A Backwards Jump Read online

  He had never yet been caught, but knew exactly what to do and say if he were to be, how to look piteous, how to apologise. He knew it was wrong in the general sense, because he knew that he had to be wary of policemen and any kind of authority, but he also knew what his mother would do if he were caught, or if he had a bad night. Some nights at the pictures had been ruined because he had stolen so little, but in the past six months there had been nothing to worry about, he was so expert.

  His small hands darted to and fro, to and fro.

  He was in luck that night; the main film was a Western, and he saw nearly half of it before going into the crowded foyer. He had six successful pickings before the crowd thinned, and passed these spoils on to his mother, who was sitting at an end seat, ready to take them. Then he went back to his own seat and saw the whole programme through. It was a little after eleven o’clock when he returned to the dingy street and the tall, grey house. He went slowly up the wooden, creaky stairs. When he reached the top, he hesitated because he heard sounds, then his mother’s voice, and a man’s. He stood in a darkness relieved only by a crack of light at the side of the door, and it reminded him of the cupboard. He shivered. He knew what might happen if he went in, now, and after a while he turned away and went towards the window which overlooked the backs of houses. He was hungry and thirsty, but tired above all, and he lay down on the bare dusty boards, shifted his position several times, tried to make his head comfortable by resting it on his hands, and then dropped off to sleep.

  He did not wake when the man left.

  He did not wake when his mother opened the door, next morning, looked across at him, and then went over and stirred him with her foot. He started up, trained to wake at that touch, and there was a moment of fear in him.

  “Come on, get up,” she said, “we’re going to the Lane this morning. Get a move on, there’s some bread on the table.”

  There was a slice and a half of dry bread, and some cold, weak tea.

  But it wasn’t a bad morning at all.

  Gideon sat for an hour that Sunday morning, immersed in various reports. Taken by and large, they weren’t too bad, and certainly there was nothing that he would have done differently if he’d been here all last week. Sparrow hadn’t got any further on the Dennis job. The inquest verdict had been that Mrs. Dennis had taken her own life while the state of her mind had been temporarily disturbed. The girl had died intestate, worth about seven thousand pounds, so Dennis was that much the richer.

  “Dennis will slip up,” Gideon mused hopefully.

  There were two reports from Warr. The Weymouth exhumation had been arranged with little publicity, and the name of the man whose remains had been disinterred had not reached the Press. The Bournemouth name had been announced, and there had been quite a splash in the local newspaper, but Warr had chosen his time well, and there had not been much in the Saturday morning newspapers. The full reports weren’t in yet, but Warr had sent a letter saying that the results were likely to be as he had expected. Somewhere in Harrow, Martha Smallwood was probably sitting and brooding and wondering what the Bournemouth exhumation meant, and knowing that if she tried flight, she would be giving the game away. If she was guilty, then her safest course was to sit tight. Warr had asked that her earlier movements be traced, and the Yard was at work on that.

  During the week, the three men involved in the bank robbery had been detained and charged; they were under remand.

  There was still no news of Sheila Crow and her father, but Mrs. Crow had telephoned three times. Reports from all over the country showed how intensive the search was.

  There was a note from Lemaitre.

  “Looks as if you’re right again, George. Those two kids picked up for shop-lifting last week were taught by their mothers all right, although I doubt if we’ll prove it. Both live over at QR. I’ve asked Woodrow to check closely, to see if they know the other mothers.”

  Mothers . . .

  The telephone bell rang.

  Gideon lifted the receiver promptly, shifted his big pipe, put the receiver to his ear, and said: “Gideon.”

  “That you, George?” Obviously the speaker, a man with a marked Cockney accent, hadn’t heard him. It was Superintendent Hemmingway of the NE Division.

  “Hemmy? Could this be news about Frisky Lee?”

  “Yup. Busy?”

  “What’s your trouble?”

  “Trouble is one word,” Hemmingway said, and the very tone of his voice told Gideon that this was no ordinary call. “I think I want everyone you’ve got.”

  “Let’s have it,” Gideon said briskly.

  “Frisky Lee won’t be emigrating, after all,” said Hemmingway. “He’s had his throat cut.”

  Gideon did not answer at once. He was picturing Lee and recalling his own reactions, his own positive belief that Lee was still active and operating a dozen kinds of crime. If he was right, then whatever Lee had done could now be burst wide open. Here was a chance in a lifetime.

  Yet the fact that Lee was dead caused a kind of disappointment, as if Lee had defeated him right to the end.

  Crazy thought.

  “All right, I’ll be over,” Gideon responded. “What do you want to do for a start?”

  “I think we ought to have every mother’s son of a fence watched today,” said Hemmingway. “That’s as far as I’ve got.”

  “You’re right, and I’ll lay it on,” promised Gideon. He jotted down one or two notes on a pad, then stretched out for another telephone. “See if you can get me Mr. Lemaitre, at his home,” he said into this, and then to Hemmingway: “No, I wasn’t speaking to you. When did it happen?”

  “During the night.”

  “When was he found?”

  “Half an hour ago. His wife found the body in the bedroom.”

  “Sleep together?”

  “Posh, Frisky was. Separate rooms.”

  “Anyone in mind?”

  “About two hundred and fifty people within a stone’s throw of where I stand would have liked to see the end of Frisky,” said Hemmingway, “and so far I don’t know where to start. I’ve got my chaps over there, the place is cordoned off, although it’s a hell of a job in the Lane on a Sunday morning, and this’ll make it worse. All the boys will come in to the party, and the more there are the more trouble they’ll make for us, so they’ll have a wow of a time. If you ask me, they’ll start rock ‘n’ roll and then we really will see something.”

  “Okay, Hemmy,” Gideon said. “I’ll send a couple of Squad cars over right away, and some uniformed branch men. We’ve got to keep that place clear, if necessary we’ll clear the Lane.”

  “It’d cause a riot!”

  “Well, we’ve had riots before,” Gideon said dryly. “I’ll be over soon.” He banged down the receiver as the other telephone began to ring.

  “Mr. Lemaitre, sir.”

  “Thanks . . . Lem, sorry to worry you this morning, but there’s trouble over at Petticoat Lane. Frisky Lee’s had his throat cut.”

  Lemaitre’s comment was almost a scream. “What’s that?”

  “I’m going straight over. Hemmingway suggests that we have every fence tabbed, and he couldn’t be more right. I think that every boy who’s carrying hot stuff and waiting for the market to rise will try to unload the moment he hears that Frisky’s dead. They’ll offer at cut rates for ready money. If I’ve been on the ball with Frisky, we’ll pick up a dozen or more of the bigger boys.”

  “Hundreds!” Lemaitre said explosively. “Put a call out for all the C.I.s and Sergeants who are off duty this morning,” he urged. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Damned if I don’t hope you’ve been right,” Lemaitre said, and it was easy to imagine his grin as he rang off.

  Gideon picked up the other telephone
, with no outward show of haste, and when the operator answered, he said: “I’m going to NE Division, and I don’t want messages sent on unless they’re vital . . . Thanks. Now call Mr. Willis, and tell him I’d like two—no, three—cars standing by. I’ll look in myself and tell him what it’s all about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Gideon. He stood up from the desk, and shrugged his big shoulders into his coat; it was much cooler this morning, and the sky was grey. He slipped his pipe into his pocket, freshly filled with sweet-smelling tobacco, then went out and down the stairs. He wanted to get himself into exactly the right frame of mind for Petticoat Lane, and everything that was going to happen now. If he was right about Frisky, this murder was the biggest thing that had happened in London’s underworld for twenty years, and could uncover a stinking cesspool of crime.

  He mustn’t miss a trick; the importance of it, and the fact that he had waited so long for this chance, had a peculiarly tautening effect on him. He felt an unfamiliar pounding of his heart, and had a queer feeling, almost a presentiment, that Frisky Lee might fool him even in death.

  He sat at the wheel, and drove swiftly after the Flying Squad cars.

  8

  THE LANE

  The streets of the City were hushed and deserted. At the Bank of England, with the bank’s mass of granite standing like a stronghold on one corner, and the pillars of the Royal Exchange giving a touch of gracefulness, the only moving things were a solitary red bus, two small private cars, three cyclists and five pedestrians with cameras, one man dark-skinned. The narrow streets leading towards Shoreditch, Aldgate and the East End beyond were almost empty, and the tall buildings which housed so much of the world’s business were shuttered and silent. Unexpectedly, a traffic light stopped Gideon, and a policeman lurked round the corner, as if determined to catch any motorist who was reckless even in this Sabbath desert of stone.

  The lights changed.

  The quietness did not, until Gideon turned slightly left beyond Aldgate Pump, which had served the people for centuries, and from which water still poured. Ahead lay Aldgate and Whitechapel. Ahead lay Petticoat Lane, where he was going. Near the tube station, more people were about, hawkers with their wares were calling in subdued tones, one or two shops were open, people hurried to and from the underground station, fruit sellers were putting the finishing touches to their barrows like artists slapping paint upon a canvas already gay.

  Here were cars, cyclists by the dozen, pedestrians still cautious as they crossed the road. Every hundred yards the traffic thickened. More policemen than usual were on duty at the road junctions. Gideon saw the crowd thickening, almost as if they were converging on the gates of a football ground. Above the noise of the engines of the cars there was also a background of sound, the muted one of raised voices. Gideon went on until he saw a mass of blocked vehicles and hopeless confusion, three policemen talking to drivers of cars who sounded indignant, others turning back cyclists and walkers. There seemed to be a kind of chorus.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Can’t come this way this morning.”

  “Turn back, second on the right, then first right and right again.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  Gideon pulled in at the side of the road, then walked towards the nearest policeman, who was a link in a cordon across the road. The traffic was not in such confusion as at first appeared, the police were sorting it out, soothing annoyed drivers who knew that this was the easiest way to Petticoat Lane. Then came other questions.

  “What’s up?”

  “Been an accident?”

  “Lots of cops arahnd this morning, ain’t there?”

  Gideon smiled at the policeman, who frowned as if he knew he’d seen this man somewhere, but couldn’t be sure where. Then his face cleared and he saluted.

  “Good morning, sir!”

  “’Morning,” said Gideon. “You’ve got a job on.”

  “Had many a worse, sir.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Gideon, and went on.

  Although the crowd and the traffic were being kept away from this end of Petticoat Lane, the far end and the approach streets were thronged with people, all on the move. Frisky Lee’s house was some way off. To reach it, Gideon had to enter Petticoat Lane itself, and this end was sealed off tightly by the police, but only for a few yards – as far as the little narrow turning of Medd Alley. Beyond, Gideon saw the seething mass, and it was even more crowded at this end because of the press of people at the police barrier. Some were merely curious, some almost desperately anxious to find out what had happened, some probably hoping to crash the barrier and rush Medd Alley, to trample over all the area which might hold a clue to the killer.

  For if anything was certain, it was that this was an underworld killing.

  A Police Sergeant in uniform came hurrying round the corner of Medd Alley, almost bumped into Gideon, apologised, and said breathlessly: “Mr. Hemmingway’s along there, sir.” He pointed to the massed crowds further along the Lane. “Picked someone up, I think.”

  “Thanks. How far?”

  “Corner of Medd Street, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Gideon turned away from the narrow alley, the police cars blocking it, the policemen on duty, and went towards the cordon across Petticoat Lane. Two men made way for him. At first, it looked as if he would have to push through a solid phalanx of East-enders out on their Sunday morning hunt for bargains, but slowly the outer crust gave way. The crowd lining the barrier was four or five strong, and Gideon studied it closely, being half a head taller than most of the people there. He saw sallow faces, olive-skinned faces, Jewish faces, Arabs, negroes, pale-faced Cockneys, men, women and children, a heterogeneous mass of people from all over the world.

  He saw more.

  At least a dozen criminals were among the crowd close to the barrier, men who had been inside, and most of whom would soon be in dock and in jail again.

  The death of Frisky Lee had lured them like a magnet.

  Gideon saw them looking at him, some openly, most furtively. Tired men, jaded men, unshaven men, smart men, young men, old men. Bright and gay-looking young women, painted women, women with their hair in curlers, women fresh from a perm, women with little hats perched on their heads, or with scarves tied round them, women without a trace of make-up, tired women, worried women.

  Worried women, and worried men who knew that the lid had blown off the East End cauldron. Gideon had no doubt that he had been right, that Lee had been the master, and these frightened people his puppets.

  A man called out from the thick of the crowd close to the barrier: “What’s up, Gee-Gee?”

  There was a quick laugh; but most of the people only smiled uneasily, watching to see Gideon’s reaction. He stood still and looked about him, almost unbelievably solid and block-like, and without a trace of a smile, he said: “I’m told Frisky Lee had a heart attack.”

  He walked on.

  He heard the gust of laughter behind him, knew that in that moment he had done himself, as head of the Criminal Investigation Department, a lot of good. The East End loved the wag. The East End was ready to accept a policeman as a human being provided he didn’t act too much like God Almighty. And among this crowd were many who were only on the fringe of the game, by marriage or blood relationship, and who would warm to him.

  Any one of them, now or later, might talk; might sneak into a telephone booth and call him up, and say: “So-and-so did it,” or: “Talk to So-and-so about Frisky, why don’t you?”

  At last Gideon was through the crowd by the barrier, and in Petticoat Lane as it was on most Sundays. Here were the stalls, here was the fruit, the meat, the fish, the furs, the clothes, the toys, the hucksters, the vendors of cheap chocolate and sweets. Here were the men and women on the
pavements and in the doorways of the shops, calling to everyone who passed by, offering great bargains at tremendous sacrifice, from television and radio to oranges from across the sea. Here were the little, husky, confidential men slipping fountain-pens out of their pockets, “giving ‘em away”, here were the masses of goods, all clearly marked with prices which would compel most shopkeepers to shut their doors. Most of it was honestly bought, Gideon knew; most of the goods were sold at cut prices, quick profits from small returns; but there was at least one chance in ten that the television set being offered at auction with a starting price of twenty pounds had been stolen during the past few weeks. A tall, thin-faced, shrill-voiced auctioneer was offering it.

  “Twenty pounds I heard, who’ll give me forty? What’s the matter with you this morning, a seventeen-inch television sound in wind and limb, greatest value on the market at its full retail price, and what am I bid? Pin money! Twenty pounds I’m bid, but that’s no use to man or beast. Take it away, Charlie, they’re a lot of skinflints this morning. What’s that, sir? Twenty-five pounds I’m bid. Mind you don’t break the bank, sir, you’ve got the devil in you today. Twenty-five pounds I’m bid for a television set which is guaranteed to show you the lowest necklines in the B.B.C. or I.T.A., so how about it? Charley, it’s no use, I can’t sell that for under thirty. Twenty-five I’m bid—twenty-six I’m bid—twenty-seven I’m bid—”

  Gideon passed on, still watched by these anxious people.

  The helmets of several policemen showed up not far away, and a crowd was getting bigger around them. The people in the Lane itself were thick as peas. A group of Americans were marvelling, their cameras clicking, and a girl was saying: “Did you ever see anything like it, Elsa?”

  “How about this for the Farmer’s Market?”