Gideon Combats Influence Read online

  There had been a number of contributory factors to Lee’s subsequent breakdown. For one thing, he had worked for three years without a real holiday; for another, the eldest of his three children had been stricken with polio, and was still badly crippled; and for a third, two other, lesser cases had gone sour on him. He had been given six months’ sick leave, there had been talk of an early retirement, and it was because he hated the thought of retiring under a cloud that he had come back. But something had happened to him. His head for figures was the same, his shrewdness unmatched, but he found himself doubting the soundness of his own memory. In short, he had lost his confidence. Gideon had soon realised that he would not get it back until he had a big success.

  “… and of course what we really want is as much about Borgman as we can get,” Gideon said. “Now that this cashier is dead, we’ve got a bigger reason than ever to probe. Borgman called us in, and we can go ahead and check back for years.”

  “Want to make him edgy?”

  “Get him wondering what we’re really after, yes.”

  “Supposing it’s just a cut and dried job, which I can clear up in a couple of days?”

  Gideon grinned. “Just get bogged down in it, Fred.”

  Lee hesitated, looking intently at the bigger man. He had rather worried grey eyes, which had lost much of their sharpness. His features were clear-cut, his nose long and pointed, like his chin. He had a curious shaped mouth, drooping at the corners but, in the old days, giving him a droll look. Now, it was anxious. He was a tall thin man, and had always been round-shouldered.

  “Not taking too much of a chance, George, are you?” he asked. “I know how badly you want Borgman. If I muck this one up—”

  “Won’t do me any harm if I have to back down,” Gideon said, “and between you and me it looks as if I’ll have to. You can’t do any real damage, but you might dig up enough to give me a chance to go for Borgman in a big way. I don’t know of anyone else who can.”

  Lee smiled, more brightly.

  “If I can get anything on him, I will all right. Want me to be here when he comes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks,” said Lee, and then glanced at the telephone as it rang, and as the door opened to admit Bell, who had obviously washed and brushed his thin grey hair, and looked fresh and boyish.

  “Gideon here,” said Gideon. “Ah, yes. Bring him up, will you?”

  He rang off.

  “Joe, you sit at your desk as if you’re minding your own business, but keep glancing at him now and again, and make a lot of notes,” Gideon said. “We won’t be able to do much tonight, but we might start a crack. Fred, you stand with your back to the window. Push that armchair round a bit, so that it faces the window—that’s right. He can’t turn the chair round if he has to look at you as well as me, and we’ll find out what colour his eyes are!” He was smiling, and trying to hide his tension. He felt an unfamiliar, sick kind of excitement, almost a dread of this going wrong. It was a long, long time since he had first wanted Borgman here.

  One of Gideon’s telephones rang, and he lifted the receiver quickly, while he said to Lee: “Tell the switchboard not to put any more calls through.”

  Into the telephone he said: “Gideon. What? … Oh, good.” He rang off, and made a note, saying: “They’ve found some strands of blood-stained cotton on a splinter of glass from that Morris. Looks as if the driver wore cotton gloves, and cut himself.”

  He finished the note as there came a tap at the door; and a moment later Borgman came in.

  He wasn’t quite as tall as Gideon had expected, nor quite as broad. He was rather thickset, all the same, compact and extremely well-dressed in a dark grey suit with a narrow pin stripe, a light grey tie, light grey socks, a light grey handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. He wore a small pearl tie-pin, and somehow that added to the impression he made: of being very smooth.

  Gideon stood up, rather clumsily.

  “Evening, Mr Borgman. Good of you to come.”

  “Good-evening,” Borgman said.

  “Sit down,” Gideon invited, and sounded as ill-at-ease as Borgman was sure of himself. He studied the man closely; the black hair, just a little too long, obviously because he wanted it that way; the rough-looking, olive skin; the dark brown eyes; the rather heavy features, except for the short nose and the short upper lip. He needed to shave twice a day, and the shadow of stubble on his face was very noticeable.

  He frowned against the light, but there was Fred Lee, with his back to the window.

  “I’m Gideon,” Gideon announced, “and this is Superintendent Lee, who will be in charge of the investigation at your office, Mr Borgman.”

  “I hardly see why a lengthy investigation is needed,” Borgman said. He had a good voice, not too cultured or put on, but there was an edge to it. He was very wary, and gave the impression that he did not quite know why he was here. Gideon took his time studying him, still highly gratified that he had the man in front of him, still thinking far beyond the implications of this case, the nurse forgotten.

  He said, almost apologetically: “We certainly don’t want to cause unnecessary inconvenience, Mr Borgman, but we have to make sure that we know everything behind these defalcations.”

  “A man holding a position of trust has been robbing me. There are the books to prove it. Isn’t that sufficient?”

  “But he can no longer speak for himself,” Gideon said.

  “He admitted his guilt to me, he admitted it to your man, and when he killed himself and his wife, he proved it to my satisfaction,” Borgman said coldly. “If he were alive, I would hold him up as an example, but you can’t prosecute a dead man.”

  Gideon didn’t speak.

  “Unless you have found a way,” Borgman said.

  That was nearly a sneer, and obviously he did not like it here, and did not like the way that Gideon was appraising him, or the way Bell kept glancing up at him. The atmosphere was exactly as Gideon had wanted it from the beginning, and Borgman had helped to create it.

  He looked as if he were about to speak again, when Gideon said:

  “No, Mr Borgman, we haven’t yet found a way of making the dead talk. I only wish we could.” That came out quite flatly, and he was watching the other man intently all the time. He thought he saw a flash of annoyance in the dark eyes; it was easy to imagine that he actually saw a glint of fear. He paused again for what seemed a long time in a portentous way, and then went on: “Yes, I only wish we could; we would hear some strange stories from the dead. As it is, we can only try to make sure that the living are protected and that the guilty don’t go unpunished.”

  Borgman said sharply: “Samuel’s the only one who was guilty.”

  “Can you be sure, Mr Borgman?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Yours is a very big organisation,” Gideon said, as if he were picking his words with great care, “and this isn’t the first occasion in which we have had to probe into the affairs of a large organisation. Two years ago Superintendent Lee was investigating the affairs of a company after a trifling defalcation had been discovered. A clerk had stolen a little under a hundred pounds, as far as we knew at first. But it proved that he was simply a catspaw, and that frauds of over a hundred thousand pounds were involved.”

  Borgman said, too sharply: “There is no reason to suspect anything of that kind in my organisation.”

  “Did you suspect Samuel?”

  “I discovered what he was doing.”

  “I understand from Mr Appleby that the frauds have been going on for many years. Is that true?”

  Borgman said off-handedly: “Yes. But it doesn’t alter the fact that I discovered it.”

  “And we’re very grateful that you did,” said Gideon. “Had Samuel lived, of course, the investigation would have ce
ntred on him and it would have been comparatively easy to find out if anyone else was involved. His death makes it necessary to trace all the defalcations carefully, and to make sure that no one else was working with him. It’s one thing for a man to commit suicide because he has been caught out in a crime, Mr Borgman, and quite another thing if a man has killed himself because he was driven to desperation by accomplices. We have to be absolutely sure what happened in this case, and that is why I asked you to come and discuss the matter with me. We want to be as helpful and unobtrusive as we can.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Borgman said, obviously liking this less and less. “I must say that I think you are making far too much about this incident.’’

  Gideon raised his head, and thrust his chin forward. Bell glanced swiftly at Lee, recognising the sign of Gideon suddenly switching to the attack. His voice became deeper, his right hand clenched on the desk.

  “This incident, Mr Borgman? incident? You call the death of two people an ‘incident’? I am afraid I take a very different view of the sanctity of human life. If anyone else was even partly responsible for the death of Samuel and his wife, then I want to know who, and I want to see him punished. That is why I am here—to make sure that criminals are punished. I don’t like to hear you dismiss death so lightly. There is even the possibility—”

  He broke off, creating a kind of menace in the way he left the word hovering. He came nearer to exulting than he ever allowed himself. His years of thinking about Borgman seemed to come to boiling point, and he was intent on scoring every point he could, piling innuendo upon innuendo.

  Perhaps the death of Samuel had gone deeper in Borgman than he knew; possibly his visit here had carried his mind back to his first wife’s death, and touched him with foreboding. Conceivably he had sent that nurse and her fiancé away, and used the Samuel ‘incident’ deliberately so as to try to find out whether he had any cause for fear.

  He knew, now.

  He was sitting very still, as if fighting to keep his composure; he would lose his temper very easily when opposed, perhaps when he was frightened. He could not hide the fact that his hands were tightly clenched. The bright daylight on his face showed that he had paled; and his mouth was compressed and his eyes were narrowed all the time. He glanced at Bell, who was staring at him openly; Bell looked away and began to write.

  “What other possibility is there?” Borgman demanded.

  Gideon seemed to relax, and his voice lost the stern, accusing tone.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, Mr Borgman, but there is no reason why you should not know the official view, provided you keep it entirely confidential. In a case of violent death there is always the possibility that it is a matter of foul play. Of murder.” He made an infinitesimal pause, just long enough to give the word emphasis; and if this man were a murderer, the way the words came out must feel like hammer blows. “Samuel may have poisoned himself and his wife. That is what the circumstances indicate. But even when it appears to be, poison is not always self-administered, Mr Borgman. They may not have known what they were drinking. There was time for anyone else involved to have found out their danger, and to have gone to the Samuels’ house and prepared the poison. I don’t say that happened: simply that the possibility must be investigated. If there is one thing which must not go unpunished, it is murder.”

  He seemed so heavy-handed and ponderous, but the feeling of excitement increased, even grew into one of triumph. The right word, the right implication, seemed to come naturally to his tongue. It was not really hot in there, but now there was a film of perspiration at Borgman’s forehead and the short upper lip. Bell had noticed it; Bell also looked buoyant with suppressed excitement. Borgman spoke deep in his throat. “I don’t believe that there is any question of foul play. I think you are making a great fuss over nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Gideon echoed, as if shocked. “Nothing?” He paused again, briefly, and then became brisk. “Mr Borgman, if you are right I shall be the first to apologise, but from what Mr Appleby tells me, there is a distinct possibility that these frauds go deeper than you had realised. We must make sure. We can send a squad over to your offices for them to make a thorough and very quick investigation, taking no more than two or three days but causing a great deal of inconvenience, or we can arrange for Superintendent Lee and an assistant to come in as if they were accountants, checking thoroughly but taking longer to do so. Which do you prefer, sir?”

  Until then, Gideon felt a deep satisfaction with the success of his tactics, by the indication that Borgman had been forced into a corner, taken so much by surprise that he had not attempted to fight his way out; at best, he was keeping fear and uncertainty out of his expression. If only he dared to make a charge now, Gideon believed he might be able to force some kind of an admission, or hint of admission, out of Borgman.

  Almost on the instant that he thought so, Borgman’s manner changed. He had absorbed the full weight of the attack, and no longer wilted. In fact he seemed to gain in stature. The metamorphosis showed in his manner, in the tautening of his expression and the glint in his eyes. Now Gideon saw those qualities which Appleby had sensed in the man; a kind of capacity for corruption.

  “I think all of this is completely unnecessary,” Borgman said bitingly. “I did not expect pompous nonsense from Scotland Yard. Is the Assistant Commissioner for Crime in his office?”

  Immediately, Gideon closed up.

  “I can find out, sir.”

  “Do so, at once,” Borgman said. “I won’t waste more time here.”

  That was the moment when the battle was really joined; when Gideon decided to ‘forget’ that the exhumation order had been cancelled.

  He said: “Go and see if Mr Rogerson is in, Superintendent, will you?” He waited for Fred Lee to go out, and noticed that Bell was writing more slowly; in fact, he was only pretending to write. Both he and Lee would have been quick to sense the change in Borgman, and to know the weight of the opposition; but that breach had nearly been made.

  Borgman went to the window and stood looking over the plane trees, some leaves already turning colour. Obviously he had determined not to talk to Gideon any more, as obviously he was hoping to establish his superiority. There was a supercilious expression in his eyes and at his lips when he turned round as the door opened and Rogerson came in; and he spoke before the door closed.

  “Are you the Assistant Commissioner for Crime?”

  “Yes.” Rogerson could be cold and cutting, but he was a little grey, a little plump, a little fading.

  “This officer …” began Borgman, and briefly summarised what Gideon had said about the need to investigate at the office, briskly and with complete accuracy. “I regard it as quite unnecessary,” he went on. “The facts speak for themselves. A weak-willed and untrustworthy man robbed my company for years and, when faced with it, hadn’t the courage to accept punishment. I see no need to take further action beyond the formalities necessary at the inquests. This man committed the crimes, remember—of embezzlement and murder.”

  He was used to getting his own way, to his word being law; and was prepared to try to make it law here.

  “A thorough investigation is absolutely necessary, Mr Borgman,” Rogerson said, still coldly.

  “I’ve told Mr Borgman that we can carry out the investigation with great discretion,” Gideon put in.

  If Borgman fought any more, he would be a fool.

  He said curtly: “You may use which method you like. The sooner this farce is over, the sooner your men can concentrate on more necessary work.”

  “Thank you, Mr Borgman,” Gideon said smoothly. “We are anxious not to make too much fuss, and I’ll send Superintendent Lee and his assistant along. You will make sure that all the books are open to his inspection, won’t you?”

  “I will make the necessary arrangements,” Borgman promise
d, obviously finding it hard to be civil, and the atmosphere was frigid when he left, accompanied by Lee.

  “What do you make of that, George?” Rogerson asked heavily, when the door was closed.

  “Want me to guess?” asked Gideon very slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” said Gideon. “He’s been so used to riding roughshod over all opposition that he thinks he’s a law to himself. Add his money and his friends, and he’s next door to a megalomaniac. What Borgman wants, he’ll take. I scared him for ten minutes, but that’s all.”

  “Still think you could make a charge stick without cast-iron evidence?” Rogerson demanded.

  “Sooner or later, we’ll get him,” Gideon said, “and the chances are we’ll hate ourselves for not getting him earlier.” There was a moment of tense silence, before Rogerson changed the subject abruptly.

  “Any news of that killer driver of Soho?”

  “No.”

  “The thing that gets under my skin is that he can’t be far away,” Rogerson said, obviously ill-at-ease. “Anything else in of importance? I ought to get off soon.”

  “Nothing that can’t keep,” Gideon said.

  Half an hour later, he drove out of the Yard on to the Embankment. There was little traffic, it was a pleasantly warm evening, and the only car that caught his attention was a black Morris, the same model as the killer car. He felt almost bitter towards Rogerson, who wasn’t with him over Borgman; it was the first time he had really clashed with his chief. He was glad in a way that he had one other deep preoccupation. Every time he passed a garage, or even a petrol pump, he found himself wondering if the driver of the killer car had ever filled up there. The truism might be dull but it was inescapable: among the people whom Gideon passed on his drive home there were many criminals; some known, more unknown, and among them there might be the men responsible for the organised car thefts.

  In actual fact, the driver of the car that had killed a man that day was in a garage which Gideon passed, not far from the district of south-west London known as World’s End.