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  That was the moment when a great number of spectators began to stand up – all young men and girls – in every corner of the ground.

  The uprising began, obviously, on some prearranged signal. Those among the crowd used to the ways of spectators, thought no more than that these youths were stretching cramped legs – for this was the end of an over: a natural break in the game. But each of those who stood up took something from his or her pocket. Each was looking intently towards the field, and each was heading for a gangway, pushing unceremoniously past his neighbours.

  Bligh, watching from the Members’ Stand, said to the Inspector with him: “Here it comes!” He looked in a dozen directions at once and his heart was racing, his words had a touch of breathlessness.

  Here and there, innocent spectators called: “Sit down!”

  None of the young men and women did so, but a few tossed smoke and stink-bombs at those who protested, and little bursts of smoke and tiny clouds of evil-smelling gas began to waft in the gentle breeze. Coughing began, and shouts of protest, but no one in the middle of the field showed even the slightest interest. For this was England’s summer ritual and only heavy rains or rank disaster could affect the players on the field or interfere with the stately progress of the umpires.

  As the demonstrators reached the gangways, older men sitting on the steps stood up. To the spectators, it must have looked as if the authorities had allowed the exits to be cluttered, and were now moving people on.

  Not in one or a dozen but in hundreds of places, exactly the same thing happened. The demonstrators, now obviously ready to invade the pitch from every corner of the ground, suddenly found their wrists gripped and firm pressure exerted – and then, amazed, found themselves heading away from, not towards, their goal! Most were too utterly astonished to put up a fight or even to protest. A few broke away and ran – only to find themselves confronted by policemen in uniform, delighted at this break in the routine business of crowd control. Perhaps a dozen demonstrators dodged clear of these and raced towards the gates only to find the police waiting outside them, with the Black Marias.

  Over eight hundred and seventy persons were arrested on a charge of causing a public nuisance. Yet play was not interrupted even for a single over, and few in the crowd even guessed what had happened, before they heard about it on television and radio that night.

  “Absolutely a clean sweep, sir!” Bligh almost crowed into the telephone. “Complete success, thank God!”

  “Very well done,” Gideon told him, with heartfelt satisfaction. “Very well done indeed!”

  “Excellent!” Sir Reginald Scott-Marie said. “I shall telephone the Home Secretary at once. I couldn’t be more pleased, George.”

  Detective Constable Conception sat up in her bed, her lips heavily sticking-plastered on one side. What food she was able to eat was in liquid form, and only through the other side of her mouth. She watched Charles Henry as he told her exactly what had happened at Lord’s; and when he had finished, there were tears in her eyes.

  “And none of it would have been possible, but for you, Juanita,” he told her. “And George – I mean Commander Gideon – has recommended some official acknowledgment, so he understands . . .”

  Lemaitre, at five o’clock that evening, was still feeling washed out, but much better than when Hobbs had come to get his report. It always irked him when he had to stay indoors, and now he was particularly anxious to talk to Gideon. His wife was out, and he put in a call to the Yard. Gideon wasn’t in his office, nor was Hobbs; so he spoke to Information.

  “I can tell you one tiling,” the Information Chief Inspector told him: “Those two Americans you were after have flown back to New York.”

  “Oh, hell!” exploded Lemaitre. He replaced the receiver resentfully, glared at it, picked up a glass of milk – prescribed by Chloe – sipped it, and then slowly drank it all. Then he went and put the finishing touches to the report he had prepared in New York. He was far from certain that he had a cast-iron case to present, and it was proof the Yard needed. When the telephone suddenly rang he was glooming about this; face wrinkled, brow furrowed.

  “Lemaitre,” he growled; then realised that he wasn’t at his office.

  “Hold on, please – Commander Gideon wants you.”

  Lemaitre’s frown cleared, but his expression took on the lugubriousness of a Basset hound as he waited the few seconds before Gideon came on the line.

  “Lem—”

  “George, I’m awfully sorry about this. I—”

  “Never mind being sorry,” Gideon said, briskly. “Are you on your feet?”

  “Yes, I’m over the worst. Never let me have oysters—”

  “We’ve all the evidence we need to arrest John Spratt on a charge of murdering Charlie Blake,” Gideon cut in. “It’s hard and fast, and I want him brought in this evening. If you’re not fit—”

  “Just give me time to get my clothes on,” Lemaitre cried. “Just give me ten minutes!”

  He could almost see Gideon smile.

  He dressed with the meticulous care befitting so great an occasion, yet in less than fifteen minutes he was on his way to his Divisional headquarters. He arrived only five minutes before the evidence, which consisted of the two different pictures of the finger print taken from the envelope and one known for certain to be John Spratt’s. Within minutes, he had the back and sides of the converted warehouse covered, and took Superintendent Turpin and two Detective Sergeants with him to the front entrance. The ground floor was still buzzing with activity; television screens showing pictures of horse racing, Wimbledon and Lord’s; others flashing odds, cumulative betting totals and results. A startled manager said: “I don’t know if Mr. John is in, sir. I’ll enquire if you’ll wait just—”

  “No, thanks,” Lemaitre said. “I’ll go up.”

  The manager made an ineffectual attempt to stop him, but finally pressed the lift button. There might be a secret warning system, Lemaitre realised, but unless he had a helicopter on the roof, Spratt hadn’t a chance of getting away. As he stepped out of the lift, he saw the three brothers. All obviously alarmed, they crowded in the doorway of their big office-cum-sitting-room.

  Lemaitre, with one of his men on either side of him, felt the whole scene had the unreality of a film, even as he used the words with which he had been familiar most of his life. But as he eyed John Spratt – still a remarkably handsome man, despite his thunderous brow, and now, when he had no power left, still looking powerful and dangerous – he used those words with great relish.

  “You are John Spratt?” he asked, formally.

  Instead of being facetious or defiant, John Spratt said: “Yes.”

  “I am a police officer,” stated Lemaitre, “and it is my duty to charge you with the murder of Charles Henry Blake on the evening of the second of June. It is my further duty to advise you that you are not compelled to make a statement but that anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence at your trial.”

  There was a long, unbelievably tense, pause. Lemaitre waited for some final act of defiance, but none came. Mark Spratt simply buried his face in his hands. Matthew stared at his brother, white-faced, and said: “We’ll soon have you free, John.” But his voice held a hoarseness that all too plainly came of fear.

  “I have nothing to say,” John Spratt said clearly. And as clearly, added to his brothers: “Look after Naomi. Whatever happens, look after Naomi.”

  Mark nodded; Matthew said in the same hoarse voice: “We will.”

  With Lemaitre at his side, one Detective in front and one behind, they went out of the room and down the stairs, not in the lift. As they went, other police came in and took over the premises: not interfering with the business, but making sure no papers were destroyed. Lemaitre’s party left by a side entrance and drove off in a police car. The whole proceedings had taken less than nine min
utes.

  Superintendent Turpin stayed behind, to question the brothers and to search.

  “George—” Lemaitre’s eyes were shining— “you could have had him picked up by Turpin or anyone. Thanks. Thanks a lot!”

  “He was your man,” Gideon said. “And your next job, Lem, is to find out whether we can charge either or both of his brothers as accomplices or accessories before or after the fact. Arrange the hearing for as late as possible tomorrow – I might be able to make it myself.”

  Lemaitre went out, perky and happy, at about seven o’clock, and he had not been gone ten minutes before Hobbs came in. Gideon, without a word, took out the whisky, and Hobbs sat down.

  “Cheers.” Gideon smiled, very relaxed. “It’s been a good day.”

  “Better than you know,” said Hobbs. “Cheers.”

  “What is it I don’t know?” Gideon demanded.

  “We picked up the heroin stolen from Beckett’s shop. It was to be distributed through private schools.” Before Gideon could go on, Hobbs added: “And Sebastian Jacobus has just made a full statement, confirming that he was paid to attack Barnaby Budge. And Louis Willison, the American sponsor of Budge, has already stated that he backed Rudge to win the Men’s Singles to the tune of ten thousand dollars, with the Jackie Spratt’s organisation. This wasn’t a case of racial hatred, George, it was just some crooked gambling.”

  Gideon drank his whisky very slowly, staring at Hobbs all the time, and then picked up a telephone.

  “Give me the Back Room Inspector,” he ordered, and a moment later went on: “Commander Gideon – yes. Deputy Commander Hobbs will have a special statement to make at eight o’clock precisely . . . That should catch all the morning papers, shouldn’t it? . . . Good. Get everyone you can.” He rang off, sat back, and said: “Tell them the simple truth, Alec. That we are charging both Spratt and Jacobus with conspiracy to defraud. The Press can draw their own conclusions.”

  “You know, you should do this yourself,” Hobbs remonstrated.

  “I get too much publicity as it is,” Gideon told him. “It’s time you stepped into the limelight. Besides, I want to go home.” He finished his drink, and asked casually: “Seeing Penelope, tonight?”

  “Tonight she has a date with a boyfriend,” Hobbs stated, drily.

  Gideon did not comment or question but he wondered what was going through the other’s mind; whether the sequence of Penelope’s boyfriends hurt him; whether the time was near when he should try to talk more seriously to Hobbs. Or, indeed, to Penelope. But certainly the time was not yet. He nodded, unsmiling. “Well, I’m off.”

  “Just one thing,” Hobbs stopped him. “I couldn’t be more glad that it’s not too serious, with Kate.”

  “I know,” said Gideon gruffly. “Thanks, Alec.”

  As he drove towards Fulham, his mind was filled with the strange panorama of events. With the fact that wherever he went, in his beloved London, he was – even now, he must be – driving past the scenes of so many crimes, and as many in preparation. He wondered how many of the people whom he passed would suffer from the upsurge of pickpockets and bag-snatchers, and made a mental note to check that aspect with Bligh, tomorrow.

  Bligh had got off to a wonderful start on this special job: odd, that a man of such obvious quality had been through such a bad patch. He might have a weakness Gideon hadn’t yet seen; he must study the man and his work very closely. He wondered a little idly whether there really was anything between Charles Henry and the Jamaican policewoman, and he remembered with pleasure the clean sweep at Lord’s.

  Seldom would the London police court be so busy as it would, tomorrow. The magistrate would probably take the accused – those who pleaded guilty, anyhow – in dozens. But there would still have to be a special, all-day court. He felt relaxed and content. There were more good days than bad ones, and today might well see the end of the Spratt family’s reign of corruption.

  That evening, Cyril Jackson, his eyes bulging with excitement, went to see Aunty Mardia – and the moment he got into her room, she grabbed his arm and twisted it so savagely that he cried out.

  “Wotjer do that for?” he gasped. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You’ll get a lot worse than that if you don’t turn everything over to me,” said Martha, and clouted him across the face. Dazed, bewildered, he put his arms up to defend himself. “Think you can twist me, do you? I had someone watching you – you sneaked a quid out of a wallet before you put it in the car! Don’t lie to me, you—”

  “But Aunty! I came to tip you off! The cops are watching – don’t hit me – I tell you, the cops are watching! I saw them! You’ve got to lay off Wimbledon, if you don’t want us all nabbed. Don’t!” he cried again. “Don’t hit me!”

  “Who’s watching,” old Ted Triggett asked, in his tired voice.

  “The cops!” screeched Cyril. “I keep telling you, the cops are on to us!”

  Aunty Martha drew back her hand and stared in consternation. But he poured out his story so convincingly that she had to believe him. And within minutes, a five-pound reward in his pocket, he was off to warn the other graduates of the Charm School to keep clear of Wimbledon and switch over to Lord’s.

  The next morning, with the newspapers spread out in front of them, Barnaby Rudge and Lou Willison could hardly control their excitement, and when the doctor came he was agog with the news. On every front page there was a picture of Barnaby Rudge side by side with pictures of John Spratt and Sebastian Jacobus.

  “Just get me right for Monday,” breathed Bamaby. “Just get me right!”

  “Barnaby,” Willison made himself say, “there’s next year. You don’t have to take chances.” He saw the faces of his friends and the size of his disaster, but some quality in him made him insist: “There’s no need to take chances, Barnaby.”

  “Just get me ready, Doc,” pleaded Barnaby.

  “I’m having a damned good try,” the doctor said. “Let me look at that shoulder.”

  Soon, the deep heat lamps were spreading their healing warmth and the manipulation began. Barnaby surrendered himself completely to the man who gave him hope. Willison went into the library to re-read the newspapers with their bitter-sweet story, and he was still sitting there when the telephone rang.

  “Lou Willison,” he said, flatly.

  “Lou.” It was the Englishman who had placed his bets, and he had a flash of bitter self-reproach at having driven the other to do that. “Lou, I’ve just had this officially. All bets on the Men’s Competition are being cancelled by the leading bookmakers. All money will be refunded. That’s official, I tell you. You won’t win, but you certainly won’t lose.”

  Willison put down the receiver, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He began to tremble from reaction, but soon he was quite calm and composed.

  For Gideon, for Hobbs, for Bligh and for Henry, for all the police, the next day went on normally. All the official hearings were held, the demonstrators were all fined twenty-five pounds or seven days’ imprisonment. John Spratt and Sebastian Jacobus were each remanded in custody for eight days.

  At the warehouse offices of Jackie Spratt’s Limited, there was no evidence that Matthew and Mark knew what their brother had done, but there was one very interesting discovery – of the miniature cigar ‘blow-pipes’ and supplies of muscular-depressant drug, Curol. It was Mark who broke down and confessed what they had planned for the Derby.

  That same day, the stewards of the Jockey Club were informed, in confidence, and special precautions were taken in case someone else had the same idea. But not until long after the Derby was run would the plot become public knowledge; not until the trials of the three Spratt brothers.

  The only policeman to feel any disappointment that day was P.C. Donaldson, for the thieves and pickpockets were almost non-existent, and he could not understand it. The next
day, Saturday, the same, and he told himself that they would be busy again on Monday.

  On the Monday, he was drawn to Number 1 Court, where Barnaby Rudge was playing the Australian Cyril Wallers, the Number Nine seed. It was an overcast day with the threat of rain, the ‘long, hot summer’ was nearly over. Barnaby heard Willison’s voice beating in his ears.

  “Don’t take chances, Barnaby. If that shoulder begins to hurt, it won’t get any better and it might become permanently weak.”

  “Don’t take chances, Barnaby . . .”

  “Don’t use your service today.”

  If he used the service and yet lost, he knew it would do great harm. And he needed every muscle in perfect trim if he were to use it with full force. He went through the formalities, and won the right to serve first. He could almost hear the silence of the eight thousand spectators. There wasn’t a vacant seat and hardly room anywhere among the standing crowds.

  He served, good, fast, swerving.

  In five minutes, he knew that without his ‘fireball’ services he could not beat his opponent. And at the same time, he realised that he was not fit enough to exert the strength he needed for the ‘fireball’.

  Gideon sat in front of the television set at the Brighton Hotel where Kate had a room overlooking the sea. The main news was over, and there were some action shots of the English batsmen at Lord’s. “Unless the weather changes, the second Test will almost certainly end in a draw,” a commentator was saying. Then another said: “Among the other results at Wimbledon today, was Cyril Wallers’ narrow victory over Barnaby Rudge, the American, 4-6, 6-4, 5-7, 7-5, 6-2. The American, victim of an assault which would have made most players scratch, tired rapidly in the last set and was obviously ‘nursing’ his right shoulder. The top seeds all won their rounds comfortably.”