Thugs and Economies (Gideon of Scotland Yard) Read online

  “We will, if we can afford it,” Gideon answered her.

  He wondered how many Yard men who worked past the sixty mark did so because they needed the money, and how many of them did so because the job held them so tightly. He knew that Kate feared the unrelenting hold of the job on him more than the shortage of money.

  So did he.

  16

  ATTACKS

  Only two and a half miles away, and at that very minute, Sergeant Maybell was turning the corner of the street where he lived. There were some lighted windows and two street lamps, but on the whole the street was very badly lit. It did not occur to him to be nervous, but he knew that women and young girls disliked walking along here at night on their own, and he knew also that there were many more cases of assault and attempted rape than a few years ago. That was one of the reasons why he had decided not to resign next year. He walked with the long, easy stride of a man who was physically very fit; he kept his bicycle at the station, which was only ten minutes’ walk away, because he enjoyed walking to and from his work. He did not think very seriously about the lighting in the street, or in the fact that the doorways and the porches might hold a prowling man; they were at least as likely to hold a cuddling couple. Maybell, who was too old to be a cynic and too experienced to be surprised, was whistling a tune that was at least forty years old.

  He heard a sound behind him.

  He turned his head.

  He felt his helmet tipped over his eyes, and as he twisted round, felt a blow on the back of his head which brought awful pain. It spread from the point of contact down his neck, into his body, into his limbs. He felt himself crumpling up. The second blow, although in fact even harder, did not hurt so much, because he was nearly unconscious already.

  His assailant turned and hurried away, and Maybell lay there, dying, for nearly five minutes, before a man turned the corner and saw him.

  Charlie Daw, one of the cleverest locksmiths in the business, and who had boasted that he had never found a lock he could not open, proved to his own satisfaction that night that he had not lost his skill while in prison. He had waited for a policeman to pass by on his beat before going to the side door of the jeweller’s house. It had a good lock, but was not really difficult. He pushed the heavy door open very cautiously, stepped inside, shone a torch about the dark passageway, and then put it out and closed the door. He knew exactly where the safe was here – beneath the stairs, concealed by wooden panelling on the staircase itself. He listened intently, but heard no sound; obviously the jeweller was out, or upstairs in bed. He studied the panelling, and then found the control switch which released it, and enabled him to slide a door open.

  The safe was directly in front of him.

  He stepped forward, concentrating his torch light on it, and as he did so, a light flashed on in the hall. He swung round in alarm, and saw three plain-clothes men approaching from three different doors.

  “Now turn it in, Charlie,” one man said, laconically.

  “Who’s the so-and-so who squealed?” Charlie demanded, viciously. “Tell me who it was, and one of these days—”

  About the same time, Rab Stone went to the Paddington house where David Archer lived, and up to Archer’s flat on the second floor. He had seen no light from the street, and that puzzled him, and made him even more uneasy than he usually was over this job. He reached the tiny landing, and pressed the bell. There was a dim yellow light falling on the staircase, but no sound at all.

  Speed was the essence of success in a job like this.

  No one answered the ring.

  He pressed the push again, and heard the ringing inside the flat, but no sound of movement. He backed away from the door, then shone a torch on to a card which was pinned to the door; it was a printed visiting card, and announced: Mr David Archer. There had never been any doubt about this being the right fiat.

  Where was Archer?

  He was always home on Thursday evening; Si Mitchell would not make an elementary mistake about that.

  There was a sound downstairs, the opening of the street door, and a moment later the closing of the door and footsteps on the ground-floor passage.

  Stone pressed against the wall at the foot of the next flight of stairs up, where the doorway jutted out. He had just a chance to avoid being seen. He felt sure that Archer was approaching, and he could tell from the whistling that the detective was as happy as a man could be.

  In fact, Archer had never felt so buoyant. He had just seen Drusilla home, spent twenty minutes talking to her and her mother, and was now positive that there would be no obstacle or difficulty put in the way of their marriage. In four weeks’ time it would be Mr and Mrs Dave Archer, much sooner than he had first anticipated. From the moment of meeting Drusilla it had been like falling downhill; he had been quite unable to stop himself from becoming more and more obsessed with love for her. Four weeks: and in that time they had to decide whether to come and start their married life in this pokey flat, or find a larger one; whether to spend a small fortune on a continental honeymoon, or to have a few days at the south coast and the rest of the two weeks – his holiday for the year – in London.

  He thought: “The one certain thing is that we’ll need a double bed!”

  He grinned, stopped whistling, took out his keys, and selected the front-door key. He began to hum. Metal scraped on metal, and he pushed the door open. It creaked. He groped for the light switch, and as he did so, heard a movement from his right. He had not seen or heard anyone there before, but now he turned, bewilderingly swift with his reflex actions.

  He saw the dark figure of a man launching himself forward, and in the pale yellow light saw a knife in the man’s hand.

  He swept his right arm round.

  His elbow cracked into the other’s face, but at the same moment he felt a searing pain in his back, between the ribs, near the heart. It was an awful, frightening moment. He hissed, trying to tense his whole body and so prevent the pain from becoming worse, still trying to protect himself. He felt himself falling. He had strength left, and he shouted the one word: “Help!” and he buffeted the man again, striking him somewhere about the head.

  “Help” he tried to shout again, but there was very little sound from his lips. “Help,” he whispered as he sank down, frightened, helpless, aware of movement and nearby sounds, aware of another searing pain in his back.

  His breath hissed inwards again.

  He thought he heard someone call from the flat above. He did hear footsteps. There was still pain; it was not new, but the same one as before. It seemed to be spreading. Footsteps thundered on the stairs, he heard a door slam, then saw light appear above his head. The man who lived in the flat above came hurrying down, while another man came up from the flat below.

  Outside, Stone was gasping for breath, holding the knife, running desperately to the motor cycle which was parked around the corner. He ought to be walking steadily. He ought to be taking this quite calmly, but he could not. As he neared the corner he was in great fear, in case someone turned it and bumped into him, and he actually held the knife ready to use in emergency. He reached the motor cycle, and began to wipe the bloodied blade with a piece of rag he had brought with him for the purpose. He thrust the knife between his trousers and belt, then straddled the machine. Although it could not be more than a minute or two since he had left Archer, he felt terrified in case the police were summoned by a call to 999; they could reach any given spot in sixty seconds.

  “So you got him,” said Ryman, with deep satisfaction. “Sure he’s dead?”

  “I didn’t have time to feel his pulse, but—”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Didn’t have a chance,” Stone assured him. He had revived his spirits with a whisky and soda and, looking back, was prepared to believe that he had done a perfect job. If he could believe Keith, Keith had, too.

  “Then the first half of the job’s gone right,” said Ryman. “That’s fine, Rabbie, old boy, what did I t
ell you? You stay here for the night, and Helen will give us both alibis. There isn’t a thing that can go wrong.”

  “What do we want alibis for, no one can suspect us, can they?” Stone demanded.

  “You’ve never said a truer word,” said Ryman. “Don’t be so touchy.” He slit open a new packet of cigarettes, lit one, and went on musingly: “Charlie Daw was out at Hammersmith, and Cartwright was doing a job at Paddington. By a remarkable coincidence, there will be squeaks about each of them tomorrow morning.”

  Stone didn’t answer.

  Ryman said roughly: “What the hell’s the matter with you now? I’m sick to death of you looking as if the bell’s going to ring with the police any moment.”

  “Keith,” said Stone, and stopped. “Keith,” he went on, “if they know who did the jobs, or if they think they know, it won’t draw the police off on a big manhunt, will it? They’ll just pick up Charlie Daw and Cartwright.”

  Ryman actually backed a pace away; and there was the hush of dismay before he said gruffly: “We won’t send the squeaks through, that’s all, we’ll leave the police to find out for themselves.”

  But his voice was hoarse with the shock of realising that he had been so blinded by the brilliance of the idea.

  “And they won’t have any idea who’s taken that baby,” he said, more sharply. “That’s certain.”

  Gideon was actually asleep when the telephone bell rang. It was a long time since he had been roused by night regularly, but the habit of years quickly reasserted itself, and he was awake on the instant. He heard Kate gasp; so she was also awake. The telephone was by the side of the bed near the light; he hitched himself up and stretched out for it, then put on the light.

  “Gideon.”

  “Hi, Gee-Gee.” There was no mistaking the bright, perky Cockney voice. This was Lemaitre, for years Gideon’s Chief Assistant, more recently the Chief Superintendent on night duty at the Yard – in effect Gideon’s counterpart by night. “Sorry to wake you up, old cock, but you’d tear us to bits in the morning if I hadn’t. Nasty show tonight.”

  Gideon was sitting erect, and Kate was looking at him, thick dark hair in curlers, her face a little shiny with night creams.

  “Let’s have it, Lem.”

  Lemaitre told him . . .

  “. . . and Maybell’s a goner, must have died instantaneously. Archer’s got a good chance, they say – knife just missed his heart. Lost a lot of blood and he’ll need watching, but with luck he’ll be about again in a few weeks. The devil of it is, who’d have a cut at a couple of coppers on the same night? That’s the question.”

  “Send to the Division, pick up Charlie Daw—” Gideon began.

  “Couldn’t have been Charlie,” declared Lemaitre. “He was picked up in Hammersmith on another job. We know the time that Maybell got his, Charlie simply couldn’t have done it, which is a spot of luck for Charlie Daw, because if there had been time I’ll bet we’d have had him on toast for it. What do you intend to do, George? Coming over?”

  “Yes, right away.”

  “Still the same old pioneering spirit,” said Lemaitre, and it was easy to imagine his grin. “Okay, old cock, I’ll have a cuppa char ready for you.”

  “Don’t go,” urged Gideon. He was staring at the window, the lamplight and the reflection of Kate’s face, but he did not really notice Kate. “Daw was near Maybell, and we had a squeak that he would be in Hammersmith. Don’t go.” He stared tensely as he tried to see the association clearly in his mind. “Daw always swore he’d get Maybell when he came out, didn’t he? And wasn’t there a whisper a few weeks ago, after Archer had stopped the man Cartwright in the smash and grab, that Cartwright’s father said he’d get Archer?”

  “Gor blimey!” Lemaitre gasped.

  “Put a call out for Cartwright, and then keep both him and Daw on ice for me,” Gideon urged. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” He rang off, pushed the bedclothes back, then belatedly glanced at Kate. “Sorry, Kate, but two of our chaps have been attacked tonight, I’d better go and see what’s doing myself. No need for you to get up, I can get all I want at the Yard.” He squinted at the mantelpiece clock. “It’s only just turned twelve, early yet.”

  Kate didn’t say ‘Must you go?’ and even when he was leaving the bedroom, did not adjure him to be careful, but he knew exactly what was in her mind. The telephone had not disturbed any of the children, and he crept downstairs with unnecessary stealth, went out, and walked briskly to the garage nearby, a lock-up which was awkward to get into and out of. He did not greatly mind taking his time, either then or when he was driving towards the Yard. He wanted the notion he had about Cartwright to take root. Coincidence was acceptable up to a point, but the Maybell-Daw coincidence was quite remarkable, and if by any chance Cartwright was picked up near Paddington, it would not be simply remarkable, it would be astonishing.

  He was at the Yard at twenty minutes to one.

  In an office almost too brightly lit with fluorescent lighting, Lemaitre grinned up at him from a large desk. Lemaitre was a bony, thin-faced man with a big mouth, who smiled often.

  “Guess where we found Cartwright,” he said.

  “Paddington.”

  “Edgware Road, so you’re not far wrong. He was just coming away from a furrier’s place with a couple of mink stoles. He and Daw are both waiting downstairs for you. Want any help?”

  “Like to sit in with me?” Gideon asked.

  “I’d better not, George, there’s a lot coming in tonight. Small stuff, mostly, but you know how it is.”

  “Right,” said Gideon. “Who’ve you got to come and take notes for me?”

  “Young Brennison. Remember him, he—”

  “I remember him,” said Gideon. “The one who’s more Irish than you’re Cockney.”

  Brennison was tall and raw-boned, with the look of the Irish about him, but not a very pronounced brogue, and renowned as a shorthand writer. He entered the first waiting-room with Gideon, sat in a corner, and took out his pencil and pad; he had a gift of effacing himself so that whoever was questioning a suspect had the field all to himself.

  Charlie Daw was a small, hardy, thin man, with a thin mouth and hard blue eyes; he had a greyish pallor, the kind which often comes from many years in prison. There was nothing remotely prepossessing about him, and in his limited way he was a thoroughly evil man.

  “So I said I’d get Maybell, and one of these days I would’ve, but do you think I’d be a bloody fool enough to make it look like murder?” he said to Gideon. “Not on your flicking life. I come out of stir flat broke, and you bloody busies hound me everywhere I go. I had to try and make a living somehow.”

  “Who put you on to the job tonight?” asked Gideon. “You didn’t think that one up for yourself, you haven’t been out long enough to case that or any other place properly. Let’s have the truth – who told you about the job?”

  “You saying some so-and-so squealed on me?”

  “You’ve got a mind. Use it,” Gideon said. He was a foot taller and four inches broader than the prisoner, who was standing by a chair, bitter-faced, his fists clenched as if he would like to squeeze the life out of whoever had informed the police. Gideon offered him a cigarette, and he snatched it. “Right,” Gideon went on as the man lit it. “Now start thinking. Someone told you that the Hammersmith job was worth doing. Someone told you to do it tonight. Someone killed Maybell tonight. See if you can add up two and two.”

  Daw was drawing hard at the cigarette.

  “Don’t make me have to spell it out for you,” Gideon said.

  “Gawd!” exclaimed Daw, and his eyes blazed with fury. “It was Si Mitchell, the son of a bitch! He told me he’d see me right, said he knew where I could unload the stuff, he even staked me ten quid. Why, if I—”

  Cartwright was a man of much higher intelligence than Daw, and he spoke in a well-modulated voice; it was hard to believe that he had taught his only son a life of crime.

  “I meant to get Ar
cher all right, and I hope he died, it will save me the trouble. It wasn’t Si Mitchell who gave me the key to the furriers, though, but one of Si’s boys. You’d better work on them.”

  “Bring in Simon Mitchell,” said the radio, the teletype and the telephone, to every Divisional Station and every substation of the Metropolitan Police. “He is wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Sergeant Maybell. Bring in Simon Mitchell . . .”

  But Mitchell was not found that night.

  17

  SNATCH

  Helen was in the bathroom, and the two men could hear the shower hissing and splashing. Ryman was in a singlet and a pair of flannels; he had not yet shaved. Stone had been up before any of them, and was shaved and spruce, his hair plastered down so that it looked as if it were groomed with a black lacquer paint. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his movements were jerky as he stared down at the headlines in the three newspapers which had just arrived at the flat.

  LONDON HUNT FOR POLICEMAN’S KILLER

  ran one, and the sub-heading ran: Every available London policeman joins search

  TWO POLICEMEN SAVAGELY ATTACKED

  ran another. “We’ll get the killers if it’s the last thing we do” – Gideon of the Yard

  GREATEST LONDON MANHUNT

  said the third simply.

  Ryman was beginning to smile as he read these. He glanced at Stone, who did not speak, but was reading the text of the report on Archer.

  “God!” he gasped.

  “What’s that?”

  “Archer’s alive.”

  “You bungled it!”

  “. . . waiting by his bedside,” Stone was reading, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “They want a statement, so he’s not come round, thank God for that. Not that he could say anything if he did talk, he didn’t see me.”