehead, caught the two balls a boy bounced towards him, and moved across for his next service.

  And netted.

  He served again, a little more carefully. The ball swerved and as the Russian pounced and struck with almost wild abandon it shot back past Lavis – and smacked into the ground with an inch or two to spare. There was another, louder roar of applause, another delay as the umpire waited for silence, then:

  “Advantage, Serov.”

  He pronounced it Seer-ov.

  Barnaby watched, lynx-eyed, every step, every movement Lavis made, for he still believed Lavis would win. If he did not, there would be others to watch and study, for Serov would never get through to the final – not even the quarter finals – by this power game alone. He took far too many chances, although on his day would be almost unbeatable.

  And now, Lavis let fly with all his strength and skill – and aced Serov, who did not even attempt to return the ball. The applause was terrific, but neither more nor less than that accorded the Russian.

  “Deuce!”

  Lavis let fly again, with another ace which left Serov standing.

  “Advantage, Lavis!” called the umpire: “Match point!”

  Lavis put his body and his heart into his next service. The Russian made a prodigious leap and reached the ball, but could not get it back over the net.

  “Game, set and match to Lavis.”

  The Russian acknowledged the applause, and at last Lavis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. There were the usual end-of-match pleasantries, then the two men walked off together.

  Barnaby Rudge was smiling very faintly. Lavis was known to have the finest, fiercest service in the world, and he, Barnaby Rudge, knew that his own was immeasurably superior. Well, he had another game tomorrow: he must go to The Towers and practise.

  Lou Willison was at The Towers, but did not go to join Barnaby in the kitchen or the court. He was with a friend who had just come in, and Willison’s baby-face was darkened by a scowl, and by the shock of disappointment.

  “I can’t place it, I tell you,” the other man, an Englishman, was saying. “I can get a hundred on, here and there, but no big money.”

  “But it’s crazy!” blurted Willison.

  “It looks to me as if you tried to put too much on in one bet,” said the other. “It was a mistake.” He tossed back a whisky and soda, and went on: “There’s only one firm we haven’t heard from.”

  “Who’s that?” Willison asked sharply.

  “Jackie Spratt’s.”

  “Jackie Spratt’s? But isn’t that one of the biggest?” Willison almost screamed.

  “Yes, it is, but—”

  “If they’ll take the bets, why do you say you can’t place the money?”

  “I never use Spratt’s, if I can help it,” the Englishman explained. He had a long face with long features and a lugubrious expression, rather like a horse, and the similarity was heightened by long hair which drooped over each temple. “I’d put on a couple of hundred at six of their shops.”

  “Get the rest on,” urged Willison. “Get as much on as you possibly can!”

  That was about the time when John Spratt entered the company’s Putney High Street shop, and went through to the back room. The shop was closed, for the day’s racing was over, but a dozen clerks were still busy, some of them chalking up the Tote prices and other details on huge boards. A woman cleaner, blue-smocked, blue-bonneted, was mopping the synthetic tiles of the floor. The manager, a chunky, middle-aged man with a heavy jowl and unblinking, expressionless eyes, stood up from his desk.

  “Good evening, Mr. John.”

  “Hullo, Fred,” John Spratt greeted him, pleasantly. “Is our friend here?”

  “Waiting in there.” The manager inclined his head towards a second door.

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Just says he’s got to see you – it’s very important. And I daresay it is, to him.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He does a lot of leg-work for Archie Smith, I can tell you that. He wouldn’t do that for long, if he weren’t reliable.”

  Spratt nodded, and went into the other room.

  Sydney Sidey was sitting at a small table with an Evening News spread out in front of him, reading the back page. He pretended not to notice the door open but as it closed, sprang to his feet, letting the newspaper fall. He was painfully thin, gawkish, awkward-looking, with huge hands and feet.

  “Good evening, Mr. Spratt!”

  “Hallo, Sidey.” Spratt’s manner was still pleasant, but he went on: “I hope you haven’t wasted my time. I’m a very busy man.”

  “Oh, I know you are – I assure you I haven’t!” Sidey spluttered. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Spratt – it’s very important, I promise! I’ve got photographs—” He delved in the inside pocket of his jacket: “I wouldn’t have troubled you, if I hadn’t been sure.”

  “That’s good,” Spratt murmured.

  “It’s about this American darkie – Barnaby Rudge,” Sidey told him, eagerly. “Honest, Mr. Spratt – I can tell you that that man will win the Men’s Singles this year – and I mean Wimbledon! And I also happen to know that Mr. Smith – Archie Smith, you know – won’t take money on him to win, says he’s not quoted. And I thought—” A cunning glint appeared in his eyes: “I thought it would be worth a pony to you, if I tipped you off not to take any money on this guy. He’s going to win, Mr. Spratt!”

  Sidey was fumbling with the photographs, as he talked, haste making him even clumsier than usual.

  “I doubt it,” Spratt told him, drily. “What makes you think he will?”

  “He’s got a service no one can stand up against – it will absolutely demoralise his opponents, Mr. Spratt! I’ve been watching him, and I’ve seen them all – I’ve seen the very best – but I’ve never seen a service like this one. It’s a rocket, never mind a cannonball! Look.” He had the small prints spread on a table, now – twenty of them, in all – and they showed Barnaby Rudge in all manner of poses. They were cleverly taken at a different point in each service so that they made almost a moving picture, and something of the
enormous power of the man suggested itself. Spratt studied them intently, and said at last: “He looks good.”

  “He’s a world-beater,” Sydney Sidey asserted solemnly. “An absolute. world-beater!” Seeing that Spratt was obviously impressed, he went on, emboldened: “I thought if you’d let me have a pony, Mr. Spratt, and put a hundred on the nose – you can hedge it okay, that’s not so much – that would make us both happy.”

  John Spratt looked at him as if looking at an insect, and Sidey went absolutely still. Then Spratt took a small wad of notes from his pocket and slapped it on the table.

  “If you want to put any on, Sidey, do it yourself.” He picked up the pictures, one by one, and then as he shuffled them like a pack of cards, he asked: “Where are the negatives?”

  “I—I’ve got them at home, Mr. Spratt.”

  “If you have any more prints made,” said Spratt, with a pleasant smile, “I’ll skin you alive. Just keep your mouth shut, Sidey. I get to hear everything that goes on, and I’ll soon know if you talk.” Casually, he added: “I could use a man who can keep his mouth shut.” Then with a brief nod, he went out.

  “He gives me the bloody shivers!” Sidney Sidey told himself as he watched him walk away.

  Barnaby Rudge, fully satisfied with his latest practice, had a shower, dreaming away happily. He was a little puzzled because Willison hadn’t come to see him and the car was outside, but with his peculiarly single-minded nature, this did not worry him at all. He was going to win Wimbledon! He knew he was going to win.

  “We’ll leave it to you, as always, John,” Matthew Spratt told his brother. “Don’t you agree, Mark?”

  “John’s the hatchet-man,” Mark agreed, mildly.

  “The only question is how to fix him,” John said. He picked up a copy of the latest Evening Standard and there was a screaming headline about arrests and a murder in Hampstead. A line caught his eye: “—believed to be connected with a plot to interrupt the second Test Match as a protest against apartheid.” His eyes held a sudden glint: “Now, if we did this cleverly, it could look like a nice piece of race hatred, couldn’t it? What we need is a Fascist short of money.”