John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport
He did not even have the courage to bluster.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Silent Thousand
“Now,” said Gideon to Hobbs, next morning. “What have we got?”
“Problems,” answered Hobbs, drily. “Lemaitre’s back but he’s down with some kind of gastric trouble, and his wife says he’s doubled up with cramp. I told her to tell him not to attempt to come in.”
“Good. Turpin can stay in control of the Blake job.”
“Colonel Hood and Thomas Moffat have flown back to New York,” Hobbs added. “They caught a plane from London Airport late last night.”
“Oh, damn and blast it! If I hadn’t said wait, we could have talked to them.”
“At least it’s a pretty clear indication that someone doesn’t want them to talk to us,” Hobbs pointed out. “But there’s a rather odd little compensation.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Gideon said, wryly.
“They were seen off by one of Spratt’s runners — and with the Derby only a couple of weeks off, I’d say we can’t wait long before we tackle the Jackie Spratt organisation.”
“Go and see Lemaitre,” Gideon told him.
“Sure you won’t go yourself?”
“Yes. I may be on call from the Commissioner most of the day.” Gideon put his hand heavily on the folders in front of him: he had got that lot to deal with yet, too. “What else?”
“We’ve picked up Jacobus,” Hobbs told him, and his eyes brightened.
“Now that’s much better! Has he said anything?”
“So far, he’s refused to say a word — but there’s something odd about that, too.” Hobbs was obviously enjoying his report and Gideon had a feeling that he was deliberately letting out the good news piece by piece. So he waited, and Hobbs went on: “He had twenty-five ten pound notes on his writing-desk — in an envelope marked J.S.”
Gideon sat very still.
It could be one of those good days, he told himself, with rising excitement. It could be the day when the Yard got the breaks, at last, against Jackie Spratt’s. Hobbs almost certainly thought that was true; hence the gleam in his eyes.
“How does Jacobus explain the money?” Gideon asked him.
“He says it was a winning bet, placed with Spratt’s.”
“It could have been.”
“Yes,” said Hobbs. “But it wasn’t. The firm doesn’t put its pay-out money in envelopes: they use rubber-bands and a wrapper. It looks as if he had been paid for doing a special job. And we know he attacked Barnaby Rudge, which is a pretty special job.”
“Two and two,” remarked Gideon, with increasing elation. “Where’s the envelope?”
“Up in Fingerprints — we should get a report any minute. I’ve told all the others to wait till we send for them. Bligh’s already waiting.”
“Alec,” Gideon prompted, softly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do you know, I couldn’t really tell you,” said Hobbs, just as quietly. “Or at least — George, I don’t like admitting it, and I’ve nothing solid to go on — but I have a feeling this is going to break Jackie Spratt’s wide open. And I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The Spratts have been backing Lavis to win the Men’s Singles — backing him very heavily, through different channels. Which means they wouldn’t want an outsider to win, would they?”
“They certainly wouldn’t!” Gideon’s excitement was audible, now, in his voice. “Have you told Bligh all this?”
“No. I think Bligh’s got enough on his plate, for the time being. I thought —”
Hobbs broke off at a tap on the communicating door with his own room. Gideon said “Come in”, and it was promptly opened by a big, grey-haired, untidily-dressed and shapeless-looking man, as pale and flabby as Gideon was tanned and hard. He was carrying an envelope and some papers in his hand and there was a gleam of rare enthusiasm in his eyes.
This was King-Hadden, the Superintendent in charge of Fingerprints, perhaps Gideon’s oldest friend at the Yard, after Lemaitre, and a man so old in the Yard’s service that in the ordinary way he took everything with almost maddening matter-of-factness. For him, this display of interest was downright excitement.
“Hallo, Nick,” Gideon greeted him.
“Morning, George — Alec.” Satisfaction positively shone from him as he advanced, holding the envelope as if it were precious. “Now we have got something, this morning! See that?” He put down the envelope and pointed to a grey patch. On close inspection, this proved to be a fingerprint which had been brought up by brushing grey powder over it-and as usual, much of the powder had contrived to adhere to the cuffs of King-Hadden’s coat.
Then out of the envelope, like a rabbit from a hat, he drew a photograph. “Photo-enlargement of the same print,” he announced. “And then — look at this!”
Gideon waited, with a kind of choking excitement; Hobbs, too, was more visibly tensed-up than he had ever seen him.
With exasperating precision, King-Hadden took the other documents from under his arm and placed them carefully on Gideon’s desk so that both he and Hobbs could see them. This was a copy of the Records file on Charlie Blake, with Charlie’s dead face,.photographed, stuck to one corner. Pinned to this, was the photograph of a fingerprint.
“See that?” King-Hadden cried in triumph. “That’s the print we got off Blake’s neck-the thumb-print of his murderer. And that —” he pointed to the one on John Spratt’s envelope —”is identical! Same print; same person. The man who handled that envelope with the money in it was Blake’s killer. Find that man, George, and you’re home and dry!”
After a long moment, Gideon said into a hushed silence: “Where is Jacobus, Alec?”
“Over at Cannon Row,” Hobbs told him.
“Bring him here,” ordered Gideon. “Bring him here at once.” He looked at King-Hadden’s big, pale face with a grimly approving smile. “Good job you were so quick off the mark, Nick! Our man might have taken fright and—”
He glanced sharply at Hobbs. “He hasn’t, I hope?”
“We’re watching all the Spratt brothers,” Hobbs assured him. “They’re not going to get away. I’ll go over for Jacobus myself, George,” he added. “Would you like to see Bligh while I’m gone?”
After a pause, Gideon said: “Yes. Yes, I will.” He clapped a hand on King-Hadden’s shoulder as he went out, still very pleased with the way things were going. “Thanks again, Nick. That’s a real shot in the arm.” Then he turned to the communicating door as Bligh came in briskly from Hobbs’ office.
Without speaking, Gideon motioned to a chair. He needed a few seconds to adjust himself, unwind a little; and it would do Bligh no harm to control any impatience. He went to the window, and looked out; and the brightness and the gaiety of the river, the familiar panorama of Bridge and Embankment, brought him a kind of peace. It was such a pleasant day, too -the thirteenth in a row without rain, in London, but with a slight breeze which made the river surface dance and gentled his forehead as he stood there.
Bligh had obeyed the tacit injunction to sit, but he sat like a statue, hardly seeming to breathe.
At last-what must have been to Bligh, at long last-Gideon returned to his desk and seated himself in his own vast chair. He was aware of Bligh’s scrutiny, and wondered what was going on behind the younger man’s eyes. Gruffly, he told him: “Recognising Jacobus could be very important indeed.”
“My luck, sir,” said Bligh, and did not add: “has turned.”
“Call it luck if you like,” Gideon grunted. “We’re not sure yet, but it might take us to Jackie Spratt’s bunch.”
Bligh’s eyes glinted. “That would really be something, sir!”
He did not ask ‘how?’. He was behaving in copy-book fashion and there was no doubt at all that he was exerting every effort to ensure that his behaviour was impeccable.
“It would indeed. Now-today’s Test Match with South Africa. What have you in mind?”
“Well, sir, I’ve had a long talk with Mr. Henry and another with Detective-Constable Conception. I asked questions, she wrote the answers. I’ve talked to five of the Action Committee, but they’re a stubborn lot: won’t say a thing. However, Miss Conception is convinced that the action will be today — she says she saw a lot of the tickets which were distributed, and they were all first day reservations. I’ve seen over forty, myself, that were in the prisoners’ possession — and they were all for today. It seems a safe bet that all the rest are.”
“A thousand altogether, weren’t there?” Gideon remarked.
“Yes, sir. And if there’s going to be a big demonstration like that, you can be sure they’ll wait until the crowd’s at its biggest.”
“After the tea interval,” Gideon murmured.
“That’s right, sir. The fans leave their offices and works early and get in around four or four-thirty for the last two hours’ play. So I would guess the trouble will start somewhere around half-past four. We ought to be ready an hour earlier, at least.”
“Yes. Are there any indications of what the demonstration will be like?”
After a pause, Bligh said slowly: “Only one, sir. The tickets were all in ones and twos. I mean, they weren’t in long sequences — weren’t all bunched together. Miss Conception says those she saw were dotted pretty widely about the ground. Mostly in the popular stands, sir — the unreserved seats: the ten shillings and seven-and-sixes. If that’s true of the whole thousand, then it looks as if it could be a general attack from a thousand different places.”
“Have you any indication of what kind of attack or demonstration?” Gideon asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“Fireworks and smoke-bombs — presumably mostly among the crowd, sir. Although there are certain to be some on the pitch.”
“Steady on! Why do you think this?”
“Because among the papers found at Kenneth Noble’s, sir, was a receipt from a manufacturer of pyrotechnics for squibs, crackers and smoke and stink-bombs. We haven’t found many, but there were some at the homes of each member of the Action Committee. I deduced that — “
“All right, I’ll buy that,” interrupted Gideon. “What do you propose to do?”
Bligh cleared his throat, nervous for the first time since he had come in. It was almost painful to see how intense he was; how anxious not to put a foot wrong.
“I’d welcome your suggestions, sir. I — er — that is, bearing in mind that there isn’t very long to work in.” ‘ “Let’s know what you’ve got up your sleeve,” Gideon told him.
Bligh’s eyes were shining — almost, thought Gideon, the eyes of a fanatic — and his lips quivered a little. He was so anxious not to sound too vehement, to show that he was completely objective.
“Well, sir, if we had a thousand men in the ground, stationed on the gangways at the end of each row — I had a word with the M.C.C. Secretary, sir, and a thousand would just about cover it. If our chaps squatted on the gangway steps, the moment the demonstration started they could each just take one man. Or woman. I mean — sir, I know it probably wouldn’t work like clockwork, but when you come to think, the demonstrators are bound to want to invade the pitch, so they’re likely to move towards the gangways, so as to reach the pitch, anyway — you see?”
He almost blushed at that remark, but collected himself again and rushed on: “Truly, sir, it shouldn’t be too difficult. And if we had a Black Maria at each of the exits — well, we could have the whole mob under lock and key within an hour, and the game would hardly have been interrupted!”
Gideon could see the picture as Bligh unfolded his plan; and the more clearly he saw it, the more he applauded. Bligh himself, having stopped, could hardly now contain his eagerness or his anxiety. And it came to Gideon that not only was this man good and thorough: he was absolutely dedicated. He had never known a man who deserved encouragement more.
Slowly, he nodded, and relief passed like sunlight over Bligh’s face.
“It could work like work, if all your deductions are right,” Gideon told him. “We’ll give it a go.” He wondered how Bligh managed to keep his elation under control, but he did. “You’ll need to have all the men there by three-thirty, mostly in plainclothes. Better have some earlier, in fact, in case we’ve guessed wrong about the timing. You can have the gates cordoned off by uniformed men. I’ll send instructions to the Divisions and we’ll use everyone we can from here. And thanks, Bligh — it could be a major success.”
“My God, I hope it is!” Bligh exploded, at last. “Thank you, sir!”
Gideon nodded dismissal, and Bligh went to the door as if he were sailing on a cloud. Then he turned, his expression completely altered,
“I only wish I’d been there to save the American, Rudge, from being hurt-they say he’ll have to scratch. But P.C. Donaldson did a very good best in the car park, sir.”
“Yes,” Gideon nodded. “Yes.” And then sat back and waited for Hobbs to bring Jacobus in.
That was the moment when the committee at the All England Tennis Club, sitting in the secretary’s office at Wimbledon, had gathered to discuss a special problem. For the first time in years, there had been no stoppages because of rain and all the competitions were well ahead of schedule. The record crowd of last year looked like being beaten comfortably, and there was still a week and two days to go. No one had expected a call to the secretary’s office and all were anxious to go and watch the games.
“There is just the one matter, gentlemen,” the secretary, Major Cartwright informed them. “It is in the form of a letter from one of the competitors — Mr, Barnaby Rudge, from Alabama.”
The sixteen men sitting round the table all showed a sudden interest. Two, collecting papers from the table, stopped and went still. The chairman said: “The man who had trouble in Number 3 Court?”
“That’s the kind of thing we really don’t want,” remarked a committee man.
“Wasn’t he hurt?” someone else asked. “Attacked, or something? These colour prejudices —”
“Perhaps you will read the letter, Major,” invited the chairman.
“It’s very short,” Cartwright stated, and held it up so that all could see the very large, black, schoolboyish handwriting. “It says: I respectfully request the Committee to enable me to play my next round on Monday next, when my injuries will be recovered.”
There was silence as Cartwright sat down. The chairman took the letter and read it aloud again; then murmured thoughtfully: “I wonder what rearrangement of matches it would mean?”
“Not too many, I think,” said Cartwright, at once.
“No more than if we’d had three days of rain,” offered another man.
“But we really must leave it to the Referee and his committee.” Cartwright looked towards a big, powerful-looking man: the Referee or Manager of the Tournament. “He has all the rearranging to do.”
“And think of the effect on the other competitors,” warned a small, bald-headed man.
“It would affect only Cyril Wallers, who’s due to play Rudge tomorrow,” stated the Referee, obviously fully briefed.
