Thugs and Economies (Gideon of Scotland Yard) Page 6

  He had the whole of London to cross when he left NE Division, and yawned a dozen times as he sent the car along the Embankment, touching fifty most of the time. It was a beautiful night, there wasn’t a cloud anywhere, and a crescent moon was shining on the river. This was London as he loved it, the London that seemed to belong to him. He slowed down, but did not stop to get out. He felt very tired, and realised that high pressure at the end of the day took much more out of him than it had a year or so back. But at least he could feel sure that he had launched that attack, and won a few days of grace.

  In a way, a sudden eruption of crime would have strengthened his battle with the Commissioner, but although he knew that, Gideon did not think seriously about it. Tactically, he’d won this round; strategically, he still had a big fight on his hands; but he was feeling in the right mood for a tussle.

  Although it was midnight when he reached home, a light was on in the living-room. Malcolm, his teenage son, was curled up in an armchair with a book, and continental music was coming over the radio. Malcolm put the book down, but didn’t get up.

  “Hallo, Dad.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Gone to bed, she said I could finish this chapter.”

  “She didn’t mean the book,” Gideon said. “Put a kettle on and I’ll make a cup of tea. Like one?”

  “No, thanks,” said Malcolm, “but why don’t you go up? I’ll bring the tea. Mum won’t be asleep yet.”

  “Thanks, good idea,” said Gideon, and went upstairs.

  There was no news of Taylor and no interruption during the night, or up to nine o’clock in the morning, when Gideon left for the office; and no special news when he arrived.

  Riddell was there, spruce, but obviously on his guard. ‘Oh, lor’,’ thought Gideon as he said good morning and rounded his desk. There were twice as many reports on it as usual – two big piles. He knew what they were, but badly missed the summary of the reports which his normal assistants would have had ready. But he was in no mood to start putting Riddell in his place.

  “I simply haven’t the time to go through all of them,” Riddell confessed. “I know how you like it done, but—”

  “Forget it.”

  “The Central Divisions appear to have gone mad,” Riddell said. “They’re pulling in suspects by the dozen.”

  It was impossible to explain to him. Gideon tried new tactics, grinned, told him to pull up a chair, and said they would go through the memos together. Riddell sat down, and picked up a pencil; Gideon saw that he had already drawn up a kind of report form, different from any that Gideon had seen before.

  “I thought you would like an analysis of arrests made as there were so many.” Riddell was cautious.

  “Good idea,” said Gideon. “Shall I sing ‘em out? Here’s ST Division, eleven arrests, all minor charges, let’s see – six indictable, the rest non-indictable. Got those headings?”

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps he was a good Records man, square peg in the round hole.

  “Right,” Gideon said. “Now—”

  Telephones started to ring, and they were interrupted a dozen times, but within an hour Gideon could see the whole picture. He sent for the Superintendents and the Chief Inspectors who had been out on normal work, heard each one out, made suggestions about cases, picked up odd items of information and stored these away in his memory. That was his greatest asset; a memory which not only stored but pigeon-holed. There were no new major crimes in the reports, and continuing inquiries ranged from murder to bank robberies, from a solicitor’s fraud to West End vice. When he had talked to every man with a report to make, he put in a call to the hospital.

  “Just heard a report to the Secretary about that,” the operator told hiGideon tensed.

  “Good or bad?”

  “Had as good a night as could be expected, but he’s in a very serious condition.”

  “Ah,” Gideon grunted. “Could be worse. Mr Rogerson in?”

  “No, sir, he expects to be in about noon.”

  “Thanks,” said Gideon.

  He took five minutes’ respite, then studied the summary which he and Riddell had made. Riddell was now sitting at his own small desk, taking down a telephone message. The office was very quiet. Gideon saw that Riddell had totalled everything up; twenty-seven arrests had been made as a result of the new tactics, nineteen of them on non-indictable charges, and thirty-one men and three women had been at the different Divisional Headquarters for questioning.

  Riddell put the receiver down.

  “That was a report from Ollson up at Manchester. There has been no major charge, he thinks that he might be able to come down tomorrow and go into it with you, if you think it would be wise.”

  “Tell him to stay put until I send for him,” Gideon said. “That’ll please him.”

  “I’ll send him a teletype message,” promised Riddell. “There’s one other message. The PRO says he’d like to have a talk to you. Are you free for lunch?”

  “His treat?”

  “He said, ‘Ask Mr Gideon if he would like to lunch with me’. If so, will you meet him in the main hall at twelve forty-five.”

  “Thanks,” said Gideon. “Tell him yes.”

  That was at half past eleven. He had no idea what the Press Relations Officer wanted. The man was on the Civil Staff, and most of the CID’s public relations were handled by the Inspector in the back room; this Inspector would soon be clamouring for a statement to give to the pressmen who waited on the Embankment, thirsting for news.

  Now that the rush of the morning’s work was over, Gideon had a reaction which he didn’t much like; a kind of mental vacuum. He was really on tenterhooks for a call from the Commissioner, and it didn’t come; he expected one from Rogerson, too, and Rogerson didn’t call.

  He put a call through to Rogerson’s office.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said his Secretary, “but he has been with the Commissioner for the last half-hour and I believe they are lunching together.”

  “All right, thanks,” said Gideon. “I’ll call him again this afternoon.”

  It was not often that he felt any sense of anxiety, but he found it difficult to settle, and would have given a lot to know what his two superiors were saying. In a way it would be better if he could leave the general work to a deputy, and get on with the preparation of his own ‘case’, but Riddell certainly hadn’t the qualifications to deputise. Bell? There was no report from Bell in the morning’s accumulation, and that was unusual; it certainly did not mean that Bell had nothing to report. He put a call through to Bell’s office.

  “Mr Bell’s not been in this morning, sir.”

  “Hm,” grunted Gideon. If he called Bell’s home it would suggest either anxiety which wasn’t really justified, or that he was checking up on him; Bell was too reliable a man for that. Gideon decided to wait. It was an unsatisfactory morning in every way, and he began to wish that he had not agreed to have lunch with Popple. He did not know Popple well, but knew nothing against him. The man had a lively sense of humour and a ready tongue, and some of his notices which had been sent round, about sport, pensions and other internal matters, had been quite lively. He had been in Fleet Street most of his life, and was now in the middle forties, a few years younger than Gideon.

  They met in the front hall.

  “Where are we going – the pub across the road?” asked Gideon.

  The ‘pub across the road’ was in Cannon Row, and subsisted almost exclusively on hearty eating and long drinking men from the Yard.

  “Not on your life, we’re going to a slap-up place,” said Popple, and reminded Gideon of Hopkinson; he was nearly bald, and had merry blue eyes, in a plump face set on an unexpectedly small body. “On the house, too. I don’t often take VIPs out to lunch.”

  ‘What does he want?’ wondered Gideon, cautiously.

  They went to Quagg’s, where the lunch was excellent, the atmosphere luxurious and the service almost unbelievable. Popple sugge
sted wine, but Gideon stuck to lager; wine could make him heavy-eyed, and dull his wits. They had a table far away from others to make sure that they could talk without being overheard, and when they were waiting for their sweet, Popple said: “Patient chap, Gideon, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t be much good at my job if I wasn’t.”

  “No. What made you weigh into the Old Man like you did yesterday?”

  “Who told you about it?”

  “I picked it up.”

  “Hm.” Gideon became very wary indeed, reminding himself that this was one of the Civil Staff, who might be trying to find out enough to report back to the Secretary; one could never be quite sure how a thing like this would go. “Well, I didn’t weigh into the Old Man, I just made a plain statement of fact.”

  Popple grinned.

  “That’s one way of putting it. Needn’t make a mystery out of it, I suppose, but I wanted to see how you’d jump. I happened to be in the Old Man’s office yesterday afternoon, and there was a transcription of the notes which the Secretary had taken. What you had to say had been extracted verbatim. You set ‘em all by the ears.”

  “Dare say,” said Gideon, and he was still very wary.

  “How much of it did you mean?” asked Popple.

  “If I’d known you for five years instead of one, I’d have your skin for that.”

  “Everything?”

  “And more.”

  “Syd Taylor a case in point?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heart and soul in this, George?” Popple had never called him ‘George’ before. He was asking questions in quick succession, and watching Gideon very closely.

  “I am.”

  “I could help,” announced Popple.

  The waiter came up with the fruit salad and a double ice-cream for Gideon, and pancakes for Popple. Gideon considered all this while the waiter hovered. Popple ordered ‘coffee when we’ve finished’, and waved the man away.

  “How?” asked Gideon.

  “Friends in Fleet Street could do a lot and I’ve a lot of friends,” Popple answered. “I was told when I took this job on that the chief thing was to improve the public relationship – sell the Yard and the Force generally to the Press. You may not have noticed, but we get twenty per cent more space in the national dailies than we used to, and most of the extra is on the front page. Good, aren’t I?”

  “I’ll tell you when I know.”

  Popple chuckled.

  “Drop the defences, George. I’m not going to try and pull a fast one, I’m going to give you the opportunity you couldn’t get if I wasn’t on your side. It depends how much this business of economy cuts really matters to you. Were you serious when you said you’d be ready to drop down to super rank again? “

  “Yes.”

  “Will you take other risks?”

  “I might,” said Gideon, cautiously. “What kind?”

  “Unless something exceptional crops up, and I don’t think it will, the Sunday papers will have very dull front pages this week,” Popple told him. “They’ll be made up tomorrow night, and short of an earthquake or a train disaster, they’ll be full of froth. I could get three of them for certain if a highly-placed officer at the Yard would state publicly that in his opinion the Yard will be in Queer Street if more money and more men can’t be found. If I said it, no one would really listen, it’d get a small paragraph at most, and I’d get a kick in the pants for indiscretion. But—”

  Gideon just looked at him.

  “You’ve never said much to the Press,” Popple went on. “In fact I don’t remember you being quoted for months. You needn’t say much, either. The newspapers will tart it up for you.” When Gideon continued to stare but didn’t speak, Popple continued on as if a little embarrassed. “I’d broadcast it myself if I thought it would do any good, but I’m sure it wouldn’t. I’m as sure you would. All you need say is what you’ve already said to the Old Man. You might hint that if the CID doesn’t get an extra grant for staff and the renewal of equipment and installing more modern stuff, there’ll be the biggest crime wave ever. I’ve got some new figures, just in,” Popple added. “Last year’s total of indictable offences in the Metropolitan area was up by—guess how much?”

  Gideon said slowly: “Fifteen per cent.”

  “You psychic? Fourteen point seven per cent.”

  “I can add up, too.”

  “You can also make prophecies; you can prophesy to the Press that next year it will be up another twenty-five per cent, and the year after that thirty per cent, unless drastic steps are taken to increase recruitment, pay the present staff more, and—how many resignations from the Department did you have last year? “

  “Seventeen,” said Gideon. “Nothing to matter.”

  “Straws in the wind. They hated leaving but they’ve got wives and families.”

  Gideon sat very still, until he picked up his spoon again. The ice-cream had gone mushy. He put the spoon down and pushed the plate away. Conflicting thoughts were chasing each other in his mind, and he wanted time to think this out; on the other hand he realised that it might be now or never. He could see its enormous advantages. He had avoided seeking personal publicity since he had become Commander, for the men doing the work in the field needed it, but he was often named, and was quite sure that if he made a pronouncement it would get good space in the newspapers. If Popple could get it on to ten million front pages on Sunday morning, it might be a big step towards rousing public opinion. One part of his mind was eager and willing, but there was a cold shadow of doubt in the other.

  What would be the effect on the Commissioner?

  If Scott-Marie resented it, what would he do?

  It could not be dismissed as an indiscretion; no one would believe that Gideon would be so indiscreet. It would be a powerful shot in the battle he had started without meaning to. The Commissioner would almost certainly disapprove, strongly. On the other hand, there could not be a better opportunity, for the newspapers could play up the attack on Taylor and the escape of Micky the Slob.

  He could refer the suggestion to Rogerson or to the Commissioner first.

  They would say ‘no’, of course; neither could possibly agree that such a statement should be made.

  If done, it would have to be wholly on his own responsibility, and he would have to be prepared to take all the consequences. He did not know the Commissioner well enough to be able to guess what they would be, but began to see the situation even more clearly. So far as the staffing position went in the CID, things could hardly be worse. Seventeen resignations in a year were not many, but they were a hundred per cent up on the previous year. This statement would attract mass attention, and even if he got a kick in the pants, might gain the extra money and the extra drive for new men.

  The waiter came up with the coffee.

  “Well, how about it?” Popple asked, when the man went off.

  “How long can I have?” asked Gideon.

  “Ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “Will you be in?”

  “No, home. I’ll contact you.”

  “Right.”

  “Mind telling me which way you lean?” asked Popple.

  “Your way,” Gideon answered, “but there may be snags in it that I can’t see, and I don’t mean snags for me. I’m due to prepare a case, anyhow.”

  “I know about that, but if you get your case you might find yourself up against another political crisis, or a revolt in East Europe, or—well, you know as well as I do,” Popple said. “Ten million Sunday morning breakfast-tables at least, George – and you’ll have your pretty picture on each of them.”

  “That’s one of the things I’m afraid of,” said Gideon.

  They did not say much more, and Gideon gave Popple a lift back to the Yard. Once there, Gideon went up the stairs rather than in the lift, where he would probably have to talk to others. Head thrust forward and looking very massive, he made his way to his own office. He opened the door, deciding that
the best thing he could do now was to get rid of Riddell for the afternoon, and then saw Joe Bell sitting at his, Gideon’s desk.

  His expression made it obvious that Bell had brought trouble.

  “Taylor?” demanded Gideon.

  “Yes,” answered Bell. “He’s gone. I happened to be there. So was his wife.”

  6

  HEADLINES

  Gideon had been known to say that when the machine of the Yard was properly geared, it would run itself; all it needed was oiling. There was some truth in this, although he did himself less than justice. It had been true during the day or two which followed the conference, for he had thought so much about Taylor and the staff problem that other matters, the routine oiling of the machine, had little more than cursory attention. By good fortune, it was a slack time; early summer often was. No big cases developed, either in London or the provinces, although three major arrests were made, each by a Yard man in the provinces, as the result of weeks of patient investigation.

  Gideon did everything that had to be done mechanically that Friday afternoon, and left the office about half past five, reaching home soon after six o’clock. The two younger girls were home, but getting ready to go to their tennis club, and by half past six he was alone with Kate.

  She was always surprising him; and she surprised him when she said quietly: “Is Syd Taylor dead?”

  “Good lord,” said Gideon; and took her hands. “So you can really read me like a book.”

  “I can’t think of anything else that would weigh on you like a ton,” said Kate.

  “I’ve something else weighing about ten tons,” Gideon told her. “Let’s go into the front room, I could do with a drink, and I’m not hungry yet. Had a smack-up lunch.” He led the way, poured himself a stiff whisky, and Kate a gin and Italian. Then he told her the whole story of Popple’s suggestion. He had not realised before how often he talked to Kate about the Yard’s problems, although seldom about actual cases, but this was so much more than a problem of the Yard.