Gideon Combats Influence Page 2

  He gave her a peck of a kiss as he passed, moved briskly along the narrow hall and picked up the telephone, not troubling to try to guess what the call was about. He had come to accept it as part of life that the Yard would find him wherever he was. He was not even gloomy at the thought that this might mean that he would have to go back tonight.

  “Gideon,” he said.

  “Sorry to stop you on the doorstep,” said O’Leary, “but there’s a job just come in you’ll want to hear about. Tiny Bray’s been beaten up so badly that he isn’t likely to last the night. He’s at the North London. They’re giving him blood transfusions now.”

  “Know who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Tiny say anything?”

  “No, and not likely to. The Division’s got a man with him, of course. If he comes round it’ll be for a few minutes, that’s all.”

  “I might nip over and see him,” Gideon said slowly. “Hold on a minute.” He was aware of Kate going into the dining-room, aware of a car passing outside, but he was seeing the little man who had informed the Yard about a plot to raid Leventhal’s in Bayswater; a little mouse of a man with a strange, unhappy history which had turned him into a police informer; a nice little fellow with a pleasant wife. “Mike, someone found out that Tiny squeaked, and we can be pretty sure that this job was done by the mob planning to raid Leventhal’s,” Gideon went on. “Turn a couple of chaps over to checking the most likely mobs, will you? If you think it’s worth it, talk to NE and QR and see if they’ve heard any buzz. Ask young Christy to spread news of this round, quick. Tiny had a lot of friends.”

  “Wouldn’t like to talk to Christy yourself, would you? He’ll eat out of your hand, but bite mine.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Gideon said, and added almost with alacrity: “All right, I’ll talk to him. Where did it happen?”

  “Walker’s Cut.”

  “Was Tiny on his way home or on his way out?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Find out, will you?” asked Gideon. “And if you come across anyone who was near Tiny’s place, let me know.”

  He glanced at the open door leading to the kitchen and could hear the sizzling of the frying pan.

  “Thought you were going to take Kate out.”

  “We all get ideas,” Gideon said. “Thanks, Mike.” He rang off, hesitated, and was not surprised when he saw Kate coming, tall, very brisk-moving, so pleasant of face and expression. She stopped in the doorway, and Gideon shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands apologetically. “Looks as if you’ll have to go alone,” he said. “I’ve got to be on tap. Sorry.”

  “I’ll try and arrange something,” Kate said, and there was no hint of resentment in her voice. “Is it bad?”

  “Might be.”

  “Feel like two chops, or one?”

  “Two!”

  “That means you didn’t have any lunch,” Kate said. “One of these days you’ll suffer for missing meals. Ten minutes, dear.” She went off, and Gideon dialled the number of the NE Divisional Headquarters. As he did so, much of what he knew about NE came automatically into his mind. It was the East End Division, a tough one, and Christy had been newly promoted as its Chief Superintendent, largely because Gideon had rooted for him. Some kind of feud was going on between him and O’Leary, and Gideon meant to learn more about it, but there was no hurry. There was the sizzling and the smell of frying chops; there was the ringing of the telephone at NE; there was the mental picture of Tiny Bray, probably in an oxygen tent, having blood transfusions and breathing his last, with his wife sitting by his side and a Divisional detective there watching, in the forlorn hope that he would come round and be lucid enough to name his attackers.

  And there was Borgman: a kind of Big Brother, a shadowy face looking down at him, as if in constant challenge. He did not understand the psychological causes, but accepted the fact that Borgman was always with him, a shadow and a scourge.

  Then the Division answered, and Gideon said: “Give me Mr Christy, if he’s in … Gideon here.”

  Chapter Two

  Whispers

  “That you, George?” Christy was not liked by everyone, partly because he was always a little over-hearty, a little too quick on the ball; sooner or later he would learn not to make other people feel inferior or slow. “You on to the Tiny Bray job already?”

  “Just heard about it. Got anything yet?”

  “No.”

  “Tell you what,” said Gideon, “spread the story round quick. Dance halls, youth clubs, churches, pubs, the lot. Just say that Tiny was beaten up, don’t let anyone think that he might die—as soon as they know it’s a murder rap, everyone will close up. If we’re going to get a squeak it will be before anyone knows how serious it is.”

  “Yes. Thanks a lot.”

  The sincerity in his voice revealed the side of Christy which many people did not know was there.

  “Got any ideas?” asked Gideon.

  “Almost certainly the mob planning the furrier’s job.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Might get a line soon, if we’re lucky,” Christy said. “I’ve got three lots of possibles marked out, and I’m checking whether any of them is likely to play it rough.”

  “How’ve you planned to handle the house-to-house calls?” Gideon asked, and so implied that Christy already had that lined up.

  “Just been thinking about it,” Christy answered. “If you’re right and some people might be scared of talking, I’d better tell our chaps to promise that they won’t divulge the source of information. I’ll have the questioning started off with that, it might just make the difference.”

  “Good,” Gideon said. “I’ll be in all the evening, unless I come over and see you and Tiny.”

  Gideon rang off, brushed his hair back with the flat of his hand, and then went into the kitchen, where Kate was prodding at a thick chump chop, the fork sinking into the crisp, golden fat. She didn’t look up. Gideon took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, washed hands and hairy forearms under the tap at the sink, and was drying his face when Kate said: “Couldn’t you leave a message at the box office?”

  “Wish I could,” Gideon said, “but even then I’d be on edge and wouldn’t enjoy the film. Can’t Penny go?”

  “She’s got her usual date with Frank,” Kate said. “Anyhow, she’s not coming home tonight; she’s playing at a concert near Staines and I thought she might as well stay. You’d never believe how I miss Pru!”

  “Well, she’s happy enough with her Peter,” Gideon said. “Matthew—”

  “The children can be ruled out,” Kate said firmly. “Are you really likely to go to the hospital?”

  “Think so.”

  “Mrs Templeman across the road said she wanted to see the film. I’ll pop over and find out if she can come tonight,” Kate said. “Stop blowing like a grampus, and sit down and have your supper.” She was putting a huge plate, piled high, on a corner of the kitchen table; they always ate there when they were on their own. She sat down to nearly as large a meal as Gideon and, as they ate, he told her tit-bits about the day’s events, and about Tiny Bray.

  “I hope you find the beasts who did that,” Kate remarked. “Isn’t he the one with the sick wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Kate said: “It’s a good job you never feel as vindictive as I would.”

  “Don’t I?” asked Gideon, heavily, and they were silent for a while, until Kate asked: “Have you decided what to do about Borgman?”

  “Can’t make up my mind.”

  “Do you still feel the same as you did last night?”

  “Be astonished if he didn’t kill his first wife,” Gideon said, “but I’m beginning to think that I’d be more astonished if we could ever prove it. I wish I knew what
it is about Borgman that I can’t wear. There’s something—” He shrugged, speared a last morsel of meat, gave his slow grin, and said: “I’m getting fanciful.”

  “When do you have to decide?”

  “There’s a conference tomorrow morning. Either we exhume the body, and, if we find enough morphia, make a charge, or we put it aside for a couple of months or so. If we could make a charge now, we could have the trial at the next sessions at the Old Bailey. If we wait any longer it will be put off indefinitely.” Gideon related more or less what Appleby had advised, elaborated a little and, as Kate cut into a blackberry and apple pie and the aroma filled the room, he asked: “What would you do, Kate?”

  “Feeling sure that he had killed her, but worried in case Percy Richmond would make a fool of me if a charge were preferred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be soft,” Kate responded, and placed a dish in front of him, then pushed the milk jug close to his side. “You can’t make your people charge him, but you’ll have to try.” She was so matter-of-fact about it that Gideon found himself smiling and felt a lifting of his spirit; she was right: he would have to try to persuade everyone at the conference that they must prosecute Borgman. “Of course you know the truth about you and this John Borgman, don’t you?” Kate went on.

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re the same type,” Gideon’s wife said. “You don’t let anything get in your way.”

  That sounded like a cliché, yet there was a lot of truth in it. Gideon had studied Borgman’s career closely, and found one outstanding characteristic; whatever he started he finished. Borgman was not only brilliant, he was painstakingly thorough. He prepared the ground exhaustively before making any business or financial move. Was it likely that he would have taken any risks with his ex-mistress? “I’m just repeating myself,” Gideon said irritably, and made himself think about Tiny Bray.

  Christy’s men would already be calling at the houses near Bray’s home; would be questioning people in the streets leading to that home; would be trying to get a single piece of information that might lead them to the arrest of the men who had so battered the little mouse of a man that he was near to death.

  Gideon was still mulling over what he knew about Tiny when Kate went across to her neighbour; she came hurrying back to say that Mrs Templeman was eager to go to the pictures, and then Gideon went to the door, watched her and a short, plump woman hurrying towards the end of the road. Before he closed the door, he was wondering how Tiny was. Borgman was temporarily forgotten.

  Just at that moment, a front door was closing on the other side of London. A scared girl was closing it, and she was also thinking about Tiny Bray. The girl’s name was Gully – Rachel Gully.

  She lived in a hovel in Nixon Street, Whitechapel, one of a terrace of houses which were jammed close together, like teeth packed too tightly in a narrow jaw. She was only seventeen, she was pale, and but for her large blue eyes and a certain gentleness of expression, she would have been plain. Her thin straw-coloured hair was silky, and drawn back too tightly from a high forehead, which had a small bump over the right eyebrow, as if someone had struck her there, making it puffy and shiny. In fact, it was a natural lump. She had been about to step out of the tiny front room of the house, which opened straight on to the narrow pavement, when she had seen three men standing almost opposite, and two men standing at the doorway of a house twenty yards along the road.

  She leaned against the door, a hand pressed against her small, unformed breasts. She was breathing rather hard; excitement and nervousness always brought on a spasm of asthma, but the attacks never lasted long. She heard footsteps in the street, and then the roar of a motor-cycle, but all she could see was the cheap, scratched furniture of this, her mother’s parlour, and the door which led to the scullery and the wash-house at the back. There were two rooms upstairs, each small, dingy and dark.

  Then she went to the kitchen, and her mother looked up from a twelve-inch television set. Music was coming from the screen, and the picture began to form. The girl looked at it, not at her mother – who was a grotesque version of herself as she might be in twenty years’ time. The facial likeness was startling, the bump on the high forehead was exactly the same, even the big eyes were alike; but those eyes were set in a round moon of a face, and her mother had become vast in floppy bosom and sagging belly.

  “Mum, the—the police are outside,” Rachel burst out.

  “Well, what about it? You ain’t done nothing they want you for, have you?”

  “Mum—”

  There was a burst of the drums, then a beaming face appeared on the tiny screen. Gradually it became smaller, until the figure of a man was revealed, dancing and cavorting and swinging his arms to the rhythm of the music.

  “Mum—”

  “Don’t keep saying ‘Mum’!”

  “Mum, I saw them,” Rachel gasped out. “I saw the men who attacked Mr Bray. I was just going into the Gut when I heard him cry out. There were three of them, and one of them was Red Garter. Mum, what did I ought to do? The police—”

  Her mother jumped up and moved towards her. The screen was talking and there was a background of music and a crescendo of song: Here Comes Charlie, Good Old Charlie. The din filled the little room, reverberating against the framed prints on the walls, jolting a huge china dog which was painted a hideous gilt colour. The older woman walked unevenly, floppily, her right fist was raised and clenched for emphasis.

  “You never saw anything, and don’t make any mistake about it. You never saw Red Garter or anyone else—why, what do you think would happen to you if you squealed to the cops? You just keep your mouth closed and forget all about it. Does anyone else know you know?”

  “No! But, Mum, I—”

  “Thank Gawd you had the sense not to talk about it,” said her mother, in gusty relief. She glanced round at the television: Charlie was now singing on a low-pitched, toneless note, and the music in the background was barely audible. “Now remember what I tell you—you never saw nothing, you don’t know anything about it. I don’t want no daughter of mine to be a squealer, in any case, and remember what would happen to you if—”

  There was a loud knock at the front door. Swiftly, the fat woman turned and dived towards the television, twisted the volume control until the voice blared out again deafeningly.

  “Pretend you didn’t hear the knock, see. We’re watching the telly, and didn’t hear—”

  “But, Mum—”

  “Pretend you didn’t hear the knock!”

  “But, Mum, I saw Red Carter there, and—and it’s not fair to pretend I didn’t. They’ve knocked Mr Bray about something awful; the ambulance had to come and take him away. He might even be dead.”

  “You little fool,” rasped her mother, and clutched her shoulder and breathed into her ear, the sibilants sounding even above the blast of the television. “You forget all about it. If it was Red Carter he wouldn’t care what he did to shut you up, that’s it and all about it. Just keep your trap shut.” She gripped Rachel’s shoulders and thrust her down into a chair. “No one will think we heard that knock if—”

  The knock was repeated, but was hardly audible.

  “There you are,” she said triumphantly. “You can’t really hear it; no one will know we heard.”

  “But, Mum—”

  “Don’t keep ‘but Mum-ing’ me!”

  “Don’t you understand? They’ll come back, it’s no use pretending!”

  “You listen to me, my girl,” Mrs Gully said, with menace in her manner. “You put your backside in that chair and stay there until the cops have gone. And if they come back, remember what I told you—you didn’t see or hear anything. Why, that Red Carter would cut your throat as lief as look at you, and you know it. What chance do you think you’d have? If you had the proper statistics, okay, but Red wouldn’
t be any more interested in you than he would be in a boy, and don’t forget it. Just sit down and remember what I’ve told you.”

  Rachel leaned back and closed her eyes. She was listening for a repetition of the knock at the front door, but either it did not come, or she did not hear it because of the television’s din. Slowly, she relaxed. After ten minutes she began to watch the antics of Charlie, and her mother turned the set down. Neither of them moved until the programme was over, and immediately there was an announcement: “Professor Arnold Keven, recently back from a long visit to the excavations near Piraeus, will give …”

  “Turn it off, turn it off,” said Mrs Gully in vexation. “It beats me why they don’t make sure we have a decent programme all the evening. Where were you going when you saw the cops, Rach?”

  “To the pictures.”

  “That’s okay, so long as you don’t talk about anything you think you saw.” Rachel’s mother winked, all menace gone, then went to a small cabinet standing in a corner, opened it, and took out a bottle of gin. She poured some fastidiously into a cracked yellow cup, tossed it down, gave herself a little more, then put back the cap and put the bottle away. She smacked her lips when she turned round, and gave Rachel a leery smile. “Them that talks least lives longest, that’s what I always say. But it’s okay, you can go to the pictures.”

  “It’s too late now,” Rachel said miserably. “I’d better stay in.”

  On the words there was a loud rat-tat at the front door. Mrs Gully started violently, hesitated, then pushed Rachel aside and strode across the room.

  “I’ll send them off with a flea in their ears,” she boasted. “Can’t let decent people enjoy a quiet evening. We’ll see about them.”