John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“Because she’s coloured!” spat the tight-lipped man. “That’s inverted prejudice, and you know it!”

“No,” Gideon answered, equably. “Because she’s a woman!”

The thin-lipped man fell silent, as if abashed, and someone called: “Nice going, Gee-Gee!” while someone else murmured: “Bloody good answer!” And more of them made a note of that reply, than of any other he had given. Raising a hand in a ‘good-bye’ gesture, he nodded to Huw Jones, then went out. He felt reasonably satisfied that he had made the important points, and at least he had drawn the fire from Henry.

He felt suddenly cold in the corridor, which told him how hot it had been in that room — and how hot he had got under the collar. He saw very few people on the way back to his office, and as he opened the door, heard Big Ben strike the half-hour; so he was exactly on time. He went to the window for a moment but was too restless to stand and contemplate the scene. The truth, he told himself, was that he wanted time and a clear mind to think about what Alec Hobbs had told him about Penny and Kate, and instead there was hardly time to breathe. To give point to the thought, a telephone rang as he turned to his desk.

“Gideon,” he grunted.

“This is Henry.” The AB Superintendent seemed to be having trouble controlling his voice. “We’ve got Roche cornered, thank God!”

“Cornered?” Gideon asked sharply.

“He’s locked himself in a disused cafe in Swiss Cottage,” Henry explained. “And he’s got a gun, sir. One of our uniformed men challenged him and was shot at. We don’t know for certain, but there may be others with him. I’d like —”

“Go on!” Gideon urged, as he broke off.

“I should like to tackle him myself, sir,” Henry said. “I’d like permission to carry a gun.”

Gideon was silent for a long time; too long, he knew. But a great deal was flashing through his mind in those moments, one lightning thought following another like a film run at double speed.

Roche trapped: good.., And Henry wants to redeem himself ,.. But might he take unnecessary chances? . . .  A gun could only be issued in a known emergency but would certainly be justified . . .  And Gideon himself would have liked to tackle the killer, too: in the circumstances, it would be almost a reflex desire with any policeman .., But his job was here — to lead, guide, advise, decide. Henry was obviously standing or sitting like a statue . . .  Is he the right one to trust with a gun? . . .  But if not, who ought to be sent? . . .  Indeed, there was hardly time to send anyone else . . .

“Are you — are you there, sir?” Henry could not keep quiet any longer.

“Yes. Have you a Justice of the Peace handy, to sign your permit for a gun?”

“Sitting by me, sir!” Henry’s voice took on a positively lyrical note.

“Then go ahead,” said Gideon.

He repressed the impulse to say: “Be careful.” One had to trust senior men like Henry, and they could only be judged after the event. But Henry, whatever his feelings, replied with studied calm: “Very good, sir.”

“I’ll be in my office,” Gideon told him, and hung up. It flashed into his mind that if the capture of Roche took too long, it might prevent him from getting home at half-past seven; but the thought was gone almost as soon as it formed. He spared another moment to hope devoutly that in his anger, Henry would not lose his head, then glanced again at the note: C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty.

It was now almost a quarter- there went Big Ben: it was a quarter to six. He glanced at the whisky cupboard, then looked away and rang for Hobbs, who opened the door so quickly he might almost have been standing there.

“Is Bligh there?” Gideon asked him.

“Yes, sir.”

‘I’ll see him,” said Gideon. And as Hobbs stood aside, Bligh came in, looking so happy that he was almost smug.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Variations in Crime

“Good evening, sir,” Bligh said. “I’m sorry to worry you but I would be grateful for guidance on one or two aspects of this outdoor activity.”

His ruddy-hued face was bright, eager, deceptively youthful. In a man of forty-odd whose private life had been so disrupted and who had had such a long bad run, it was surprising. Was he over-eager, Gideon wondered? And in his own present mood, he hoped the man would not talk of trivia. But the ingenuous opening gambit at least stopped him from saying: “I haven’t long, Bligh.” There was something about the man which made Gideon feel he hadn’t really been aware of him before. It was clarity of eye, directness, frankness — something difficult to define.

“Go on,” Gideon said, as the door closed on Hobbs.

“Would it be possible, sir, to have a meeting, just a short one, of the Superintendents and officers in charge of the Divisional Stations and sub-stations in the areas most affected? Wimbledon, St. John’s Wood, perhaps Epsom and Banstead, with whom we shall have to co-ordinate?”

“Why a meeting?” asked Gideon, intrigued.

“Well, sir, there isn’t much time for me to go and see each officer, and —” Bligh paused and for a moment looked self-conscious, although still eager” — well, sir, most of them are senior in rank to me and it takes a little time to tell each one what I’m trying to do. If they were all together here, and if you could possibly outline the plan yourself, I wouldn’t have about eight or nine different explanations to make. What’s more, as they asked questions, we’d bring out different aspects; might bring out a lot of revealing local sidelights. I’m sure it would save a great deal of time, sir.”

And stop some of the Divisional Superintendents from being bloody-minded, Gideon reflected.

“Yes,” he said, “Good idea. Draft a memo and we’ll send it out tonight.”

“Er-would this do, sir?” asked Bligh, snatching a slip of paper from his pocket as if by sleight-of-hand.

Taking it, Gideon felt lighter-hearted than he had for a long time. He looked down quickly, to hide his smile, and read: “A conference will be held in the small lecture hall here at (say 11 a.m.) tomorrow, June 5th to discuss special preparations to be applied to the major outdoor sporting events of the month. Please attend, with any officer or officers with special knowledge. This does not include crowd-control.”

Lifting the telephone, he rang Hobbs. “Have I any special programme for tomorrow morning? . . .  Mark off eleven o’clock to eleven-thirty for me, will you?” He rang off, put in the time, 11 o’clock, and signed the circular. “Have Information get that off, Bligh, and include neighbouring divisions -anyone you think might be helpful.”

“I will, sir! Thank you.”

“Anything else?” asked Gideon.

“No, sir, I think everything is under control. Would you care to have details of the preparations so far?”

“Later,” Gideon told him. “Certainly not tonight.” He drew his chair up to the desk in a gesture of dismissal and Bligh went out, obviously very pleased with himself. For a few moments Gideon felt a reflected glow of satisfaction, but it soon faded. He was almost living Henry’s life, at the moment, and would like nothing more than to be on the spot. But he must leave this job to Henry. He had to go through all the reports on his desk, attend to all the things he had not had time for during the day. There was at least forty minutes of solid reading, and he must have time to think over each case.

He rang Hobbs again,

“What time are you going tonight, Alec?”

“I’ll be here until eight o’clock, at least.”

“Gome in at seven, will you?”

He hung up and began to go through the reports; the Madderton Bank robbery, the threat to the Derby and Charlie Blake’s murder, the dozen and one cases which had risen, like scum, to the top of London’s crime. But he was never free from shadowy thoughts of Henry, of the injured girl, and of the risk that Roy Roche might yet cause serious trouble. And every now and again, he had a quick mental image of Kate.

Superintendent Charles Henry first placed a cordon of uniformed men about the shop and street where Roy Roche had taken cover, so that windows, back and front, were under constant surveillance. Next, he sent small groups of men up on to the roofs of the building opposite and behind and on either side, to make sure Roche could not escape over-the roof-tops.

He supervised everything himself, as if his whole life, his career, depended on success, and that success could only come by slow, deliberate action, making sure every gap was closed. He was not only acutely conscious of the injury to Juanita Conception blaming himself for taking no precautions against such an attack; he was grimly aware that the raid had been carried out almost carelessly. He had never dreamed that there was more to do than round up a few young hotheads for questioning about Juanita.

Murder had not even seemed a possibility . . .

This time, he was not going to make the slightest mistake.

He had taken over an empty shop, nearby, and had a trestle table with a quickly drawn plan of the area, showing every approach to the hiding-place, with the positions of every man involved. He was satisfied, now, that there was no way in which Roche could escape. The next job was to call on the man to surrender. And he had no way of knowing whether Roche was alone, or how much ammunition he had, or anything about the situation. He went outside and found a small van waiting, loud-speaker fixed on its roof-rack; he felt that he could get nearer, in this van, than he could in a police car.

He stood for a moment, watching the shop hide-out.

No one was in the street, all approaches were blocked, and residents were directed to their own back entrances. It was a short thoroughfare with only twenty-one houses on either side. Next to the empty cafe where Roche was hiding was a greengrocer’s; on the far side, a butcher’s; and all about, the usual mixture of clothiers, newsagents and tobacconist, shoe shop, a sub-post office, a betting shop-and even a small garage with two petrol pumps standing on the kerb.

A sergeant came up.

“Couldn’t be a tighter net, sir.”

“I hope not,” Henry said. “I hope—” He broke off as a manhole cover on the pavement caught his eye.

Scanning the street, he saw similar covers outside most of the shops, and realised, with a sickening sense of failure, that he had forgotten the cellars. Forgotten them! And there was probably one beneath the building where Roche was hiding.

These cellars could be used for coal, storage, sometimes simply as an extension of the shop above. It would be simple enough for Roche to get from his own to the one next door, if he wanted: he would only have to knock down a few bricks. Henry’s breathing became shallow as he stared at the manhole outside the empty cafe”: Roche might have escaped already.

There was now only one way to find out. But first, he had to fix those manholes: make sure Roche couldn’t appear from one and start shooting. The man who had been so confident was looking at him in puzzlement.

“We want a concrete slab over each one of those manhole covers,” Henry said crisply. “There are plenty at the builders’ yard in Highway Lane. Get it done at once.”

“Right, sir!” The sergeant hurried off, obviously stung to action by sudden understanding of the reason for the order.

At that time, Barnaby Rudge was sitting in a high comer seat at the Centre Court, watching the favourite for the Men’s Singles, Bob Lavis, playing an unseeded Russian. There wasn’t a spare inch of space, and the sun shone on white and coloured shirts and dresses, on shielded eyes which moved with the ball, as it hurtled or spun or was lobbed over the net. Except for the burst of applause when a point was scored, there was near-silence, broken only by the voices of the umpire and the linesmen. The match was in its fifth set. The unknown Russian, wearing an eyeshade, was crouching to meet Lavis’ service. If he could break it this time, he might well pull off the sensation of the day.

Lavis’ service was a true cannonball. He stood poised, at match point. The Russian, a dark-skinned man with Mongolian features and black hair matting his legs and his forearms, crouched as if immobile.

Lavis served: Whang! Fourteen thousand pairs of eyes moved with the ball as it struck the far corner. It should have aced his opponent, but with a powerful spring that was a miracle of agility, the Russian reached and returned it.

There was no power in the return, however, and it dropped slightly to the favourite’s right. Lavis moved across and, perhaps in a momentary loss of concentration because he was so sure that this was the end, he struck the ball with the side of his racquet. There was a gasp from the crowd, the ball hit the net near the top, and fell back into his own court. As Lavis stood staring as if he could not believe it, there was a roar of applause.

The Russian, giving no sign that he had even noticed this, calmly crossed to the other side of the court to await the next service and a ball-boy scooped up the ball and scampered off-court again. After what seemed an interminable time lag, the umpire called: “Deuce!”

Lavis wiped his forehead, caught the two balls a boy bounced towards him, and moved across for his next service.

And netted.

He served again, a little more carefully. The ball swerved and as the Russian pounced and struck with almost wild abandon it shot back past Lavis — and smacked into the ground with an inch or two to spare. There was another, louder roar of applause, another delay as the umpire waited for silence, then:

“Advantage, Serov.”

He pronounced it Seer-ov.

Barnaby watched, lynx-eyed, every step, every movement Lavis made, for he still believed Lavis would win. If he did not, there would be others to watch and study, for Serov would never get through to the final  —  not even the quarterfinals-by this power game alone. He took far too many chances, although on his day would be almost unbeatable.

And now, Lavis let fly with all his strength and skill —  and aced Serov, who did not even attempt to return the ball. The applause was terrific, but neither more nor less than that accorded the Russian.

“Deuce!”

Lavis let fly again, with another ace which left Serov standing.

“Advantage, Lavis!” called the umpire: “Match point!”

Lavis put his body and his heart into his next service. The Russian made a prodigious leap and reached the ball, but could not get it back over the net.

“Game, set and match to Lavis.”

The Russian acknowledged the applause, and at last Lavis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. There were the usual end-of-match pleasantries, then the two men walked off together.

Barnaby Rudge was smiling very faintly. Lavis was known to have the finest, fiercest service in the world, and he, Barnaby Rudge, knew that his own was immeasurably superior. Well, he had another game tomorrow: he must go to The Towers and practise.

Lou Willison was at The Towers, but did not go to join Barnaby in the kitchen or the court. He was with a friend who had just come in, and Willison’s baby-face was darkened by a scowl, and by the shock of disappointment.