John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport
“Just one thing,” Hobbs stopped him. “I couldn’t be more glad that it’s not too serious, with Kate.”
“I know,” said Gideon gruffly. “Thanks, Alec.”
As he drove towards Fulham, his mind was filled with the strange panorama of events. With the fact that wherever he went, in his beloved London, he was — even now, he must be driving past the scenes of so many crimes, and as many in preparation. He wondered how many of the people whom
he passed would suffer from the upsurge of pick-pockets and bag-snatchers, and made a mental note to check that aspect with Bligh, tomorrow.
Bligh had got off to a wonderful start on this special job: odd, that a man of such obvious quality had been through such a bad patch. He might have a weakness Gideon hadn’t yet seen; he must study the man and his work very closely. He wondered a little idly whether there really was anything between Charles Henry and the Jamaican police woman, and he remembered with pleasure the clean sweep at Lords.
Seldom would the London police court be so busy as it would, tomorrow. The magistrate would probably take the accused — those who pleaded guilty, anyhow-in dozens. But there would still have to be a special, all-day court. He felt relaxed and content. There were more good days than bad ones, and today might well see the end of the Spratt family’s reign of corruption.
That evening, Cyril Jackson, his eyes bulging with excitement, went to see Aunty Martha — and the moment he got into her room, she grabbed his arm and twisted it so savagely that he cried out.
“Wotjer do that for?” he gasped. “What’s the matter with you?”
“You’ll get a lot worse than that if you don’t turn everything over to me,” said Martha, and clouted him across the face. Dazed, bewildered, he put his arms up to defend himself. “Think you can twist me, do you? I had someone watching you — you sneaked a quid out of a wallet before you put it in the car! Don’t lie to me, you —”
“But Aunty! I came to tip you off! The cops are watching — don’t hit me-I tell you, the cops are watching! I saw them! You’ve got to lay off Wimbledon, if you don’t want us all nabbed. Don’t!” he cried again. “Don’t hit me!”
“Who’s watching,” old Ted Triggett asked, in his tired voice.
“The cops!” screeched Cyril. “I keep telling you, the cops are on to us!”
Aunty Martha drew back her hand and stared in consternation. But he poured out his story so convincingly that she had to believe him. And within minutes, a five-pound reward in his pocket, he was off to warn the other graduates of the Charm School to keep clear of Wimbledon and switch over to Lords.
The next morning, with the newspapers spread out in front of them, Barnaby Rudge and Lou Willison could hardly control their excitement, and when the doctor came he was agog with the news. On every front page there was a picture of Barnaby Rudge side by side with pictures of John Spratt and Sebastian Jacobus.
“Just get me right for Monday,” breathed Barnaby. “Just get me right!”
“Barnaby,” Willison made himself say, “there’s next year.
You don’t have to take chances.” He saw the faces of his friends and the size of his disaster, but some quality in him made him insist: “There’s no need to take chances, Barnaby.”
“Just get me ready, Doc,” pleaded Barnaby.
“I’m having a damned good try,” the doctor said. “Let me look at that shoulder.”
Soon, the deep heat lamps were spreading their healing warmth and the manipulation began. Barnaby surrendered himself completely to the man who gave him hope. Willison went into the library to re-read the newspapers with their bitter-sweet story, and he was still sitting there when the telephone rang.
“Lou Willison,” he said, flatly.
“Lou.” It was the Englishman who had placed his bets, and he had a flash of bitter self-reproach at having driven the other to do that. “Lou, I’ve just had this officially. All bets on the Men’s Competition are being cancelled by the leading bookmakers. All money will be refunded. That’s official, I tell you. You won’t win, but you certainly won’t lose.”
Willison put down the receiver, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He began to tremble from reaction, but soon he was quite calm and composed.
For Gideon, for Hobbs, for Bligh and for Henry, for all the police, the next day went on normally. All the official hearings were held, the demonstrators were all fined twenty-five pounds or seven days’ imprisonment. John Spratt and Sebastian Jacobus were each remanded in custody for eight days.
At the warehouse offices of Jackie Spratt’s Limited, there was no evidence that Matthew and Mark knew what their brother had done, but there was one very interesting discovery — of the miniature cigar ‘blow-pipes’ and supplies of muscular-depressant drug, Curol. It was Mark who broke down and confessed what they had planned for the Derby.
That same day, the stewards of the Jockey Club were informed, in confidence that special precautions were taken in case someone else had the same idea. But not until long after the Derby was run would the plot become public knowledge; not until the trials of the three Spratt brothers.
The only policeman to feel any disappointment that day was P.O. Donaldson, for the thieves and pick-pockets were almost non-existent, and he could not understand it. The nest day, Saturday, the same, and he told himself that they would be busy again on Monday.
On the Monday, he was drawn to Number 1 Court, where Barnaby Rudge was playing the Australian Cyril Wallers, the Number Nine seed. It was an overcast day with the threat of rain, the ‘long, hot summer’ was nearly over. Barnaby heard Willison’s voice beating in his ears.
“Don’t take chances, Barnaby. If that shoulder begins to hurt, it won’t get any better and it might become permanently weak.”
“Don’t take chances, Barnaby . . .”
“Don’t use your service today.”
If he used the service and yet lost, he knew it would do great harm. And he needed every muscle in perfect trim if he were to use it with full force. He went through the formalities, and won the right to serve first. He could almost hear the silence of the eight thousand spectators. There wasn’t a vacant seat and hardly room anywhere among the standing crowds.
He served, good, fast, swerving.
In five minutes, he knew that without his ‘fireball’ services he could not beat his opponent. And at the same time, he realised that he was not fit enough to exert the strength he needed for the ‘fireball’.
Gideon sat in front of the television set at the Brighton Hotel where Kate had a room overlooking the sea. The main news was over, and there were some action shots of the English batsmen at Lords. “Unless the weather changes, the second Test will almost certainly end in a draw,” a commentator was saying. Then another said: “Among the other results at Wimbledon today, was Cyril Wallers’ narrow victory over Barnaby Rudge, the American, 4-6, 6-4, 5-7, 7-5, 6-2. The American, victim of an assault which would have made most players scratch, tired rapidly in the last set and was obviously ‘nursing’ his right shoulder. The top seeds all won their rounds comfortably.”
Gideon switched off. Kate, sitting with her feet up and a book in her lap, gazed contentedly out at the lights beginning to twinkle on the piers, and the evening sky reflected in the pale, calm sea. She would be all right, Gideon knew. They would be able to cope, whatever came. Then, by some odd quirk of thought, he remembered the fan in his office. He still did not know who had put it there, but one day he would find out.
THE END.
