John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport
She frowned at a girl. “Bertha, love, your face is all right but you really should do something about your bra! If you stick out like that, there isn’t a man who’ll be able to take his eyes off you — you’d never be able to pinch a thing. Be flat when you’re working, dear, at least! What’s that . . . When you’re not working, love, you can stick out like a pair of Mount Everests for all I care! . . . Cyril, don’t look so happy . . . Yes you do, pet, your eyes do. We’ll have another try in a minute . . . Well, now for questions. All ready?”
There was a loud chorus of ‘yes’.
“Then the first question is, how many of you work together?”
“Three!” came a chorus.
“Why three, lovies?”
“Because two of us can be on the job and the other can take whatever we’ve got.”
“That’s right, dear. What else can Number Three do, pets?”
There was another chorus.
“Keep an eye out for the cops.”
“That’s it, exactly!” enthused Aunty Martha. “Now, what happens if you spot a cop?”
“Get to hell out of it.”
“That’s right, George-get to hell out of it! You never take a chance with the forces of law and order, see? It doesn’t matter how rich the pickings, you run. You can’t get many pickings in—”
“Jail!” one cried.
“Prison,” called a girl.
“The lock-up,” said a third.
“The hoosegow,” squeaked a boy.
They were all laughing happily; they continued to laugh, and even Martha Triggett kept bursting out with hearty laughter, but at long last she sobered.
“Now there’s another thing. We’ll have a car in two different car parks, and you’ll each have a key to the boots-both boots. When you want to get rid of some of your ill-gotten gains, go and dump them in one car or the other. You needn’t worry after that, I’ll see the cars are driven away when the time comes.
She paused giving them time to absorb all this.
“That’s for next week, not tomorrow,” she went on at last. “Tomorrow’s Monday — you can get a lot of practice in. Just mix among the shoppers in the High Street, and in the market-but keep out of the stores and supermarkets: they’ve got electronic eyes. You know you must get rid of the stuff quick, don’t you? . . . Could be a car boot, or a shop, or a van, wherever you’re told. The important thing is to be quick, every time. And if you think you’re being watched, scram! I’ll clear the stuff-you don’t have to worry about that. First share out, next Sunday. You’ll get equal shares, everyone shares and shares alike in Aunty Martha’s co-operative!”
Roaring with laughter, she looked very attractive with her bright gold hair and bright make-up, her well-moulded breasts and trim waist.
Then she stopped laughing and for a moment she looked cold; in a strange way, deadly.
“No working for yourself, mind. Everything, even the cash, goes right into the kitty. Anyone who tries to cheat Aunty Martha won’t try it again. Remember, I’ve got eyes — wherever you are, you’re being watched. You won’t come to any harm if you play fair with me and your partners but you’ll come to a sticky end if you don’t!”
She paused, and looked menacingly from one now straight and startled face to another. She let these last words- of warning hover in the air, then with a curiously sinister inflection, finished: “Or your fingers will, Don’t make any mistake!”
There was another pause, before her face and voice brightened again.
“But you don’t have a thing to worry about as long as you play fair! Now let’s go and tuck in, loves.”
In fact, all of them were a little subdued, and two of the girls were looking at their hands, as if imagining what would happen if Aunty Martha caught them cheating.
That was June 4th; the day when Lemaitre went on board the Queen Elizabeth II in New York and after a word with the Purser and the Master-at-Arms, went along to the Chief Steward, who had the four smoking-room stewards ready for questioning; two of them resentful, for they were anxious to go ashore.
And it was the day when the tall gangling man who worked for Archibald Smith wormed his way through the shrubbery and built a little ‘blind’ through which he could see the whole of the court. He had brought cold tea, sandwiches, fruit and chocolate and, being an intelligent man although he looked such a fool, he also had a spray of insect repellent. Not least, he had also taken along with him a miniature camera.
It was the day when, at The Towers, Lou Willison spoke to Barnaby. They were in the old kitchen of the house, where showers had been installed and all the gear was stored. The room was high-ceilinged and gloomy, but dry. There was a view of the gardens and the thick shrubbery, and of the path which led to the hidden tennis court.
“Can you restrain yourself, Barnaby?” Willison asked.
“I surely can, Mr. Willison.”
“When you’re out there on the courts it will be a great temptation to blast off with the service, the first chance you get.”
“I know it, but you don’t have to worry.” Barnaby looked at his sponsor with an understanding smile. “I won’t do that, Mr. Willison. I can get through the early rounds without it, sir. I’m sure I can. I’ll use it only if I’m in trouble, but
I don’t expect to be in trouble until we get to the last sixteen.
“Barnaby.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You can be over-confident.”
“I know it, sir, but you don’t have any cause to worry. Mr. Willison. If I get myself in trouble that early, I don’t deserve to reach the final this year, sir. I won’t be ready for it.”
Willison’s bright eyes blazed.
“Good God, man! This is your year, it has to be your year! Don’t you realise how much —”
He stopped abruptly, because the puzzled expression in Barnaby’s eyes reminded him of something it was easy to forget. He had never told Barnaby how vital victory had become to him. It was not that he didn’t trust Barnaby, and he had earmarked ten per cent of any winnings for the young negro; but he was far from sure that Barnaby could carry the weight of such a responsibility. It was enough, might even be too much, that he had to carry the weight of his own ambition and the pride of his own race. Until now, Willison had understood these things perfectly and had rationalised himself into acceptance of them. But since so much had come to depend on it, Barnaby’s winning had become an obsession. Thank God he could be objective enough to realise that to place such an additional burden onto Barnaby’s shoulders would have been unforgivable. He wanted to help the lad to restrain himself; that was of vital importance to them both.
Barnaby, finding that Willison simply stopped speaking, spoke very quietly and obviously without the slightest suspicion of the truth.
“I understand the effort needed, sir, and know how much money you have spent on me. I won’t fail you, Mr. Willison — you can be sure of that.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Willison said huskily. And clapping Barnaby on the shoulder, he went on: “Let’s see how you’re doing today.”
“Jeeze!” gasped Sydney Sidey, from the security of the ‘blind’-
“My gawd!” he gasped.
“Strewth,” he wheezed, realising that he was talking too loudly.
“It ain’t bloody well possible!” he muttered.
He put the camera to his eye, but only a cine-camera could possibly show the impact of Barnaby Rudge’s sensational service, and the whirring would be too noticeable. He clicked, clicked and clicked again, to take different angles of the action, refilled his camera and took yet more. The only sound except the soft clicking was the padding of rubber-soled feet on the court, the curiously menacing whang! each time Barnaby hit the ball, the sharp p’ttz! sound as the ball struck the court, and a metallic rattle as it volleyed against the tall wire fence.
After a while, the practice stopped.
“I never would have believed it,” Sydney Sidey told himself. He was sticky with sweat and his eyes seemed likely to pop from his head. “I never would have believed it!”
At last, the car and the motor-scooter crunched away up the drive to the road.
“I know one thing,” Sydney Sidey told himself aloud, emerging warily from his cover, “I’m going to get a lot of dough on him. Even if I have to hock everything I’ve got! I want a couple’ve hundred quid, at least! No one can stand up to him — they haven’t an earthly.”
Then a peculiar thought struck him; in fact, went through him like an electric shock.
How much was this worth to Archie Smith, the mean old bastard? Smith was paying him only a lousy hundred quid, yet if he didn’t know the truth about this darkie, he could be taken for millions!
“I’ve got to be very careful,” Sidey warned himself, as he walked along. “A man’s got to look after Number One.” A little further on, he was seized by another thought. “I wonder what I could squeeze out of old Arthur Filby? That could be worth a lot of finding out!” Then, as he climbed into a small, well-kept, five-year-old Morris 1100, he gave a choking laugh. “Phew!” he gasped. “Wheel What a bloody walking miracle that darkie is! Now that really is a cannonball!” He started the engine. “If I could put a thousand quid at tens, say — more, maybe, but tens at least -that would be ten thou! Blimey-I could retire!” He gave a different, excited little laugh. “I’ll find a way,” he told himself, and tapped the camera in his pocket. “That’s worth a fortune, that is! Every picture tells a story, and all that. Gorblimey, I’m going home!”
That was about the time, too, when a dark-haired man with a deep cleft in his chin and a deep furrow between his brows, was reading a report about the inquest on Charles Blake, whose body had been taken out of the river. The inquest was to be held on the following Tuesday. Police, said the report, were treating the inquiry as a murder investigation and were hopeful of getting results in the near future.
The man gave a laugh that was not unlike Sydney Sidey’s.
Then he went into the head office of Jackie Spratt’s Limited, Commission Agents and Turf Accountants, in the Mile End Road. It was an old, converted warehouse, the ground floor now a remarkable communications centre which received information constantly, from all over the world, and despatched it as widely. Every kind of sporting result was recorded here — Australian football, American baseball, tennis, golf, swimming, cricket; racing — horse, greyhound, dirt-track, go-kart — every kind of result was gathered in and put through computers to get the finest possible assessment, both of form and of bets placed. And before taking bets, the company checked with all of their information so that, as they said, they could take the lowest possible risk while being scrupulously fair to their customers.
The whole building was equipped with closed-circuit television, so that the latest computerised figures were displayed on every screen at the same time. Telephones buzzed and lights flickered, as a dozen men and girls worked at a giant switchboard which occupied the whole of one wall. Each of the operators had earphones, and each had a simplied form of teleprinter, at which they were constantly tapping.
The big, black-haired man with the heavy brows — Charlie Blake’s murderer — went up to the fourth floor in a newly-converted lift which had once been used for moving crates of toys. Up here, it was very quiet. Even when he opened a door and saw two men standing watching a race on television, there was only a murmur of sound. He closed the door and joined them.
These three were the Spratt brothers — Mark, Matthew and John.
They were a remarkable trio, in appearance: so different that, but for a certain similarity in the rather high cheekbones and craggy eyebrows of all three, it would have been difficult to believe they were brothers. John, with his aggressive good looks and toughness, was a sharp contrast to Matthew, a man of medium height with rather thin lips and thin features-a mousey-looking man. The youngest and smallest was Mark, only five-feet three, dapper, well-turned out in every way; he had a sharp nose, a pointed chin, and eyes that were very bright. In spite of his near-foppishness, he was much more aggressive and bold in his actions than Matthew; at times, indeed, he was as bold as John. These three were now the only directors of the company, although at one time a prominent London financier, Sir Geoffrey Craven, had been on the board. They much preferred the family control . . .
The race finished, and Matthew switched off the set and turned to greet his brother. There was a hint of real anxiety in his face and voice as he said: “Hallo, John. How are things?”
“Couldn’t be better!” declared John, heartily. “We don’t have a thing to worry about, except feeding our tonic to the horses.”
And he laughed again; not only strikingly handsome but tremendously confident.
Matthew still looked a little troubled, but Mark clapped his hands in something near elation.
All over England and Ireland, and in several places in France, ‘the horses’ were being treated as if they were precious — as indeed they were. The finest bloodstock in the world, horses born and bred by their owners with the dream of a Derby win in their minds and hearts, would soon be heading for Epsom Downs and the race which captured the imagination of the world.
It was a very good year for three-year-olds.
And each owner, even of a horse not very much fancied, had a secret hope: that this year the Derby would be his.
The owners, from the richest in the land to small ‘syndicates’ made up of men risking nearly all the money they possessed, could think or talk of nothing but their horses. The jockeys, each with his own dream, lived, slept, ate and thought their Derby mounts. The trainers, with so much reputation at stake, took extreme precautions to ensure their horse could not be injured or doped; would not catch cold, or be trained beyond its peak. And every owner and trainer, every jockey and even stable boy, said to himself: “This is our year!”
“This,” John Spratt added, lightly, “is our year.”
Mark nodded, perkily. Matthew, whose face still held that note of apprehension, said nothing at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Man Who Confessed
For Gideon, it was a quiet weekend.
Now that the weather was better — still warm, but without the humidity — Kate seemed much better, too.
The weekend brought the people out in swarms. Londoners who did not go to the country or the coast, thronged the parks. The Lido at the Serpentine in Hyde Park was as bright and gay as any seaside resort; the boating there and on the other park lakes, on Regent’s Park Canal and on the Thames vied with any South Coast harbour. Everyman and his wife, in short, were out and about; even those who did not travel were busy in their gardens.
Gideon himself first mowed and then trimmed the lawns, both back and front, and thinned the front privet hedge. Kate hoed the one or two flower-beds and the small vegetable-patch — and for supper produced, in triumph, some radishes, spring onions and a lettuce which nearly had a heart.
“I wondered whether you’d like to go out to a meal?” he suggested.
