John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

Gideon stared at him, but his thoughts had flown to the smoking-room of the S.S. Fifty States when he had sailed to New York a few years earlier. The stewards were indeed mines of information, maintaining a sphinx-like exterior whatever their secret knowledge. And they may well have heard the one particular and other relevant conversations. He noticed that Lemaitre had fallen silent, as if he felt this hard stare was of disapproval, as he asked: “Where’s the QE2, now?”

“Two days out of London heading west,” Lemaitre answered promptly. “I thought of that, too.”

“Have you talked to Cunard?”

“Er — no, George. Only to find out where the ship is. It’s going to be pretty late when she gets back to Southampton. Three days more on this trip, two days in New York for the turn round, then five days back here — the Derby will be on top of us.”

“Yes. Lem, talk to the Cunard people in Haymarket. Go and see them, if it will help. Find out whether the smoking-room stewards who were on board on the last trip from New York are on board now. If they are, we know what to do. If they’re having a trip off, find out where they are and when we can talk to them.”

Lemaitre’s mouth was wide open, his eyes brighter than they had been since he had entered the office. He began to get up, immediately.

“I’m on my way. But George, if they’re on board—”

“We’ll have someone fly out to New York  —  be there when the ship arrives. One man will do for the job. He can telephone his report then fly back, he needn’t be away for more than three or four days. Look slippy, Lem!”

Lemaitre’s eyes were glowing; he needed no telling that he would be the ‘someone’ to fly to New York.

“George,” Lemaitre said on the telephone, an hour later.

“Yes?”

“Four smoking-room stewards are on board the QE2 at the moment, and I’ve a list of the passengers on the last trip, it shouldn’t be difficult to identify and trace the two Yanks Charlie was talking about. Four days should do it.” There was a pause, then an anxious: “George, you did mean me to go, didn’t you? There’s a one p.m. flight tomorrow, B.O.A.C. —”

“Get your ticket,” Gideon ordered.

That was about the time when Sir Arthur Filby was in Archibald Smith’s private suite above his offices in Chelsea. It was a high-rise building, overlooking Chelsea Embankment, the river, and the great pile that was the Battersea Power Station, on the south bank. The sky was a vivid blue, and the four stacks gave off a kind of shimmer but no actual smoke. Smith turned from a cocktail cabinet and handed Filby a drink; his more usual whisky and soda. Filby surveyed the glass with his habitual suspicion.

“So what?” he asked, now.

“This Barnaby Rudge is practising in a secluded garden at Wimbledon, Arthur.”

“Top-rank players often practise in private.”

“This one is like a hermit’s hide-out-and Willison is tenant of the house.”

Filby sniffed, drank, and put his glass down. He was such a distinguished-looking man, and so absurdly handsome in profile, that even Smith watched him, fascinated, for several seconds. Then Filby looked up and asked bluntly: “What’s on your mind, Archie?”

“I want to know what that boy’s got to hide.”

“Don’t we all?”

“You and me are the only ones to know about it.”

“Shouldn’t be too sure of that,” retorted Filby. “Walls have ears, in these electronic days. But you could be right, old boy. Supposing you are?”

“If Barnaby Rudge has got a surefire winner streak—”

“No such thing.”

“Don’t be such a bloody pessimist!” Smith growled.

“Got to be, old boy. Thinking of taking a lot of money on the others?”

Smith laughed. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Might be an idea,” conceded Filby. “Might be a damned good idea. If the betting’s too strong on one or two of the others, we’d normally put some out, but if we handled it between us, and Barnaby won —” He broke off.

“That’s it,” said Smith. “And I’ve checked on the money put on Lacey as well as Crosswall and a few outsiders last year. Well over three million.”

“My God, was it?” Filby looked moodily at his glass, then suddenly drank. “So, how can we learn more about Barnaby Rudge?”

“Have him watched,” answered Smith, promptly. “I’ve got a man on him.” He broke off, and finished his own drink, then asked: “Other half?” in a most off-hand voice.

Sir Arthur Filby lifted his gaze from his glass and looked squarely into Smith’s eyes. Then his lips parted in a quite mirthless grin, and suddenly his mouth became very wide and very thin and his teeth seemed to have a shark-like sharpness. He finished his drink and held out his glass.

“So you want me to share the expenses, old boy!”

“Share and share alike,” murmured Smith, moving to the cabinet.

“And you’re hedging your bets, so that I pay half the cost and take half the risk?”

Smith, squirting soda, looked up with complete frankness, and his deep-set eyes were very bright.

“That’s it,” he agreed.

“What’ll the expenses be?”‘

“Five hundred.”

“It’s plenty.”

“We’ve got to keep a man’s mouth shut.”

“I daresay.” Filby nodded. “Five hundred. And we share everything?”

“Like you said, risks and all.”

“We don’t take any risks until we’ve discussed them,” Filby stated flatly.

“Don’t be a fool, Arthur — if we’re in this together, we’re in it together.” Smith still held out the glass and quite suddenly Filby took it, splashing the liquid up the side of the glass, and gulped half of it down.

“It’s a deal!” he said, and put out his hand.

Archibald Smith’s florid face broke into a broad, satisfied smile, and for a few moments that made him look positively attractive and almost boyish. He gripped Filby’s hand, and then began to talk more freely. He was using a private detective a man named Sidey, whose job was to find debtors

who had run off without paying their losses. He had in fact Barnaby Rudge and Willison under surveillance for sometime. He would now instruct Sidey to get into the grounds of The Towers, and see what happened on the court.

Take it step by step,” he explained cautiously. That’s my baby!” Filby approved. “How about something to eat, Archie?”

About the time that the two bookmakers were eating told salmon and salad with tiny, tasty new potatoes, Gideon as eating a ham sandwich in his office. He planned to save in ten or fifteen minutes, so as to be at the AB Division headquarters in good time to see Henry and the young policewoman. He was pondering over the candidates for the sports and open air events job. Did he need a sports enthusiast, or would someone who didn’t care much about sports and games be better? He answered the question almost as he posed it: an enthusiast would be better, someone who would be completely familiar with the sporting life of London; one who could find satisfaction and pleasure in what he was doing and would work day and night on it. A youngish man, preferably one of the Detective Inspectors or Chief Inspectors in line for promotion.

He knew them all by sight and name and knew their quality, but he didn’t really know much about their attitude to sport. Except young Tandy. Tandy was in his middle-thirties, a public school man but without Hobbs’ family background. A public school man would certainly be better for close work with the authorities at Wimbledon, at Lords, and the Jockey Club. He knew Tandy was a Rugby footballer of some renown and had boxed for his school. Did he play tennis and golf? Gideon pondered as he ate, pondered as he went down to a car, this time chauffeur-driven; he wanted to concentrate, but not on London traffic.

The streets were unbelievably congested. There was no doubt at all that London roads were becoming impossible on most days. There was always a standstill block somewhere in London, and today it came in the Regent Street area and at Piccadilly Circus. The mass of cars, buses, taxis, was almost too great to believe. So was the serried mass of faces on every side; harried people looking for a chance to cross the road.

He saw an old 1957 or 1958 Austin taxi with a mottled black top, and his thoughts flashed to Charlie Blake. Soon, he was remembering the Fifty States and half-envying Lemaitre. Then, very quickly, he was back thinking and worrying about Kate. Probably she needed a good holiday. They’d had a few long weekends this year, but none that could be called a rest. Come to think of it, he could do with a week or two off; he had not given it a thought for a long time; Kate, bless her, wouldn’t pressure him. At one time, though, she would have done; at one time, in fact, their marriage had been on the point of break-up. But now it was on rock-like foundation. Only death -

The thought stabbed into him with physical pain. Supposing anything happened to Kate?

“Oh, nonsense!” he muttered.

“Excuse me, sir?” said his driver.

“Er- go past Lords, will you?” Gideon asked, and the man seemed quite satisfied, and stayed on the main road instead of cutting through the side streets as he would normally have done.

Soon, they were at the junction of Finchley Road and where Lords Cricket ground, hallowed to many, was surrounded by a tall, smoke-grimed brick wall. There was a game on: glancing along at the Tavern entrance, Gideon saw the little crowds at the turnstile entrances. When the big match was on between South Africa and England, crowds would be thronging in by this time, the ‘early from the office’ thousands would come in increasing swarms. As he pondered these facts, he remembered a Chief Inspector named Bligh, a man who was going through a bad patch and who was very keen on sport.

They left the ground on their left, and soon turned right, pulling up at five minutes past two outside the new Divisional Police Building. Henry had no idea he was coming, and on this occasion, Gideon thought, that might be just as well.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Nice Little Thing’

Gideon knew he was recognised as soon as he stepped out of the car; was equally sure there was an alert system here, to warn of the arrival of V.I.P.’s, and that the system was in operation. He judged this from the well-contrived start of ‘surprise’ from the duty sergeant, from the extra briskness and almost military precision of uniformed and plainclothes men.

“Yes, Commander.”

This way, Commander.”

“Is Mr. Henry expecting you, Commander?”

He was, not!

A door opened and a man came out, in shirt-sleeves, roaring with laughter as he looked back into the room; he would have cannoned into Gideon had Gideon not dodged. He slammed the door and turned, saw and recognised Gideon and seemed to change on the instant to a statue, he was so rigidly still. His expression was one of horrified surprise; obviously the alert system was not a hundred per cent efficient.

“Good afternoon,” Gideon murmured, and passed on.

Henry’s office was on the third floor but the open-type stairs were shallow and by walking up, he would give the Divisional Superintendent just a little time to get his wind. Led by a uniformed constable half his age, he reached Henry’s door as it opened. Henry concealed his feelings very well, and actually smiled a welcome.

“Good afternoon, Commander! I didn’t expect you.”

“Didn’t expect myself,” Gideon said off-handedly. “I’d forgotten what a palace they made for you here.” He had also noticed that the three-year-old modern construction building was spick and span; no marks on painted walls, no smears on the floor: indicative of a man in charge who kept a tight control.

The office he entered was a large, square room with contemporary-type furniture, a long window overlooking houses which stood in their own grounds and, beyond trees and rooftops, some of the rolling grassland of Hampstead Heath. The window was wide open and a pleasant breeze came in; he could even hear the leaves of the trees rustling. As he went to the window and looked out, he heard Henry ask: “Like some coffee, sir? Or something stronger?”

“Coffee, please,” said Gideon, turning round.

He did not know what an impressive and massive figure he was. Nor did he know that standing by a window on the half-turn was a characteristic pose with which nearly every senior policeman was familiar. It was almost as if he were turning away from the long-term problems, turning away from contemplation of the countless incidents of crime, to deal with one particular task. There was something almost physical in the way he seemed to concentrate.

Henry was at the telephone. He was a man of medium height; fair-haired, almost gingery, with broad but pleasant features, big, deep-set eyes and a rather small mouth with a straight line for an upper lip. Gideon had forgotten how freckled of face he was, then realised that the freckles would show up more because of the spell of sunny weather.

Henry put down the telephone.

“Care to sit down, sir?”

“I’m all right, thanks. You sit.” But Henry, too, preferred to stand. He was now showing a trifle of disquiet and Gideon decided to put his mind at rest. “I’ve had a rocket,” he announced.

“You have?”

“Home Secretary, via the Commissioner,” explained Gideon.

“Oh, I see! About the demonstration?”

“The Home Secretary doesn’t want a demonstration!”

Henry half-laughed. “I don’t, either, but what do we do? Lock all the anti-apartheid types up?”

“Might even come to that,” said Gideon, mildly. “We can interpret ‘disturbing the peace’ pretty widely, if we have to. Have you heard anything more?”

“Not a thing. But I’ve drawn up a report, in the rough, showing the situation to date. It’s not typed yet, though.”

“I’d like to see it. How about this police officer you’re using as agent provocateur?”

“I wouldn’t call her that,” protested Henry, almost too quickly. “She’s simply sitting in at the Action Committee’s meetings. Since your question I’ve thought about the possibility of physical danger to her but I don’t really think there’s any need to worry.”

He took a file from his desk. As he handed it to Gideon, the door opened and an elderly constable brought in coffee, cheese, butter and some plain and some chocolate biscuits. Gideon hardly noticed this as he began to read the report. He soon realised that Henry was still extremely thorough.

There was a list of the Action Committee members: names, addresses, associates, with biographical notes on each, including age and previous record in agitation, and known or suspected political allegiances. Some were marked Communist; others: Very left wing; yet others: Anarchist. There were the dates of meetings and, at the back of the main report, some well-typed ‘minutes’ of the meetings. As he skimmed these, Gideon realised that Henry had been working on this for weeks: he should certainly have informed him or Hobbs. The moment would come to say so.

“Milk or cream, sir?”

“Hot milk?” Gideon glanced up.

“Yes.”

“Milk, then. Very comprehensive report, I see.”

“Thank you.”