Gideon’s Sport

“We’ll make a start this end,” Gideon promised, looking a question at Hobbs, who nodded. So he had all the names down: would start the new line of inquiry at once. “Why don’t you stay over there for a day or two, Lem? You could check the American end more closely — find out more about the Colonel and —”

“Must I, George?” Lemaitre sounded like a rebellious little boy.

“Don’t you want to?” .

“I don’t want to lose a minute getting the bracelets on the swine who killed Charlie,” Lemaitre said fervently. “If we could break Jackie Spratt’s at the same time, I’d die happy!”

“All right,” Gideon decided quickly. “See you tomorrow.”

He put down the receiver on Lemaitre’s exultations, as certain as anyone could be that Hobbs was thinking along almost the same lines as himself. There wasn’t another man on the Force of Lemaitre’s age and position who would have rejected an offer to stay on in New York, all expenses paid. Hobbs put down the extension, tore a sheet off the note-pad, and crossed to Gideon.

“There’s only one Lem,” he remarked.

“Yes. And as far as I can see, only one Alec Hobbs,” Gideon retorted. “I’d like to talk about this business — Penelope — again when I’ve digested it.”

“Of course. Whenever you wish.”

“Right.” Gideon braced himself: “Now: I’ve been thinking about these two American horse-trainers. They won’t recognise any of our chaps, so it doesn’t matter who we put on to them. We’d better have someone who really knows the racing game, and he’ll have to work pretty fast.”

“And with Lemaitre,” Hobbs pointed out.

“And with Lemaitre. On this job, a man of equal rank, I think.” As Gideon pondered, frowning, a groove appeared between his eyes — in that moment he was surprisingly like John Spratt. “Turpin,” he decided. “Jack Turpin. He’s about Lem’s weight and he won’t tread on his toes. Where is he, do you know?”

“Down at Newmarket. There was that doping job, at Brighton, and the doped horses were trained at Newmarket.”

“Oh, yes. Well, talk to him, find out how far he’s got, and have him here this afternoon if it’s practicable. If I’m not here, brief him yourself.” Gideon looked at the note which Hobbs had given him. “Colonel Jason Hood and Mr. Thomas Moffat.” He glanced at his watch. “My God, it’s twenty past two!” He picked up the pipe and put it in his pocket. “I’m going over to AB Division. I’m not easy about the girl.”

“Have a sandwich before you go,” Hobbs urged.

Gideon stared; and laughed. “Kate ask you to make sure I eat enough?” he demanded. “I think I’ll go across to the pub.”

Hobbs said: “Good idea. You could have a glass of beer, too!”

Gideon was half-way down the steps leading to the courtyard before he thought: “But Alec hasn’t had any lunch, either.” He paused, shrugged, and went on: Hobbs wouldn’t starve. Hobbs and Penny — good God! It wasn’t possible, was it? He had some quick mental pictures of Penny, coming in late after her performances. Little devil! he thought, and laughed. Then stopped laughing, and thought of Kate. His stride lengthened as he went on.

Kate, at that moment, was lying full length on the cold, uncomfortable couch of an X-ray unit at the South Western Hospital. A coloured radiographer was talking on the telephone, a red-haried Irish assistant was tucking a little foam rubber pillow under Kate’s head. The strange contraption above her — the square ‘eyes’, the runners, the box like a camera — looked like something from another world. Not since Matthew had been young and complained of violent ‘tummy-ache’, had she seen an X-ray unit. That old picture had shown a safety pin and a nail, in Matthew’s stomach.

What would this show in her chest?

The radiographer put down the receiver, came across, made a few adjustments and then unexpectedly smiled down. She was a big, middle-aged, broad-featured woman who looked, in her ample white smock, even bigger than in fact she was.

“How long have you had this pain, Mrs. Gideon?”

“Not — not very long.”

“Now then, ma’am, does that mean days or weeks or months?”

Kate, feeling utterly helpless, was driven to remember what she simply did not want to admit.

“I suppose I first noticed the actual pain about a month ago.”

‘And what was it before that? A tickle?”

Kate was startled into a laugh. “Well — hardly a pain. A pin-prick, rather.”

“And now it hurts like hell, eh? Now hold your breath for a few seconds. In . . .” The radiographer switched on and there was a whirring sound; then a click. “Now I’ll want you over on your side; your right side. Let me help you.”

In all, she took six plates; and when she had finished, said with half-laughing assurance. “The doctor will soon find out what’s happening to you, Mrs. Gideon. And knowing what the trouble is, is half-way to getting rid of it. You can dress now.”

“When will you have the result?” asked Kate, studiously calm.

“Dr. Phillips will be in to see the plates tomorrow. He’ll get in touch with you as soon as he’s ready.”

“So soon? Oh- thank you.” Kate was vastly relieved. She felt a little lighter-hearted, too, because she had at last been sensible. But she also felt fearful of what she would know, ‘so soon’ ? If it was cancer -

No one would give her a clue, she thought, as she dressed: that was the worst of it. And it was often said that X-ray wasn’t conclusive: they might want to operate. Alone, now, for the nurse had also gone, she looked at her reflection in a small mirror. She was heavy-bosomed, but still shapely; and she had a lovely, near-white skin. She knew how much George loved its smoothness; she could almost imagine his large, strong, gentle hands on her, now. She felt no pain when he held her, thank heavens; that was the one thing which gave her most hope.

Juanita Conception heard the telephone ring.

She lay in exactly the same position as before, but she was awake and less drowsy than she had been; and so, more afraid. She new there were men in the other room and could hear the drone of voices, but she could not distinguish one from the other. The bell stopped ringing, and a man spoke with sudden shrillness.

“What?” she heard him say. Then:

“So that bitch did give us away “

Juanita winced at the venom in the voice.

“All right,” he added. “Too right I will!” And she knew from that ‘too right’ that it was Roy Roche, the man from Western Australia. He was the one she disliked most; the one she feared more than any of the others. And now she stared at the door, her teeth clenched and her jaws working: there was something almost primeval about the man Roche.

There was a sound at the door, and it banged open. Roy Roche stood on the threshold, Kenneth Noble and one of the others just behind him. Roche’s face, with its straggly beard and full, rather wet lips, made Juanita shudder. He strode across to her, picked a corner of the adhesive-plaster free with his forefinger, and then ripped it off. The pain was so sudden and fierce that she cried out.

“Now, you bitch, let’s have the truth!” he rasped. “The whole bloody Committee’s being picked up! Did you give the police our names? Are you the stinking little stool-pigeon? Come on, talk!” He raised his voice and at the same time took a knife from his pocket — a knife with a short, thick, razor-sharp blade, which he now held close to her face.

“Roy — !” Kenneth Noble began.

But the only man who mattered here, Juanita knew instinctively, was this beast with the knife.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Beast

“Did you give them our names?” Roche almost hissed the words. “Come on, you little bitch — did you?” He bent over her and the blade glinted in front of her eyes, the point very close to her cheek. “Come on, damn you — tell me! Did you give the cops our names?”

When she didn’t answer, he made a quick, slashing motion with the knife and she caught her breath as she felt the sharp pain, the slow-coming warmth. He had slashed her cheek.

“Did you? Tell me — or I’ll fix you so your own mother won’t bloody know you!”

She was quite sure that he meant what he said; and in truth, there was no real need for silence, now. But if she admitted what she had done, what would it help her? She saw in Roche what she had not seen in the others: a capacity for evil. It showed in his eyes, in the way his lips were drawn back over his small teeth. He was not simply outraged because of the discovery: he was doing what came naturally to him-hating her, perhaps hating humanity, enjoying his ascendancy; a bullying, cold-blooded sadist, finding pleasure in inflicting pain. And if she told him -

“For God’s sake, tell him!” gasped Ken Noble, at his shoulder. There was sweat on his forehead and fear, not hatred, in his eyes.

“If she doesn’t, I’ll —”

“Yes,” Juanita made herself say. “I told them. I am a—”

“I ought to cut your tongue out.” Roche rasped, and he looked bestial enough to do exactly that. “My God, I will!”

He slashed at her lips, and she screamed. The blade cut, there was surging terror in her, yet her eyes were wide open and she saw all that happened. She saw the knife above her face, blood-dripping, then Ken Noble’s hand close over Roche’s wrist. Roche turned, as if astounded. Noble clenched his fist and drove it into Roche’s face, throwing him off-balance. At that same moment, there was a shout from the room beyond: “Look out! Police!”

And a police-whistle shrilled out; harsh, urgent.

Roche recovered his balance, but he was no longer looking at Juanita. He stood, knife in hand, in front of Ken Noble, who was shielding Juanita with his body as he gasped a near incoherent: “Roy — let’s get out! Let’s —”

Roche drove the knife into his chest.

One moment, Noble was speaking, his fear vivid on his face. The next, he was silent; staring as if stupidly at the man who had plunged the knife into him, leaving only the handle protruding. There was a moment of silence, an awful moment in which everything seemed to stand still, even the breath in Juanita’s body. Then police-whistles and the thumping of feet on stairs let sudden bedlam loose-while very slowly, Kenneth Noble crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap.

Then, Roche turned to Juanita.

She was still fastened at the waist, but her arms were free. Thank God, her arms were free! And he had nothing in his hands now; his knife was deep in Noble’s body. It was impossible to judge what was passing through his mind: whether he realised that he had committed murder and that she had seen the killing. It was impossible to know, from those glittering eyes, whether he was even thinking of her. She was in stark terror, and aware not of pain, but the warmth of oozing blood.

Then, the door across the room behind Roche was flung back.

She did not see the policeman, but she heard his voice and was sure he was one.

“Come on, pack it in! You’ll only make more trouble for yourselves. Don’t —”

Then he stopped. He must have seen the body on the floor, even if he could not see her there, on the bed. And in that moment, Roche moved — from absolute stillness to galvanic action. But he moved, thank God, away from her. There was a gasp from the policeman as Roche crashed into him bodily. She could not see what happened next; but there was another thud followed by the pounding of footsteps.

Roche disappeared.

The policeman, his helmet dangling awry, was leaning against the door, looking away from her, obviously too dazed even to shout. But he turned his head at last towards the inner room and the man on the floor, and for the first time, saw Juanita and the blood which hid so much of her face.

Gideon was in the back of his own car, being driven by a middle-aged detective-sergeant, when a call came over the radio-telephone fixed beside the driver’s seat, so that it could be picked up quickly from front or back. The familiar: “Information calling Commander Gideon, Information calling Commander Gideon,” came clearly into the car. He picked it up-

‘This is Commander Gideon.”

“There’s a message from AB Division, sir.”

“I’m in the Division now,” Gideon replied.

‘ ”Superintendent Henry is in Highway Lane,” the Information speaker said. “He’ll be glad to see you there, sir-he won’t be at his office.”

Gideon thought, trouble, and hung up. “Highway Lane,” he ordered, and as the driver murmured acknowledgement, settled back in his seat.

Highway Lane, he knew, housed the headquarters of the Action Committee. Perhaps he had been too precipitate in thinking ‘trouble’ and perhaps Henry had caught the lot of them together, plotting. He saw the brick wall of Lords and as they passed, heard a flutter of applause. For a boundary? A catch? A wicket some other way?

As two uniformed policemen, talking together near one gate, noticed his car, recognised him, and promptly drew up almost to attention, Gideon hid a smile. He glanced around as they passed the masses of new apartment-blocks, some of them high-rise; and remembering the one which had collapsed a few months ago, reflected wryly that such disasters seldom seemed to overtake the luxury-blocks built for the very rich. They went through the narrow High Street of Hampstead itself, still called and in a way still in fact a village, and turned into narrow, winding Highway Lane.

He saw the white ambulance, the crowd, the dozen or more police — and the Black Maria, further along: back doors open, men being hustled in. He thought: Not that girl! Then saw the bearers coming out with the stretcher, and the girl on it. A sheet covered the lower half of her face like a yashmak, leaving her eyes and the top of her head free, and it was bloodstained about where her lips would be. Her eyes were open, but she did not look in any particular direction; just stared towards the clear sky. A youngish man in a smock came out as they pushed the stretcher into the ambulance, and immediately following him came Henry.

Gideon, by then, was getting out of his car. Henry saw him and raised his arms in a gesture of resignation which filled Gideon with alarm. The young doctor climbed into the ambulance; the stretcher-bearers went to the driving-cabin.

“How is she?” Gideon demanded.

“Scarred for life.” Henry almost choked.

“Scarred?”

Henry said: “Her face has been cut about. It’ll scar her for life, I tell you!”

“No other injury?” asked Gideon.

“No. That is —” Henry was obviously shaken; as obviously, he made an effort to pull himself together. “Cuts on the face and mouth, sir, but no body injuries.”

“So it could have been worse,” Gideon made himself say.

“I — I suppose so, sir. The man who slashed her seems to have killed a man. I don’t know the story, yet — probably only Constable Conception can tell it — but we know the name of the killer. And he attacked one of our chaps in his getaway.”

Gideon hesitated only a few seconds before asking: “Is a general call out?”

“Yes, with full description. The man we’re after is an Australian named Roche: Roy Roche, one of the ringleaders of the group. He’s twenty-two. Juanita — Detective-Constable Conception — always said he was the most likely to be dangerous. The dead man is another of the leaders — a Kenneth Noble.” Henry was getting back to normal, his voice becoming less strained. “The raid as a whole has been reasonably successful, sir. There were fifteen Committee members named and we’ve caught eleven. Roche we know about. The other three weren’t at home or at their places of business when our men called on them. The eleven we’ve got will be at the station in about fifteen minutes.”

“Can they all be considered accessories to the murder?” Gideon asked, heavily.

“It is possible, sir. Certainly any one of them might have been a witness.”

“And might help you to find Roche.” As he spoke, Gideon was trying to decide the best thing for him to do. The complexion of this case had changed instantly. It was first a murder investigation, only secondly a problem of preventing a violent demonstration.

He saw two men turn into Highway Lane and recognised them as from Fleet Street; and suddenly he was aware of the urgent need to decide what to tell the Press. Henry saw the men at the same moment, and swore under his breath.

“Chas, you handle this,” Gideon said. “Treat the men we’ve picked up as possible witnesses to the murder. Don’t work on the demonstration angle, yet. Tell the Press everything, though — why you rounded them up, all you can about the murder. Let them know about Constable Conception’s injuries. Just give them all the information, holding nothing back: let diem decide how to use it. Let them know this is going to be one of the biggest man-hunts ever, too.” The two men were now close, and he added: “No reason why I shouldn’t tell them that.”

He faced the newspapermen, grimly: “I’m going back to the Yard to start one of the biggest man-hunts in years, gentlemen. A police officer has been savagely attacked, a man whose identity we don’t yet know has been murdered. Superintendent Henry will give you all the information you need.”

He turned, heard cameras clicking, saw more cars stopping at the far end of Highway Lane and a photographer jump out of one, as he got back into his own. As he was driven off, amid more photograph-taking, he could picture the bright face of Juanita Conception before she had been slashed.

“I hope to heaven she isn’t badly disfigured,” he said aloud.

As he was heading back for the heart of London, he passed a shop above which three members of the Action Central Committee were meeting; shaken, not yet fully aware of the size of the disaster.

One, an Australian from Sydney, was saying: “It doesn’t matter what happened, I tell you! The Cause is more important. Maybe Roy Roche was a murderous bastard, maybe he was only in it for kicks — but I’m not! I’m in it to do a job and that job is to fight every kind of race prejudice, wherever I see it. We don’t have any that matters, in Australia, because we keep out any poor devil who isn’t white-but one day they’ll come in floods. And when they do, we’ll have a hell of a lot of trouble — and I’ll go. straight back home and fight it there.”

He glared around him.

“Right now, I’m fighting it here, and what’s happened today doesn’t matter a light. We go on, mates-we see this thing through!”

The call came clearly over the court as Barnaby Rudge went to the net and shook hands with his opponent. He was feeling very content and even more confident.

“Game, set and match to Rudge,” the umpire said, and there was a little flurry of applause. The two players shook hands with the umpire, put on their sweaters, and walked off together, as ball-boys and linesmen strolled off the court, and most of the standing crowd moved away, in quest of tea or ice-cream, or hot-dogs. Barnaby had not once been tempted to use his fireball service — and was particularly pleased, because he had been fairly hard-pressed in the third set and had been sorely tempted. But he had overcome the temptation and won in straight sets.

He saw Willison in the stands, giving him the thumbs-up sign.

He saw, too, but did not recognise, Archibald Smith, who had sat with the tall, bony inquiry agent throughout the match.

“And that’s your world-beater?” Smith sneered, as they drove back to London in his Jaguar.

“Mr. Smith, I tell you he’s got a service that will blast the best off the court!”

“He was nearly blasted off the court himself, today! I didn’t see anything special about his service.”

“He didn’t use it, Mr. Smith.”

“Now come on! He’s human, isn’t he? He could easily have lost that third set — if he had a killer-service, he’d have used it then. Come off it, Sidey. What’s your game?”

Sidey looked at the bookmaker sourly.

He had been both disappointed and surprised, for Smith had promised to double his money if he was satisfied with his information; but no one would have been satisfied on today’s showing. He did not know what to say. He knew Smith had a reputation for being tight-fisted, and it was possible that this was what he was being now — that he was only pretending to disbelieve him, as an excuse to lower the value of the information. Sidey’s indignation at this possibility was deepened by his awareness of the man’s wealth-as epitomised right there, in the big Jaguar, with its telephone built into the dashboard, and even an extension for use from the back seat.

“I’ve got photos that’ll show you he’s got a fireball service!” he said at last. And when Smith laughed, almost scornfully, he went on in an angry tone: “I tell you, Mr. Smith- if you’ve got any sense, you won’t take any bets on Rudge. You’ll lose every penny. What you ought to do is put a packet on him to win — and put a thou on for me tool”

“A thousand for you? Have you gone mad?”

“I’m telling you, and I’ve always been fair to you. Put me on a thou — “

“How much of your own money are you risking?” demanded Smith.

“All I can afford.”

“Don’t hedge! How much?”

“Two hundred quid,” Sidey answered, sulkily.

“You haven’t put it on with me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” replied Sidey, with more spirit. “I done it at eight different shops, all yours, so’s no one can guess I’ve got inside knowledge. And I wouldn’t risk that amount of money if I wasn’t sure — you ought to know that.”

“I’ll need a lot more proof,” Smith growled. “But you’ve earned your money; I’ll say that for you. I won’t take Willison’s stake-just in case miracles happen.” He opened his tight-fitting jacket and took out a packet of one-pound notes. “There’s your hundred. And if I were you, I’d keep it in my pocket; I wouldn’t put it on a man or on a horse.”

He pulled up outside his offices, and a doorman came hurrying. A few minutes later, he had disappeared into the building, the doorman was putting his car away, and Sydney Sidey was walking off, glowering straight ahead at the massed crowds.

“Mean old flicker!” he muttered. “He’ll put plenty on-just won’t pay me, that’s all. I wonder who else would pay for the info? Old Filby won’t; he’s in Smith’s pocket-he’s no good. I wonder if Jackie Spratt’s —” He continued to wonder about Jackie Spratt’s.

The three Spratt brothers were at their daily conference, in the Board Room at the top of their building. John was sitting back, smoking a pipe, looking as solid and dependable as a man could. In Mark’s hand was something rather like a small cigar fitted into an amber-coloured mouthpiece, and on the table in front of him was what appeared to be an amber case holding six of the ‘cigars’: an affectation well in keeping with the dapper little man’s appearance.

He put one to his lips, and pressed a point close to the mouthpiece. A tiny sound followed, and a little spray appeared on the wall opposite him, at least twenty feet away. He laughed.

“Ill bet no one else ever thought of doping a horse from a distance!” he crowed. “One of these in a hay-box, and we’ll have no problems!”

“I still don’t quite see how it works,” objected Matthew.

“You will,” John said, bluffly. “The dope is in a dart-capsule, see? And the capsule breaks on contact with the hay-the slightest touch does it. The dope itself is one of these curare off-shoots: Curol, they call it. Can’t hurt the horses-just relaxes the muscles so they can’t make a hundred per cent effort. It’s a liquid, so it soaks into the hay — stays effective for two or three days — “

“So it can be traced!” Matthew interrupted, sharply.

“If it were in the box at the time of the race, yes,” John agreed. “But the horses will be doped several days before. I’ve two feed salesmen fixed to do the job. They’ll be able to get near enough to blow the dope into the hay-boxes — they won’t have to get near enough to be suspicious. And it’s not a normal dope, either. The stewards could run every test in the book and still never get round to Curol. There’s maybe a chance in a thousand of its being discovered, and even then, it wouldn’t involve us. It might involve two gentlemen from the United States, mind you.” He grinned at his brothers. “So it isn’t foolproof! Show me a bet which will win this kind of money which hasn’t got some sort of risk. We live on risks!”

“I must say I don’t think the risk is very great,” Mark put in, amiably.

“I suppose it’s all right.” Matthew was grudging. “How much have we got on Road Runner?”

“Nearly half a million,” John Spratt replied. “At fives.”

“Bring it up to the level million?” suggested Mark.

Matthew shrugged.

“All right,” said John.

“Can’t we get sixes?” asked Matthew.

“Fives are bloody good!” John told him, going over to the wall to examine the spot where the liquid had struck. “It’s drying already,” he remarked.

“Don’t get too near,” warned Matthew, jocularly. “We don’t want you slowed down!”

And they all laughed.

Mark and Matthew knew that Blake had been killed to ensure that their secret would not be disclosed. They seldom talked about that, however, even among themselves, except by an occasional oblique reference. Until this moment, nothing had been said, today; but now there was a pause and the other two looked at John. He was frowning, the groove between his brows even deeper than usual.

“Is everything all right?” Mark asked, with almost feminine insistence.

“Sure,” John growled. “And what isn’t can soon be put right.” There was another, almost awkward silence, before Matthew, the least imaginative of the trio, forced the issue:

“What isn’t, brother?”

“Our Colonel Hood and Thomas Moffat,” John elucidated. “They are the only two who could have given anything away. That’s almost certainly where Charlie Blake got his facts, all right, so I’ve had them checked. And they’re being watched!”

“Who by?” asked Matthew, in sudden alarm.

“Police,” answered John, completely unperturbed. “So they’ll have to have a little change of plans.” He gave a comfortable sounding laugh, and went on: “There’s another thing we ought to think about. Archie Smith and that beanpole who works for him were at Wimbledon today, watching one of the players — an American negro, named Rudge: Barnaby Rudge. And we know this fellow Willison — Rudge’s sponsor — is trying to put a lot of money on him to win.” He flashed the dazzling white smile which was such a part of his spectacular good looks: “He can’t place it. I think we ought to take it.”

“Why?” demanded Mark Spratt “Are we sure this Rudge isn’t a dark horse?”

“We’ve got too much on Bob Lavis,” John told him. “We’ve been putting money on him for a long time — we can’t afford to let anyone else win. I’m going to have a little talk with Sidey.”

Neither of the others demurred.

“Jackie Spratt’s,” Sydney Sidey was deciding. “They’re the only firm who might cough up. Now I wonder — which of the brothers ought I to talk to?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Proper Devils’

Gideon reached the Yard a little after five o’clock, in a very dour mood. There was the underlying factor of Kate and there was this shocking attack on the Jamaican girl; quite suddenly, everything else seemed to become unimportant. This was dangerous thinking; he must discipline himself.

He sensed a difference at the Yard, among the policemen on duty outside, the Flying Squad men and other detectives getting in and out of their cars. It was reflected in a kind of tension: a grimness in manner, appearance, even movement. None of them laughed; none of them even smiled; it was as if these men, all big and tough and hardened to crime and violence, had received a great shock.

And of course they had.

This kind of mood spread throughout the Yard whenever a policeman was injured. It was difficult to explain, even to describe; but Gideon had a very strong sense of it as he went in and up the steps. The doorman, usually content to say: “Good-morning”, or “Good-night, sir” ventured: “Shocking thing at Hampstead, sir? Proper devils, these youngsters, these days.”

The hall constable was perhaps forty-five: not so long ago himself a ‘youngster’.

Gideon said: “Yes. Ugly,” and went on. But the remark had set his thoughts off on a new tack and when he went into his office, he was thinking: The swine who did that, was no hotheaded youngster-he really was a devil. But you didn’t brand the whole generation ‘proper devils’ because there were a few who were truly evil.

How would the newspapers play this up? Perhaps he should have handled the Press himself. He sat down — and the telephone rang as if operated by the chair.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

“I’ve got Mrs. Gideon for you at last, sir.”

“Oh.” His thoughts veered again: he had a sharp little stab of fear, and all else vanished from his mind. “Put her through. After a pause, he spoke a little over-heartily: “Hallo, Kate! I’ve been trying to get you.”

“I know — I’ve been out,” Kate said, vaguely; and usually she was precise. There was a pause, almost an awkward silence. Then they both spoke at once:

“Why did you want — ?”

“I’d hoped to be early, but —”

They both broke off and then, spontaneously, they both laughed. The fact that Kate could laugh so freely persuaded Gideon that she had no great anxiety, and he felt a great sense of relief.

“But something cropped up,” she filled in for him, lightly.

“How on earth did you guess? But I will be in to dinner — seven-thirty at the latest,” he promised. “Is Penny back yet?”

“She dashed in and dashed out,” Kate said. “Half-past seven then, dear.”

“Yes, fine. ‘Bye.” Gideon rang off, reflected how calm and composed she had sounded, then caught sight of a note pinned to the Outdoor Events, June, file. He pulled this towards him and read: “C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty. A.H.” Gideon glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten minutes past five. He rang for Hobbs but there was no reply. He called Information and asked if there was any news from AB.

“Nothing new, sir. They haven’t got the devil, yet.’’

Devil. Young devils, Gideon grunted and rang off. He drummed his fingers on the desk, with an undertone of anger and resentment, and was still drumming when his telephone rang again. He grabbed it.

“Gideon.”

“The Press Officer would like a word with you, sir,” said the operator.

“Put him through.” The Press Officer, colloquially known as the Back Room Inspector, had an office with a door opening on the Embankment. There were always a few Fleet Street men hovering there in the hope of a sudden sensation and at times when big news was breaking, such as this, there might be two or three dozen,

“Commander?” Gideon recognised the Welsh voice of Huw Jones, the Inspector on rota at the Back Room.

“Yes, Will?”

“I’m sorry to worry you, Mr. Gideon, but the boys would like to know if you have any special message for them.” Every end of sentence and end of phrase went upwards in what sounded like a Welsh lilt but which could also suggest a Pakistani or an Indian from the northern provinces. “About this poor girl whose face was slashed, they mean.”

“Haven’t they talked to Mr. Henry?”

“Yes, indeed they have-but they would like a message from you.”

Gideon hesitated, looked at the unopened files on his desk, and said: “I’ll come down in five minutes, for five minutes.” He rang off on the Welshman’s obvious delight, pulled the files towards him and opened them to glance at the latest note in each.

In the Body in the Thames Case was the note: “Departure time Lemaitre’s plane delayed. New E.T.A. London Airport 12.30 p.m. tomorrow.” On the Madderton Bank Case: “The Chairman of Directors telephoned you twice.” There was another note: “Chipper Lee has been picked up and questioned, Knowles is now in charge.” Knowles would know what to do. He rang for Hobbs again and again there was no answer, which was unusual: Hobbs normally left a message if he were going to be out for long. He rang Information.

“What’s the latest on Detective-Constable Conception?”

“A message has just come in, sir,The cheek injury is superficial. The lip injuries are serious and seven stitches have been inserted.”

So she wasn’t likely to be able to talk for some time. Poor kid. She wasn’t much older than Penny!

“Anything else the matter with her?”

There was a pause, before the answer came: “Only shock, sir.”

Only shock! Gideon rang off with a grunt and strode out of his office and off down to the Back Room. When he opened the door, after the near-silence of the long corridors, it was like stepping into a particularly crowded bedlam. At least thirty men and women, the women heavily outnumbered, were crammed together in a room not really large enough for half as many.

Tall, dark and thin-faced, with rather heavy-lidded but unexpectedly bright blue eyes, Huw Jones was the only one present with any real elbow-room. He sprang up from behind his desk in a corner as one of the reporters held the door open while Gideon squeezed through.

Silence fell, strange and sudden. Gideon broke it, by saying: “I’ve just five minutes, I’m afraid that will have to suffice. A brief statement, first: Detective-Constable Conception is suffering from shock and is not yet able to make a statement. I do not know when she will be able to. The murdered man was Kenneth Noble, one of an Action Committee believed to be planning some kind of demonstration against the South African touring team at Lords during the Second Test. We want to interview another member of the Committee: Roy Roche — R-O-C-H-E — whom we believe may be able to help us with our inquiries in connection with the murder. A general call for him has gone out.”

He stopped, without warning, but a man was ready with a question.

“Do you think Roche was violent because he felt the police officer had betrayed the cause, Commander?”

“If you’re asking me whether I personally believe that the discovery that a trusted ally of a Peace Group had been a spy would turn an ordinary man into a killer — no,” Gideon stated flatly. “I have simply told you the bare facts.”

“Do you think there could be any other motive?”

“Obviously there could be. I don’t yet know what the motive was — nor who committed the crime.”

“Did you personally know that the policewoman was on this assignment, Commander?” This came from a little gingery woman with sharp, rather feline-looking green eyes.

“Yes..” Gideon stated flatly.

“Do you think it’s fair to use agents provocateurs, in — ?” began a thin-lipped, pallid-faced man.

“Nonsense,” Gideon said bluntly. “Detective-Constable Conception was not an agent provocateur. She was doing a difficult and dangerous job extremely well.”

“Was the raid on this so-called Action Committee due to her investigations?” another man asked.

“No. She was reported missing. Chief Superintendent Henry took very prompt and very effective action. We knew we were dealing with a group of extremists who under pressure might cause serious disturbances. We did not know that one of them might be an incipient murderer. We don’t know — as has already been made clear — whether the murder was a result of the Action Committee’s plans or whether the Action Committee was used as a cover. When we find the man we wish to interview — “

“Any news of him, sir?” a man interrupted.

“No. I really — “

“Do you think the Action Committee will call off its campaign, Commander?”

“I don’t know. Obviously, I hope they’ll be shocked into seeing sense and so changing their minds.”

“Don’t you think they believe they’re the ones who do see sense?” asked the thin-lipped man. “Haven’t they every right—?”

“Don’t expect me to get into political arguments,” Gideon interrupted with a kind of bluff good humour. “I don’t think any man, ever, has the right to cause, incite or commit crimes of violence of any kind. And now I really must go.”

“Commander —”

“Mr. Gideon!”

“Commander, one more question!” a big man squeezed into a corner boomed out, above all the others. “Will the police make the same kind of effort over the attack on a coloured police-officer as they would if she were white?”

The booming voice fell silent, and over the room there fell a hush. The man with the thin lips seemed to be sneering, as if saying: “Now answer that, you smug so-and-so!”

Gideon looked at the questioner, pursed his lips and answered: “Exactly the same. Possibly a little more, if that were possible.”

“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.

“I can’t place it, I tell you,” the other man, an Englishman, was saying. “I can get a hundred on, here and there, but no big money.”

“But it’s crazy!” blurted Willison.

“It looks to me as if you tried to put too much on in one bet,” said the other. “It was a mistake.” He tossed back a whisky-and-soda, and went on: “There’s only one firm we haven’t heard from.”

“Who’s that?” Willison asked sharply.

“Jackie Spratt’s.”

“Jackie Spratt’s? But isn’t that one of the biggest?” Willison almost screamed.

“Yes, it is, but—”

“If they’ll take the bets, why do you say you can’t place the money?”

“I never use Spratt’s, if I can help it,” the Englishman explained. He had a long face with long features and a lugubrious expression, rather like a horse, and the similarity was heightened by long hair which drooped over each temple. “I’d put on a couple of hundred at six of their shops.”

“Get the rest on,” urged Willison. “Get as much on as you possibly can!”

That was about the time when John Spratt entered the company’s Putney High Street shop, and went through to the back room. The shop was closed, for the day’s racing was over, but a dozen clerks were still busy, some of them chalking up the Tote prices and other details on huge boards. A woman cleaner, blue-smocked, blue-bonneted, was mopping the synthetic tiles of the floor. The manager, a chunky, middle-aged man with a heavy jowl and unblinking, expressionless eyes, stood up from his desk.

“Good-evening, Mr. John.”

“Hullo, Fred,” John Spratt greeted him, pleasantly. “Is our friend here?”

“Waiting in there.” The manager inclined his head towards a second door.

“Has he said anything?”

“Just says he’s got to see you — it’s very important. And I daresay it is, to him.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He does a lot of leg-work for Archie Smith, I can tell you that. He wouldn’t do that for long, if he weren’t reliable.”

Spratt nodded, and went into the other room.

Sydney Sidey was sitting at a small table with an Evening News spread out in front of him, reading the back page. He pretended not to notice the door open but as it closed, sprang to his feet, letting the newspaper fall. He was painfully thin, gawkish, awkward-looking, with huge hands and feet.

“Good-evening, Mr. Spratt!”

“Hallo, Sidey.” Spratt’s manner was still pleasant, but he went on: “I hope you haven’t wasted my time. I’m a very busy man.”

“Oh, I know you are — I assure you I haven’t!” Sidey spluttered. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Spratt — it’s very important, I promise! I’ve got photographs—” He delved in the inside pocket of his jacket: “I wouldn’t have troubled you, if I hadn’t been sure.”

“That’s good,” Spratt murmured.

“It’s about this American darkie — Barnaby Rudge,” Sidey told him, eagerly. “Honest, Mr. Spratt — I can tell you that that man will win the Men’s Singles this year — and I mean Wimbledon! And I also happen to know that Mr. Smith-Archie Smith, you know — won’t take money on him to win, says he’s not quoted. And I thought —” A cunning glint appeared in his eyes: “I thought it would be worth a pony to you, if I tipped you off not to take any money on this guy. He’s going to win, Mr. Spratt!”

Sidey was fumbling with the photographs, as he talked, haste making him even clumsier than usual.

“I doubt it,” Spratt told him, drily. “What makes you think he will?”

“He’s got a service no one can stand up against-it will absolutely demoralise his opponents, Mr. Spratt! I’ve been watching him, and I’ve seen them all — I’ve seen the very best — but I’ve never seen a service like this one. It’s a rocket, never mind a cannonball! Look.” He had the small prints spread on a table, now-twenty of them, in all — and they showed Barnaby Rudge in all manner of poses. They were cleverly taken at a different point in each service so that they made almost a moving picture, and something of the enormous power of the man suggested itself. Spratt studied them intently, and said at last: “He looks good.”

“He’s a world-beater,” Sydney Sidey asserted solemnly. “An absolute, world-beater!” Seeing that Spratt was obviously impressed, he went on, emboldened: “I thought if you’d let me have a pony, Mr. Spratt, and put a hundred on the nose — you can hedge it okay, that’s not so much -that would make us both happy.”

John Spratt looked at him as if looking at an insect, and Sidey went absolutely still. Then Spratt took a small wad of notes from his pocket and slapped it on the table.

“If you want to put any on, Sidey, do it yourself.” He picked up the pictures, one by one, and then as he shuffled them like a pack of cards, he asked: “Where are the negatives?”

“I — I’ve got them at home, Mr. Spratt.”

“If you have any more prints made,” said Spratt, with a pleasant smile, “I’ll skin you alive. Just keep your mouth shut, Sidey. I get to hear everything that goes on, and I’ll soon know if you talk.” Casually, he added: “I could use a man who can keep his mouth shut.” Then with a brief nod, he went out.

“He gives me the bloody shivers!” Sidney Sidey told himself as he watched him walk away.

Barnaby Rudge, fully satisfied with his latest practice, had a shower, dreaming away happily. He was a little puzzled because Willison hadn’t come to see him and the car was outside, but with his peculiarly single-minded nature, this did not worry him at all. He was going to win Wimbledon! He knew he was going to win.

“We’ll leave it to you, as always, John,” Matthew Spratt told his brother. “Don’t you agree, Mark?”

“John’s the hatchet-man,” Mark agreed, mildly.

“The only question is how to fix him,” John said. He picked up a copy of the latest Evening Standard and there was a screaming headline about arrests and a murder in Hampstead. A line caught his eye: “-believed to be connected with a plot to interrupt the second Test Match as a protest against apartheid.” His eyes held a sudden glint: “Now, if we did this cleverly, it could look like a nice piece of race hatred, couldn’t it? What we need is a Fascist short of money.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult. In fact, I think I know of one,” said Matthew.

By that time, the crowds were leaving Wimbledon in droves, and the pick-pockets and the bag-snatchers were skilfully and unobtrusively busy. One of them was young Cyril Jackson, and he had a very good picking: seven wallets and four good watches as well as a couple of fountain pens. When he counted his spoils and assessed the value, he asked himself why he should hand it all over to Aunty Martha. She would never know how much was in the wallets, would she? If he helped himself to a few quid, no one need be any the wiser.

And that was the time when, twenty minutes late, Gideon reached home.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Husband and Wife

Kate looked a little drawn, Gideon was quick to notice. Her eyes were a shade too bright; her smile, voice and laughter were off the edge of naturalness. Unless ; . . unless he was feeling a greater tension than he realised, was studying her more closely because he was more sensitive.

There was another quality about her which this increased perception emphasised. She was a strikingly handsome, most would say a beautiful woman. And as she moved — to do the most ordinary things: take a leg of mutton out of the oven, sprinkle flour to thicken the gravy, strain the Brussels sprouts — he was very much aware of her lissomeness. There was nothing in her movements tonight to suggest that she was physically under par.

As they were alone, they ate in the big, old-fashioned kitchen. Gideon, in his shirt-sleeves, carved: the mutton was perfectly done, the outside golden-brown and crisp, and the sharp knife went through it butter-easy. And the potatoes roasted with it had a crispness and tastiness which was exactly right. He had a glass of beer with his meal and Kate had cider; but for his anxiety about her, he would not have felt a care in the world. For there were few times when Gideon’s mind was so choked with the urgency of the Yard’s affairs that, whatever the pressure, he could not push anxiety away for a while and relax. But he could never remember so relaxing, except at home with Kate.

She had made deep-dish apple pie, the pastry crumbly-short, the way he liked it. And with it, there was double-thick cream. He must force himself to eat it, as he had forced himself to eat the meat; Kate must have no suspicion of how desperately worried he was about her.

“More, dear?” she asked.

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Oh, yes, you should.” Kate smiled. “It’ll do you good.”

“Well — but what about the children?”

“Malcolm’s having a fish-and-chip supper with his gang, and Penny will eat before she comes in.”

“In that case . . . !” He broke off, forcing a smile, for she was already replenishing his plate.

He ate more slowly, but still with assumed relish. At last he pushed his plate away and smiled at Kate as she placed a cup of coffee in front of him. She smiled back with complete naturalness, obviously happy.

“Bless you, Kate!” he said. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal like that for ages.

“You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”

“Every mouthful,” he assured her. Then despite himself, could think of nothing to say. A sudden constraint seemed to fall on them both and he could hear the ticking of the frying-pan-shaped wall clock.

“Kate,” he said, at last.

“George,” she began, but stopped.

He wondered whether Alec Hobbs had telephoned to prepare her; there was no way of being sure. As she fell silent, he started again: “Kate, I talked to Alec Hobbs, this morning — or rather, he talked to me.”

The flare almost of alarm in her eyes told him that she had not been forewarned. And there was heaviness in his heart at this proof that he could alarm her, over this or anything else.

“About Penny?” she asked huskily.

“And about you.”

“George —”

“Kate,” he interrupted, “there may be a thousand and one reasons why you haven’t told me this or haven’t told me that, but just now I’m only concerned about one thing.” He paused, and her expression pleaded: “What thing?” So he told her quickly: “About your health.”

Her eyes grew very, very bright; tear-bright. When she closed them, tears forced their way through. He sat, gripping the edge of the table, not wanting to move to comfort her and comfort himself, until he knew the truth. And now she frightened him simply because she was frightened: she would not behave like this if she were not. His knuckles whitened as he watched her trying to speak; saw her lips quivering. Still he sat there, and now his own eyes were stinging as he had not known them sting for years.

“George,” she managed, at last. “Oh, George, I-I am worried.”

“About what, love?” he asked gently.

“I — I keep getting pains. I — I keep thinking of cancer. Oh, George!”

He thought: Oh, my God, and she couldn’t tell me-she couldn’t tell me! There was both self-reproach and reproach for her in his mind, but it hovered on the surface and did not reveal itself even by implication. He had to sit here until she had finished; he dare not let himself move closer to her.

“The chances against it are pretty long, love,” he made himself say calmly. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes. I-I went to the hospital.” She had somehow not trusted or not been able to confide in the family doctor -probably because she knew he would tell, or make her tell, her husband. “I was X-rayed, today.”

“That’s where you were!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. George, I — oh, George, I’m sorry. I — I’m sorry, I —”

Now, she began to cry. And now, at last, he could go to her; stand behind her, hold her as she buried her face in her hands and the sobs shook her body as if she felt her world were coming to an end. He did not speak, or caress, or even move, until after a while he placed his lips against her hair. Soon, she calmed; and he placed his hands on her elbows and in a way he had often done with the children, eased her to her feet. Then he led her through to the sitting-room, and helped her into his own big armchair. As he raised her feet on to a pouffe, he remarked inconsequentially: “Did I ever tell you I first fell for your legs?”

“Oh, George!” She gave a funny, choking little laugh.

“Fact.” He turned to a sideboard and took out brandy and glasses, talking all the time: “I’d been out to Milton Park -it was the beginning of the Rugger season and I was pretty active, then. Nothing like so fat! And you were playing tennis-all knee-length white skirt and ankle-socks: what your darling daughter would probably call square, or what goes for square, today. And I was fascinated. Never seen such long and attractive legs. Mind you, my eyes did soon travel to higher things.” He was smiling down on her, now. He gave her the brandy, then perched on the arm of the chair. “So you had an X-ray?”

“Yes.”

“Any official comment?”

“Not really. She said the doctor-a Dr. Phillips — would let me know in a day or two.”

“Where did you go, love?”

“South Western.”

“I’ll have a word with them in the morning.” He smiled, pressed her shoulder, then stood up and crossed to a small chair. Sitting squarely opposite her, he asked: “How do you feel, truly?”

“I get pains — here.” She placed her hand just above her waist and just below her left breast. “I know it’s the sort of tiling-well, I know women always are terrified of cancer, but—’

“A pain that gets you down is nothing to laugh off,” he told her, equably despite his thumping heart. “How are you at this moment?”

“I feel better than I have for weeks, George. I suppose it’s psychological — I came back and had a good cry and I felt much brighter! I haven’t enjoyed getting a meal so much for a long time. I knew the children wouldn’t be home.” She closed her eyes, looking thoroughly contented, and Gideon felt a warmth of contentment creeping over him. Tomorrow he would pull strings to get the result of that X-ray fast. But looking at Kate now, he could not believe there was anything seriously wrong with her.

He thought, without tension, of what was happening at Hampstead. Hobbs could cope. Thank God for Hobbs!

That brought him, sharply, to Penelope. Sharply; but to his surprise, without a jolt. Kate opened her eyes and spoke in a quiet voice. There was a degree of telepathy between them: the kind that often grows between husband and wife.

“Did Alec tell you how he feels about Penelope?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, quietly.

“How did it — affect you?”

“I still don’t know,” he told her, frankly. “The main thing is, how does it affect Penny?”

After a long pause, Kate nodded. “I’m not sure she knows. I really do think she sometimes sees him as an elder brother; or an uncle. At least I think she does. But it’s remarkable how often she has a wild affair with a boy her own age, and then rushes back to Alec. He is ‘family’, to her.”

Gideon said: “I see.”

“Whether she ever thinks —” Kate broke off, sat up more, and sipped her brandy. “George, do you realise that she’s twenty-five?”

“I try to make myself,” he grimaced. “I still see her in a gymslip and pigtails.”

“I do, too, sometimes. But more often she’s way beyond me, in thinking and in attitudes, and I don’t argue with her too much. I feel that if I argue, I’ll seem to be putting up a sort of barrier. Whereas if I seem to take everything naturally, no matter how outrageous, she won’t hesitate to come to me and talk. In a funny way, she’s the only one I’ve got left, George. The longer the others are married, the more they seem to draw away.”

“I know,” Gideon said gruffly. “Hurt much?”

“Not really. The grandchildren help — but that’s a red herring, George. And you know it! We were talking about Penny.”

“Yes,” Gideon agreed, more heavily. “We were.” He paused, then taking the big pipe from his pocket, got up and went to a Chinese willow-pattern tobacco jar on the mantelshelf, and began to fill the pipe. “I’m not sure I want —” He tamped tobacco down; then glanced up and went on almost exasperatedly: “I’m not sure that I want to think too much about Penny just now. There’s an awful gap between her and Alec. Age gap, generation gap, tradition gap, behaviour gap — I don’t know what to call it, but I know it’s there.” He was looking at Kate with something more than earnestness, and there had seldom been more feeling in his voice: “What do you mean — no matter how outrageous?”

“Is that what you really want to know?” asked Kate.

“I suppose it is, yes.” That came almost as a growl. “What do you mean?”

“George,” Kate said, “I’m not really sure how old-fashioned you are — or I am. I mean — well, I still have doubts about the Pill, even! I’m all for it, in a detached way. For other people. But I don’t know how I would feel about it myself, if I still needed — needed a contraceptive.” When he made no comment, she went on: “Penny knows and takes for granted more about the Pill, about sex, about deviations, about homosexuality, than I’ve ever heard of. Of course, you know, you come across so many examples of perversion and such like through the Yard, but Penny — she takes so much for granted!”

Gideon finished filling his pipe. He put it between his teeth and pressed it down heavily-and almost bit the stem off. There was a box of matches on the mantel-shelf and he picked it up but didn’t take out a match.

“Are you telling me she uses the Pill?”

“She tells me that a lot of her friends do. I think it’s her way of telling me that she does. A kind of: ‘Don’t ask questions, Mummy, but I do want you to know’. I’m not sure,” Kate emphasised, “but it does seem — likely.” When he didn’t speak, she went on almost desperately: “It is a new world, George!”

“And a fine mess it is!” he growled. He was glowering, but he still did not light his pipe. “What do you really feel about it, Kate?”

She spent a long time looking for a word, then said simply: “Resigned.”

He was startled into a smile.

“Good an attitude as any, I suppose,” he conceded. “It’s their world and their life, but . . . I was reading some statistics from the Home Office, the other day. One child in seven is illegitimate; the mothers of three in ten of those can’t name the father, although most can narrow it down to two or three possibilities. There was a sociologist’s report that it is estimated that over ninety nine cent of unmarried woman between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five have had carnal knowledge, often with more than three men. As a statistic, I accept this. But when it comes to my own daughter—”

At last, he struck a match; savagely. The flame flared and he let the fumes disperse, then began to draw at the pipe. The smoke was pungent but pleasant. He hadn’t smoked a pipe for weeks, and now pulled at it as if he wanted to start a bonfire.

Kate — relaxed, and still in his big chair — watched the smoke billow about his head, then slowly disperse. At last, she murmured: “I’ve always hated the phrase ‘carnal knowledge’ — even more than ‘sexual intercourse’.”

“Tell me a better,” Gideon growled.

“Made love to,” Kate suggested, gently.

“Oh, sentimental tommy-rot — whitewash! I — “ He broke off, waving the smoke away; obviously struck by a new, even startling thought. He was silent for a long time before saying: “Do you think Alec knows?”

“Knows what, George?”

“Whether she’s ‘made love’ to all or any of these young men she brings home.”

“George,” Kate looked alarmed. “You can’t ask him!”

“Of course I’m not going to ask him! But if he does know and if he still feels about her as he says he does —” Gideon broke off, with a bark of a laugh, and moved across to her. “Today,” he said, “I really believe it is us middle-aged people who are the babes and sucklings — the innocents! Youth has the wisdom. I was thinking . . .” He stepped behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders: “Penny is probably twisting us all round her little finger. But I’ve never seen her happier — or any of the children happier than she seems to be. Have you?”

Kate looked up at him, and for a few moments they were silent. Before she could answer, the spell was broken by the sudden shrilling of the telephone. That was the first time his thoughts really switched: to the murderer who was holed-up somewhere in Hampstead. He put Penny out of his mind.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hero

For the tenth time, which seemed like the hundredth, a voice boomed out on the loud-speaker. This time it was Henry himself, although sometimes, to rest his voice, he let one of his colleagues call.

“Roche! You’re only wasting time. You are completely surrounded! Come out with your hands above your head.”

There was no answer.

At the end of the street, at attic windows and on roof-tops, there were groups of policemen, including some from neighbouring divisions. There were clusters of newspapermen and photographer, and two television crews were stationed in positions of vantage: every time the loud-speaker crackled, the cameras whirred. Already, viewers in their homes had been given a vivid glimpse of the real-life drama: they had seen Charles Henry calling his ultimatum, seen him and his men dodging into doorways and taking cover behind cars near the disused cafe. Now, as several policemen dived in different directions, the cameras took a perfectly timed picture of flying chippings as a bullet struck a wall near the Superintendent’s head.

There had been three other shots; just three. So far, no one had been hurt; but everyone knew that at any moment one of the policemen could be killed.

Now, much more help was needed. From the Fire Brigade, for one. And perhaps an armoured car. Henry knew this; knew that unless he could break through the resistance, he would have to chalk this case up as an utter failure. Normally, that would not have worried him, but this would be failure piled on failure and he wanted, above all, to avenge Juanita.

He called the nearest detective-inspector, who came promptly.

“Keep hailing him — call every two minutes,” he ordered.

“Right, sir!” The man took over at the microphone and Henry crossed the street and strode along on the same side as the old cafe; completely safe, there. Only four doors from the cafe, the police had taken over a dry-cleaning premises, and he went in past his men and up the stairs, then up a loft ladder until finally he hauled himself through a skylight, on to the roof. Four policemen were there and had a rope already firmly secured to a chimney-stack, both ends free to allow for easy manoeuvring by two men at once, using it as a safety line.

It was a beautiful evening; crisp and cool.

The disembodied voice came very clearly: “Give yourself up, Roche! You wont be hurt. Give yourself up!”

Henry wasn’t even sure that the cornered man could hear. From the roof, he himself seemed to be not only above the crowd but remote from all that was happening. He glanced around him and saw axes, tear-gas pistols: all the paraphernalia of a raid. He picked up one of the lengths of rope and secured it about his waist.

The youthful sergeant in charge of the group gaped.

“Sir-!”

“Yes, sergeant?”

“Are you — er — going down?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “I’ll want you chaps to take the strain, in a moment.” And as the sergeant still looked shocked, he added abruptly: “If we let this siege drag on, we’ll be here all night.”

“Roche! Can you hear me? Give yourself up!”

The voice seemed utterly remote from the situation, from the roof which was so near the sky.

Roche was perfectly situated. From where he sat, he could cover the front of the cafe and the street, and be reasonably sure that he could not be attacked from the back, unless;the police used dynamite to break their way through the barricade he had built in front of the door. He nursed a Luger pistol — a heavy, deadly weapon; and every now and then, he smoothed the barrel. In a box at his side was spare ammunition, by him a tin of biscuits and bottles of beer. When he heard the loud-speaker summons, he gave a snort of a laugh.

“I can hold out here for a week, you bloody fool!” he said aloud. “Anyone who comes near me, will get a bullet in his guts!”

But he did not fire wastefully. Let them think I’m short of ammunition, he thought. They’ll bloody soon find out how wrong they are!

“Ready?” Henry asked.

“Yes, sir. But sir — !”

“Let me use your radio.” Henry took it and called his man below: “Have cars driven right past the window, in quick succession — and get them all blaring their horns. Make a pandemonium — a really deafening row! Cot that?”

“Yes, sir!” the man below said.

“Sir-you know it’s very dangerous!” persisted the sergeant.

“It would be a lot more dangerous to let him get away,” growled Henry.

The loud-speaker blared again. A car engine started up; another; and another. Horns began to honk, and Henry moved towards the edge of the roof, his back towards the street.

“Now they’re up to something!” Roche said, and held the Luger more firmly. “The bloody fools! Do they want to die?”

The hooting and honking was getting worse; deafening.

A car roared past the shop, and he fired. But as the car disappeared, another engine roared, another car flashed by-its horn blasting. Then another, and another; and all the time, the noise grew louder and more deafening. Wild-eyed, Roche muttered: “They’re going to bloody drive a bloody car right

up — that’s what they’re playing at! I’ll kill the bastards — I’ll kill them!——”

And his eyes were glittering as he licked his lips . . .

Even up here, on the roof, the noise was so great that one couldn’t hear oneself speak, but Henry had said his last word. He was going down the second length of rope, head-first and very, very cautiously. It did not swing very much, and he only needed one hand to steady himself. The cafe window itself was now only two feet below him and squinting down he could see a gaping hole to one side, where the glass had been smashed out.

Another car came by, and the man next to the driver hurled a brick right through the hole. There was a roar of a shot, followed by a clang as the bullet struck the back of the car, and as he lowered himself a few inches further, he could hear the Australian swearing viciously below him.

Moments later, he had an upside-down picture of Roche, crouching in a corner, gun in hand.

He was glaring into the street, waiting for the next car; the last tiling he was expecting was threat from above.

Henry took out his own gun: a Smith and Wesson 44. He could have shot Roche in the head, right then — one shot fired without warning would be enough. Instead — while the cacophony in the street below seemed to get worse and Roche’s face twisted in wild-eyed fury, he waited for the next car to roar past.

It came, horn blaring; and this driver, too, flung a brick. Roche fired at the car. On that instant, with very careful aim, Henry fired at his gun-hand. He waited only long enough to see the revolver fly from Roche’s grasp, then “Right.!” he bellowed to the men above; and as the rope to his waist went slack, swung himself in through the .window with the aid of the men above.

The jagged glass caught a sleeve and the back of his hand as he went through, and he winced. But it did not stop him from scrambling to his feet and rushing at Roche, whose right hand was now resting on the counter, a useless, gory mess.

“Don’t move!” Henry warned him, his own gun levelled. “Don’t move, or believe me, I’ll —”

He had no need to say more . . .

Outside, cars screeched to a standstill and men came running. And as Roche stood staring almost stupidly at the window, blood oozed and then began steadily to drip from the cut in Henry’s hand.

“Commander Gideon?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Henry’s compliments, sir-and the man Roche has been caught and charged with murder.”

“Good!” Gideon said, with deep satisfaction. “Very good. I’ll see Mr. Henry in the morning.” He rang off; much more deeply pleased than he could say, and enormously relieved. Kate was getting out of her chair and as she saw his expression, her own lightened.

“Good news, dear?”

“Very good,” Gideon repeated. “All we need now is for Lem to get back tomorrow and clap the darbies on the man who killed Charlie Blake, and we’ll have had the best week we’ve had for a long time. I might even be able to take a weekend off!”

“Do be careful, dear,” Kate said. “You could give yourself a shock.”

He stared-and they both burst out laughing together. The whole mood had changed, and he could not fail to see how much lighter-hearted Kate was, now that she had come into the open with her fears. Really relaxing, now, he switched on the television to make sure of catching the B.B.C. news, while Kate took out some knitting: their eldest son’s wife was expecting her third child in the early Autumn. He yawned his way through the latest instalment in a mystery series which was wearing thin, then saw the opening of the news. The announcer, a man handsome enough to make even Kate look twice, said in his unflustered voice:

“We are able to show you some graphic scenes, filmed during the siege at Hampstead this evening, of a gunman wanted for questioning by the police. The scenes were recorded only half an hour ago and we must apologise if some of the clarity of the pictures has been lost due to conditions under which

the film . . .”

Gideon stopped listening to the words. He saw everything: the cars, the smashed window, Henry hanging upside down — and then, with a remarkable feat of acrobatics, swinging himself into the shop.

Kate, too, forgot her knitting and sat and stared, as fascinated as Gideon himself, until at last there were pictures of Henry alone, apparently unhurt. And Roche, dishevelled and wild-looking and with his right hand obviously shattered, leaving the shop and entering a police car.

“Good Lord!” Gideon marvelled, when it was over. “I didn’t think Henry had it in him!” He hoisted himself out of his chair. “Sorry, love, but I must go and see him. I can’t let — hey! How about coming for a drive?”

“Oh, I’d love to!” Kate said, and sprang up — and then suddenly cried out and dropped back into her chair, bringing all their fears crashing down on them again.

Penny came in soon afterwards. Kate seemed to have recovered, but Gideon didn’t take her with him. He drove alone to AB Division, saw Henry for a few minutes, and knew he had been right to come as he saw the glow of appreciation in his eyes. But he went straight home again; and by the shortest route.

Malcolm was back, when he got in, and all his family were grouped round the television set, watching the news. Kate seemed herself again. Twenty million people must have seen the film tonight. Gideon’s sense of satisfaction deepened as he watched with them. Henry had done more good for the public image of the police than any one officer had done in years. And in a different way, so had the Jamaican girl. He must make sure they both had some award.

Among those who saw the pictures were the three members of the Action Committee who had not yet been held by the police; and the American, Mario Donelli, who had arrived in England on the France, that day. He was a small, round-faced, round-headed man in his early twenties: a man who would have needed very little make-up to become a clown. He had a frizz of gingery hair round a big bald patch, a button of a nose, and big, full lips. But there was nothing of the clown about him as he switched off the set and said: “Look — like I told you: we just have to go ahead. Sure, Roy’s a devil — none of us ever was all that happy about him. But you have to admit,Tie was one mighty good organiser.”

“And he has money,” one of the others said.

“There’s no call to be cynical. Like I was saying: Roy’s a devil — but Ken Noble was a martyr. You can’t argue about that. He’d been to prison twice for his beliefs, now he’s died because of them. So O.K.; we go through with this demonstration at this Lords place — see? We couldn’t build a better memorial to him. We’ve got all the records safe; we know the plan. All we’ve got to do is just go right ahead.”

None of the others dissented. It was no longer a question of whether they should stick to their plan to disrupt the Test Match: it was simply a question of how to ensure that they did not fail.

Barnaby Rudge watched the news, too. And for a little while the bravery of the policeman drew his thoughts away from his obsessing dream. But not for long. He was going to win! He knew he had the capacity. He must do what Mr. Willison said and hold that service back until the last minute — but he was going to win. If he were in trouble in the earlier rounds, he could use the service just once; now and again. Used like that, it was safe enough: a lot of players came up with a ‘freak’ service occasionally, more often than not to their own great surprise. Barnaby had no game next day, and he wasn’t in the doubles. He could practise the service for at least two hours — and still have time to watch his opponent in the next round.

Willison’s English friend called him, a little after ten o’clock that night, and announced simply: “You’re on, Lou — at five to one.”

Willison just stopped himself from a protesting: “Only fives?” Enthused instead, and rang off. So he could win only about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Only. He gave an excited laugh, would be enough to clear his debts and start afresh. He must go and see Barnaby early tomorrow and make sure nothing could go wrong. He went to bed in his luxury hotel room, happier than he had been since arriving in England.

John Spratt also watched Henry’s feat, as he sat in a pleasant apartment in Knightsbridge with his current mistress. He had never allowed himself to be ‘trapped’ into marriage, but he enjoyed the comforts of home and liked being ministered to by attractive and pleasant women. Oddly, looks and even shapeliness of figure did not greatly influence him. He liked a companion with a pleasing voice, a good sense of fun, and one who did not take life-not even bed-life -too seriously. Naomi, a woman in her thirties, scored full marks on all these counts and had lived here with him for a record time: nearly a year.

“The police have to be brave,” she remarked, and pushed a pouffe more comfortably under his legs. “Coffee, darling? And are we going to have an early night, or late?”

He grinned at her: quite breath-takingly handsome, now, with a touch of devilment in his eyes.

“Early,” he said, “I feel like celebrating.”

“And may I ask what you feel like celebrating?”

“Not if you want to retain all your virtues in my eyes.”

She laughed as she switched the television off.

“One day you may wish you’d confided in me. I might be a very welcome help, in time of trouble.”

“What makes you think I’ll ever get into trouble?” he asked lightly.

“The marvel is you ever keep out of it,” she retorted. “Did you say yes, to coffee?”

“Thank you. Laced, I think, with a trouble-free brandy.”

She moved gracefully across to the cabinet where they kept the bottles and the glasses. He did not watch her as closely as he sometimes did — in fact usually did, when they were going to bed early. In some ways, he was a remarkably simple lover; in sex, he simply liked to abandon himself. It was often breathless but it was always memorable and Naomi invariably shared his anticipatory excitement.

Tonight, she knew, he had something very much on his mind: some different pleasure. He had pulled off some coup, and sooner or later he would tell her about it; or at least, tell her as much as he wished her to know. She was not really curious; yet in a way she was a little afraid. There was a quality in John Spratt which she did not really understand. She knew how utterly ruthless he could be, yet to her he was always pleasant, generous, kind. She only half-wished she knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking of a certain Sebastian Jacobus; young Sebastian Jacobus, one of the few Fascist extremists in Great Britain.

Jacobus was exactly the man he wanted for the attack on Barnaby Rudge, for he had plenty of friends to whom violence was commonplace, and who had a paranoiac hatred of all races other than those he and his friends, like Hitler before them, chose to classify as ‘Aryan’. Black, brown, yellow, Jewish — they had the same awful, built-in hatred for them all.

And he, John Spratt, was to see Jacobus in the morning. For the young man had another serious weakness of character: he was a compulsive gambler. He owed several bookmakers substantial sums of money: substantial to him, that was, but trifling to Jackie Spratt’s Limited. Which was very fortunate indeed . . .

It was incredible, Naomi thought; incredible, that two people together could know such abounding ecstasy . . .

Jacobus was a well-dressed, pleasant-speaking, public school type, who showed no outward sign of the viciousness and prejudice which lodged in him. He was a member of the R.A.A. Club and it was there that John Spratt met him, ostensibly by chance, at half-past ten that morning. They sat in a corner of the huge smoking-room, where no one could overhear them, yet spoke instinctively in undertones.

“I fully understand you,” Jacobus said. “You want this man roughed up and you want it to appear to be because of his colour. But in fact you want to make sure he can’t use his right arm for at least a week. Do you want it broken?”

“I don’t want him killed.”

“And I don’t intend to get involved with murder,” Jacobus replied equably. “How much is this little service worth, Mr. Spratt?”

“How much are you in debt?”

“A considerable sum, I fear — nearly six hundred pounds.”

“This little service is worth seven hundred and fifty pounds. One third will be paid today — I’ll send it to you -one third when Rudge is out of action, one third a month afterwards, provided you establish a credible racial motive for the incident.”

Jacobus gave an unexpectedly wide smile, and there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Spratt. There will be no trouble at all. Do you want it done before he plays again, or after?”

“After,” said Spratt. “That is, the day after tomorrow.” He stood up, nodded, and went on in a louder voice: “Nice to have had a chat. Now I must go and get some work done.” He left some money on the table to pay for the coffee — and the sight of the coffee cups reminded him of last night. He was smiling confidently as he left the Club. He must be careful], though; he was enjoying life with Naomi almost too much. The word ‘marriage’ no longer made him flinch . . .

Gideon had read all the reports when he had a telephone call from Scott-Marie to say that the Home Secretary wished to know whether Superintendent Henry would be recommended for the George Medal. Gideon asked for time to consider, then took a fraction of that time to check that Roche had made no attempt to escape or to kill himself. The Australian’s case would be up for hearing at eleven o’clock, at the North Western Magistrates Court. Gideon was committed to the Bligh meeting at eleven, here, but there was no real need for him to go to the Court. He learned, too, that Henry’s injury — a jagged cut — was not serious, and sent him a note asking whether he thought the Lords demonstration was still on. Then he checked that Lemaitre’s plane was still due at twelve-thirty p.m. And finally, at twenty minutes to eleven, he telephoned the South Western Hospital, in the Fulham Road.

Dr. Phillips, the man he wanted to speak to, would not be in until the afternoon.

“Yes, Commander, I will make sure he calls you,” a helpful Sister assured him. “I know he’s had the X-ray plates developed. He will have some news for you, I’m sure.”

Gideon had to be satisfied with that, and went along to the meeting. He would not be at peace with himself until he knew the facts about Kate. Last night’s attack had left him with a desperate anxiety which nothing could ease.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Idealist

In all, twenty-one men turned up at the ‘Bligh’ meeting, and it was immediately obvious that every one concerned thought it a good move. Apart from a number of fairly local occasions, there were three major ones — Wimbledon, already started, and Lords actually in the Metropolitan area; the Derby outside. But three senior officers had come from the Surrey Police.

“There are two aspects common to all three occasions,” Gideon told them. “And what I’d like is a plan of campaign so that we can move men from one place to another, using the same tactics. The biggest worry, I should think, is the possibility of organised demonstrations. The other, the usual bag-snatching and pocket-picking-it’s grown too swiftly lately, and I have a strong impression it’s being cleverly organised. And there’s a third thing, which probably affects the Derby more than anything else: the possibility of dope.”

“Shouldn’t rule dope out of Wimbledon,” said a tall, fair-haired Superintendent. “The stakes are very high — not only in money for the professionals, but in prestige. Some of the entrants may well pep themselves up.”

“Could be,” Gideon agree. He glanced at Bligh, who was sitting next to him on a platform. “Chief Inspector Bligh is going to act as co-ordinating officer here at the Yard. He’ll tell you what facilities we have and will have. Chief Inspector —”

Bligh stood up slowly and deliberately.

Gideon, watching his clear-cut profile and the set of his jaw, had the same feeling that he had had yesterday: he didn’t know Bligh, the man. There wasn’t the slightest hint of lack of confidence, and the impression of youthfullness vanished. He became on the instant a well-poised, very mature man.

“Thank you, Commander, very much.” Pause. “Gentlemen . . . May I say that I have probably played more games . . . scored more ducks . . . ” (that brought a chuckle) “had more bones broken . . .” (that brought a roar) “and had more cold feet watching other people play . . .”

He’s a practised public speaker, Gideon thought, vastly surprised. Damned good, tool He saw the way Bligh had caught the attention of everyone present; even Hobbs. His voice, pitched higher than usual, had a curiously hypnotic effect.

“. . . And apart from playing as much as I can and watching when I can’t play, I’ve one or two ideas about sport,” he was saying, now. “And with your permission, Commander, I’ll mention them briefly, because it will give some idea as to how deeply I feel and why — apart from being a dedicated police officer, of course —” he gave Gideon a sly look, and was rewarded by a general chuckle “like everyone present, naturally —” he won another chuckle — “I would like to clean up sport — and sporting crowds.”

He paused a moment, then said with quiet sincerity: “I’ve always had a feeling that the day will come when sport will replace war.” Now there was absolute hush; pin-drop quiet, as he went on: “It’s become a special study for me — after all, I had to study something beside crime and criminals! And I believe that national conflicts should be fought out on the playing fields, in the stadiums and the sporting arenas, not on the battle-fields. It’s quite surprising how true this is already, in some cases,” he went on. “Practically every English county was a kingdom once upon a time, and each kingdom fought and pillaged, raped and laid waste neighbouring kingdoms. The same situation was rampant all over Europe. In fact of course, the original Olympic Games replaced war between Greek cities,- and . . .”

The door near Gideon opened and a messenger, by prearrangement, came and handed him a note. It was his signal to leave, and he had much to do — yet he was sorry to go.

He closed the door softly on Bligh’s voice, and walked slowly along to his office. Bligh had put into words thoughts which had sometimes flickered through his own mind, but had never really taken shape. The remarkable -and heartening — thing, was how raptly everyone was listening. He turned into his office and found three notes, each under the same paperweight. Please call the Commissioner — Please telephone Sir Maurice Forbes (Forbes was the Chairman of Madderton’s) — Please call Mrs. Gideon. Without the slightest hesitation he lifted the receiver and said:

“Get my wife for me, at once.”

“Yes, sir. The Commissioner —”

“My wife, at once!”

“Yes, sir.” The girl went off the line and he held the receiver to his ear and looked through other notes. Lemaitre would be in the office at half-past three . . . Chipper Lee had been remanded in custody for eight days . . . John Spratt, one of the partners in Jackie Spratt’s Limited, had been seen by a Yard man who was a member of the R.A.A. Club, talking with Sebastian Jacobus, a notoriously violence-prone Right-winger . . . D.C. Juanita Conception would suffer no permanent injury but would certainly be scarred, although plastic surgery would greatly lessen the effect. The total number of complaints of pick-pockets and bag-snatchers at Wimbledon to date was up nearly twenty per cent on the same period last year . . . There was a note from Chief Superintendent French of the Wimbledon area: “I’ll be grateful for ten minutes after the conference.” No reason why not, thought Gideon; then had a flash of panic. Why hadn’t Kate come through? If she’d had another attack like last night’s -

The telephone crackled, and the operator said: “Mrs. Gideon for you, sir.” And then, in a voice quick as a scared rabbit, she went on: “The Commissioner says it’s very urgent.” She went off the line and Kate said quietly: “You mustn’t keep him waiting, George.”

“Not a moment after I’ve heard what you want,” Gideon promised.

There was a pause; not long, but long enough to make him wonder. Then, in a husky voice, she went on: “Do you know, George, I’d no idea how much you cared. No, dear, you needn’t say a word. I’ve seen the doctor — or rather, he came to see me.”

Gideon’s heart began to thump.

“And?”

“It isn’t cancer. That’s certain. It’s — well, apparently I’ve been overdoing it, and my heart’s protesting. He called it cardiac pain. He says there’s nothing to worry about provided I rest. He wants me to have a lazy holiday for at least two weeks, and then take it very easy for a while. George, I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

There was another pause. A very long pause, in which Gideon’s own heart thumped. Then: “I can imagine,” he .told her. Heart — Kate, with heart trouble, and so relieved because it wasn’t cancer! “Well, it’s serious enough,” he went on. “We can’t ignore that advice.” Then, gruffly: “Got your bags packed, yet?”

She laughed, but almost at once asked intently: “George, could you possibly get a week or two off?”

“Well work that out soon,” Gideon promised. “Meanwhile, you can go down to Brighton for a week or two and I’ll come down each night: no trouble about that. Penny and Malcolm can manage for themselves — no problem there, either. Well go down on Friday at the latest: I’ll fix a room.” He made a note to ask the Brighton police to make arrangements. “I tried the hospital but this Dr. Phillips was out.”

Kate laughed. “Apparently someone told him I was your wife, that’s why he came to see me. There are some advantages in being married to a policeman, you see!”

She rang off, on an almost gay note, and Gideon sat back and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was a long minute or two before he was able to put that talk out of his mind and focus his attention again on his desk. Immediately, he saw the message: Call the Commissioner, and rang through at once on the internal telephone.

“Yes?” Scott-Marie’s voice could sound like the slash of a whip.

“Gideon,” Gideon said.

“Ah, Gideon.” There wasn’t a hint of ‘at last’ in Scott-Marie’s voice. “I’ve had confirmation of the July General Election, and apparently the date will be officially announced at the weekend. This could affect your tactics with your staff.”

“To tell you the truth,” Gideon admitted, “I’ve hardly given it a thought. It’s been one of those periods when everything happens at once.” He resisted a temptation to tell Scott-Marie about Kate, and went on: “If the subject of leave does crop up, I’m at liberty to say why, then?”

“Yes.” Scott-Marie paused. “That was a very satisfactory outcome at Hampstead, George.”

“Couldn’t have been much better,” Gideon agreed. He frowned: “I don’t want to overdo it, but if ever a police officer deserved some kind of acknowledgement, Juanita Conception does.”

Scott-Marie answered very slowly.

“Yes. I’ll see that a recommendation goes through. Do you know how she is?”

“There shouldn’t be too much in the way of a scar, and no permanent disability,” Gideon was able to report. “And Henry’s hand wound is only a matter of days.”

“Good. Do you think the demonstration will still be staged?”

“I’m checking as closely as I can, but anything they do now will have to be on a kind of ad hoc basis, and won’t be easy to discover in advance. But I shouldn’t worry about that, sir,” Gideon added, with complete confidence. “We’ll cope.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“There’s one thing you can do for me,” Gideon told him.

“What is it?”

“Have a word with- Sir Maurice Forbes, sir, and try to stop him from harassing us. We caught the Madderton bank thief, we’ve got most of the money back, and unless there’s some special reason not to, I’d like to treat that case as routine.”

“I shall have a word with him,” promised Scott-Marie. “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

Gideon rang off, relieved on two counts, and once more confirmed in his confidence that he could rely on Scott-Marie. It was now a little after twelve o’clock, and the Outdoor Events meeting should soon be over, unless Bligh made the oldest of all mistakes and went on too long. He rang for Hobbs, but there was no response. So the meeting was still on. He pulled the day’s reports towards him and had been going through them for five minutes when there was a tap at his passage door. He called “come in”, and the door opened and Chief Superintendent Thomas French of CD Division, which included Wimbledon, came in.

Gideon had never been sure whether French cultivated his appearance to suit his name, or whether there was some remarkable natural coincidence. Whichever was true, he looked a Frenchman, with his dark, waxed moustache, rather blue jowl, thick-lensed pince-nez and suits cut so that shoulders and neck seemed to be part of one another. He was brisk-moving, and his accent was slightly ‘off’ the natural London Cockney and equally ‘off’ the natural Oxford. His appearance always suggested that he was trying to create the impression that, if he only cared to divulge it, he could tell a great deal that was known to very few.

“Good-morning, Geo — Commander.”

“Hallo,” Gideon said. “Come in.”

Two or three men passed in the corridor, hence the sudden switch from the familiar to the formal. The door closed and Gideon shook hands.

“Sit down, Tom. I had your note,” he added. “Is the meeting over?”

“They keep throwing questions into the ring,” French answered. “That chap Bligh is quite a riot. Better switch him to public relations! As a matter of fact he’s covered much of the ground I wanted to cover about this bag-snatching lark,” he went on, obviously determined not to over-praise Bligh. “Pickpockets are getting so damned brazen they almost say ‘excuse me’ as they put their hands in your pocket!”

Was this just a ‘for old times’ sake’ visit? wondered Gideon.

“But there’s one thing I didn’t mention out there — you know what it is when you make a fool of yourself in front of a crowd. Don’t mind taking the chance with you.” French’s smile was quite ingenuous. “I’ve — er — I’ve got a young chap, constable, over in my manor. Chap named Donaldson, Bob Donaldson. Nice lad. Used to be a hairdresser, but it gave him hay-fever. The thing is . . .”

He was talking too much because he was nervous, Gideon realised with a shock. It was a long time since he himself had been truly nervous of anyone and it amazed him that any man of his own age- should feel like this. He set himself to make the situation a little easier.

“Want to give him a few months here?” he suggested.

“Lord, no! I don’t want to lose him yet. He’ll be up for the C.I.D. before Jong and he’ll walk in. No, it’s not that, George. Fact is, he’s got a long memory and he used to work in Stepney before he joined the Force — learned his hairdressing there. He always thought his teacher, a woman named Triggett -Martha Triggett — was a fence for loot taken from the crowds. Since Wimbledon’s been on the go, he’s been on duty. He’s seen some of Martha’s old hairdressing and beauty-parlour pupils lifting stuff and putting it in cars or vans, and he says he’s sure she’s behind it. He hasn’t taken any action against individuals; just consulted me. And here am I, George, consulting you!”

Gideon did not hesitate. “Tell Bligh this, and lay on a special watch this afternoon.”

“Good as done,” French assured him. “Of course Donaldson may be crackers, but —” He broke off.

“You wouldn’t be here now, if you thought he was,” said Gideon, drily. “All right, Tom. Thanks. Now I’ve got to be off to lunch. In the City,” he added, and picked up his hat.

The special survey fitted in perfectly with Bligh’s hopes and plans. He had never been more confident, and all his old fears were gone.

At a quarter-past three that afternoon, Barnaby Rudge stood at match point in the fourth and what should be the final set of his second round match. His opponent, a young Australian with a lot of promise, had not really been a match for him, and the temptation to let loose his service just once was almost overwhelming. He controlled the impulse, tossed up the ball, and was about to strike when he heard a man call in a clear,• carrying voice: “Go home, nigger!”

He faltered, and the ball dropped, He did not strike. The umpire called: “No service.”

Barnaby was suddenly on edge, every nerve in his body set a quiver. That call had come so utterly out of the blue. But now he was ready for anything. He wouldn’t miss this time, even if the man shouted again. He had to clench his teeth and at the moment of impact between strings and ball, the man did shout again: “Go home nigger!”

Barnaby served. The ball hit the top of the net, hovered, and fell back.

Someone cried: “Keep quiet!” Another man called angrily: “Who was that shouting?”

“Second service.”

Now, Barnaby was trembling from head to foot; a curious, tension-quiver which came from shock. He had been so superbly confident, had not realised how much he was living on his nerves. He let his second ball slide into his fingers, ready to toss it up. He was oblivious of the crowd, as such: did not see the people looking this way and that, seeking out the offender. He served, at half-speed, and the Australian drove into the right-hand corner, passing him.

“Deuce,”

He crossed over, and wiped his forehead. There was tumult inside him, coupled with a slow-burning anger; and Barnaby Rudge was a stranger to anger. He drew up to serve. There was no call, nothing to put him off except the fact that his concentration was shattered. He served, with greater ferocity.

“Go home, nigger!”

The Australian, covering the service, struck high, and the ball hurtled off the edge of the racquet into the net.

“Advantage, Rudge.”

“I’ll wring that swine’s neck!”

“Who the devil is it?”

“Can’t anyone stop that man calling out?”

“Hush!” a woman shrilled.

Barnaby served in the hush which followed, but there was bedlam in his mind — as if a hundred things were whirling round and round, wildly out of control. The service was good, but not nearly an ace. The Australian played over-hard, and the ball passed Barnaby and went over the baseline.

“Game, set and match to Rudge.”

The bedlam was still in his head, but now there was something else: a deep-throated roar of cheering, which seemed to lift his spirits and send them soaring. The lightness of heart put spring into his legs and he ran to the net. The Australian greeted him with a warm smile and a firm handshake.

“I hope you reach the final!” he said.

Barnaby Rudge’s heart was nearly singing. Now, he was aware of the cheering crowd; aware that they were as enthusiastic for a good loser as they were for him. He put on his sweater, picked up his racquet, draped a towel round his neck and walked off the court with the Australian. A girl pushed her way through; pretty, grey-eyed, freckled, with an accent that Barnaby did not know was Scottish. She flung her arms round the Australian.

“Oh, Bruce,” she said. “I’m so very proud of you!”

Of a good loser, Barnaby presumed she meant. The happiness in the girl’s eyes touched him with a gentle glow.

The cheering increased as he and his opponent ran. on, and he saw a young woman in the Royal Box. “Bow!” the Australian breathed in his ear; and as he paused to bow, awkwardly, he saw the young woman smile acknowledgement. Then he ran on into the men’s changing-room. No one, here, knew what had happened. Dozens of men were changing, two or three coming or going, naked, to the showers.

Barnaby showered, dressed and went out, the glow spoiled only now and then by a recollection of that high-pitched: “Go home, nigger.”

He did not want to think about it because it made his nerves shiver whenever he did. He must drive the recollection away, he would not think about it. But trying to dam those thoughts was like trying to dam a torrent. That it should happen here! In England! At Wimbledon! Oh, for heaven’s sake, it didn’t. matter . . .

He went out by the main entrance, and stood at the top of the steps. A roar of applause came from the Centre Court, behind him to his right; another from Court Number Three. For a few seconds, he just stood there; hearing, seeing, absorbing — oblivious of that stunning, tainted moment, lost in a still-incredible enchantment.

This was the Wimbledon of his dreams, and, much, much more beautiful than ever he had imagined. In the distance, soaring above the unbelievable green of these English trees in young leaf, a church spire glowed dove-soft in the warm sun: like a blessing. To the left, the Members’ Enclosure was a walk among roses: more like some private garden than a club. And over all, the attentive hush and intermittent roaring of the crowds, who stood so patiently round every court. He would never recover from his surprise that there were no stands, no seating at all, at most of the courts. But then, why should this place conform in any way to other, more accepted norms? There was only one Wimbledon in the world, and he would not have it any different.

It was such a perfect day to be here.

Even the busy refreshment stalls seemed strangely quiet, as if the heat somehow muffled all sound and movement. It was a pleasant, almost homely, and yet idyllic scene.

Another burst of applause came from the Centre Court, and he wondered who was playing. He had to pass along there to get to the meadows which were used as parking places: he had left his machine in one of the nearest.

Then, suddenly, he saw a man who looked like the one who had shouted: “Go home, nigger!” And in a Sash, his exaltation dispersed, and gloom replaced it. For that to have happened here, at his beloved \Wimbledon!

Instinctively-knowing the only way to forget, the only way to salve his injured spirit, was to practise his service: practise it until he dropped — he increased his pace. All he wanted, now, was to get to that secret court at The Towers.

He saw several men about the park, three of them close to his motor-scooter. But he did not give them a second thought until he was astride it. Then, very slowly, three of them converged on him, and suddenly he realised what they were here to do.

For a split second he was thunder-struck. Then, with the nearest man only three yards away, he leapt off his machine and backed towards a car; lessons learned bitterly in his youth now racing through the years to help him.

Then the first man struck at him with a stick or bar, and the full horror of his purpose flashed through Barnaby’s mind. If he took one such blow on his serving arm, he had no chance at all to win the crown. He jerked aside, desperately — and somewhere, a whistle shrilled out. For a split second, he thought these men had sent for others: that he had no chance at all. Then they turned away and began to run!

He could not believe his eyes. The whistle shrilled again and Barnaby saw a policeman in the far corner, helmet high above the sun-brightened roofs of the cars, a whistle at his lips. His relief was so great that for a moment, he went limp. Then, as he started shakily forward, he struck his left leg on the bumper of a car and crashed down, instinctively thrusting his right shoulder forward to take the weight of the fall.

The first thing he felt was the sharp pain in that shoulder and in his shin.

The second was near-panic, because of the shoulder. He was deaf to the shouting, the shrilling of whistles, the pounding of feet. He was simply filled with blind panic at the unbearable shattering of his dream. Because he could not use that shoulder again for days: the precious, vital days.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Despair

Police Constable Donaldson was in that particular car park because he suspected that the pick-pockets and bag-snatchers used two or three cars in the park, near the direct entrance from the courts, to stow away their loot. He was still in a flush of satisfaction because Superintendent French had told him that his report was being taken seriously and he was to see Chief Inspector Bligh later in the day. Meanwhile, French had pointed out, if he could find more evidence against Martha Triggett, then the stronger his case and the better his chances of transfer to the Criminal Investigation Department.

Donaldson’s attention had first been aroused by the frequency of the visits to that particular car park during playing-hours. People came in late, often enough; but few, once they were at Wimbledon, left early. While keeping watch, he had noticed three different youths and two girls go up to one of three cars, open the boot, put something in, close and lock it, and return to the courts area. There were always hundreds of people moving about, going from one court to another -drawn by rumours of a close match or of a personality, or of trouble — so the pathways were always thronged.

What they do, Donaldson reasoned, is go and take a wallet or what-have-you and unload it into the car. Then, I’ll bet, someone comes and takes the stuff away.

He had been there at that particular time, standing behind a. big, old-fashioned Rolls-Royce which gave him fair cover, to watch the three cars he believed were being used as a temporary cache. He had seen the four men come into the park and although he had recognised none of them, there was something in their manner which had made him suspicious. The way they looked around, for instance; the way they gathered in a kind of cordon, and waited — for what? His first suspicion was that they were car thieves, here on a lightning raid: but there was nothing hurried about what they were doing.

Then he had seen a tall negro coming across the park, and had noticed the way the waiting men tensed. The young negro had made his way to a motor-scooter and the policeman had looked from him to the four men. He did not fully understand; did not realise what was going to happen — until three of them began to approach the negro menacingly. And in the instant that one man struck with savage force, P.C. Donaldson blew his whistle.

Within seconds, other police were hurrying to the scene as the four attackers fled. Once they reached the crowded pathways, there was little chance to catch them, and all four got away.

But Chief Inspector Bligh, who had heard the alarm, had caught sight of one of the fleeing men. And he had no doubt at all that it was Sebastian Jacobus, the well-known Right-wing troublemaker and a ring-leader in the agitation against immigrants living in Britain.

Gideon’s lunch, with two prominent bankers who wanted to discuss general security for bank transport, was useful, but there was little he could promise. He would have to ponder deeply, as well as contact the City of London police and other forces in the Home Counties. As he left the City restaurant, close to the stark, new Barbican and mellowed St. Paul’s, he saw a coloured bus conductress, and his thoughts flew to Juanita Conception. The lunch hadn’t lasted too long, and he could just fit in a visit.

His driver ventured: “I had a bet with myself that you’d go to the hospital, sir.”

Gideon grunted.

Ten minutes later, he went into a small ward, where the girl was dozing. He half-wished he had not bothered her, for she was so obviously under sedation that the name ‘Gideon’ did not seem to mean anything to her. He murmured a few platitudes, and left, carrying a picture of her young face and the huge pad on her lips.

Once back at his office, he felt glad that he had been to the hospital. Such visits were never a waste of time. He had begun to look through some papers when Bligh telephoned.

The note of excitement in his voice was very noticeable as he reported.

“Quite sure it was Jacobus you saw?” asked Gideon.

“Positive, sir,” said Bligh.

“And they attacked this American just after he’d come off the court?”

“About half-an-hour afterwards, sir. And there’d been an incident when he was on the court, during his match. Just as he was at match point, a man in the crowd shouted out ‘Go home, nigger! I — er — happened to be there.”

“What happened?” demanded Gideon.

“Well, a rather fine thing, sir,” Bligh told him. “He was playing young Bruce Hamilton, one of Australia’s most promising young players. Hamilton obviously heard the baiting, and threw away two points. He was outclassed, mind you -this chap Rudge is a very powerful player. But his nerve was badly shaken and Hamilton might have turned the tables -very sporting gesture, it was. Afterwards — it’s a bloody shame — young Rudge fell and hurt his shoulder. It’s probably going to make him drop out and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d beaten some of the top seeds.”

“Pity,” Gideon grunted. “Bad enough if he’d just had an accident.” He was sifting through some papers on his desk and couldn’t find what he wanted. “Hold on, Bligh.” He pressed a bell for Hobbs, who came in at once. “Alec, I read something about Sebastian Jacobus today, he met a — ah! I’ve remembered. Wait a minute, Alec, will you?’’ He spoke into the telephone again: “Jacobus has cropped up in another job -we’ll find him and talk to him, but you concentrate on Wimbledon. How are things going on the pick-pocket front?”

“Not much doubt about what’s happening, sir-and Donaldson’s right,” Bligh answered. “It’s a very well-organised business. If I could come and report in the morning —”

“All right,” Gideon told him. “Ten-thirty.” He rang off and looked up at Hobbs, half-smiling. “How did Bligh do at the meeting?” he asked. A

“He was brilliant,” Hobbs said simply.

“H’mm. Watch him — we don’t want this to go to his head. He’ll be here at half-past ten tomorrow.” Gideon sifted through his notes: “Here’s what I want — Jacobus and John Spratt were seen in a huddle at the R.A.A. Club, this morning — no, yesterday.” He frowned. “And Charlie Blake died after telling Lem there was something being rigged over the Derby. And Lem certainly thinks Jackie Spratt’s are involved. What about those two Americans — Colonel-something-Hood and Thomas Moffatt?”

“We’ve had no report,” Hobbs replied. “They’re at the Chase Hotel but presumably behaving quite normally.”

“They are being watched, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Get an up-to-the-minute report quickly, will you?” Gideon said.

“Tonight?” asked Hobbs.

Gideon pursed his lips, then shook his head.

“Shouldn’t think we need it that fast. If anything urgent should crop up, we’ll be told. The morning should do.”

It was not like Hobbs to agree to put anything off and Gideon wondered what he had planned for the night. Then he realised that he hadn’t told Hobbs about the doctor’s report on Kate. So he told him in the simplest of terms.

Hobbs showed deep relief, touched with anxiety.

“Why don’t you take her down to Brighton yourself?” he asked. “We can manage here, and — “

“I don’t doubt that you can manage,” said Gideon drily. “But it’s not an emergency, thank God. I want to see what happens at Lords tomorrow. I —” He broke off, staring hard, almost as if he had been seized by a sudden pain. “If they are going to cause trouble at the match, it will be tomorrow, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Hobbs answered promptly.

“Can that girl talk, yet?”

“Juanita Conception? No, but she can hear questions and write the answers.”

“Good. I want all the details she can give me about the thousand tickets —” He saw Hobbs’ expression change, and asked abruptly: “What’s up?”

“Bligh went to see her this afternoon, and she told him,” Hobbs replied. “The tickets are all for tomorrow, that’s why I am sure about the day.”

There was a long pause, before Gideon let out a deep breath, smiled wryly, and said: “Then no doubt Bligh will tell us what action he proposes to take in the morning.” They both laughed.

Lou Willison was not laughing. He was standing in the drawing-room of The Towers, fighting hard to hide his almost unbearable anxiety.

Barnaby Rudge was sitting awkwardly on the arm of a sofa, only a string-vest over his magnificent chest and torso. The injury to his leg made standing painful, and he held his right arm close to his shoulder. A doctor was piercing the top of a capsule with a hypodermic needle, holding it up to the window as he drew the liquid into the syringe.

“This will take the pain away,” he promised.

“But will it —” began Willison, and stopped abruptly. But Barnaby said it for him.

“Doctor Miller,” he asked, in a low-pitched voice, “will that help me get fit for a match tomorrow?”

“It won’t help you, and it won’t make the chances any less,” said the doctor, who was young and lean and healthy-looking. “Let’s have your arm!” He sponged a spot with alcohol, and put the needle in so quickly and skilfully that Barnaby did not even flinch. Then drew it out, slowly, and dabbed the spot with a fresh piece of cotton-wool. “There’s no point in fooling yourself, Mr. Rudge,” he added. “You won’t be fit for practice or match-play for several days.”

Barnaby looked sick. He got up almost blindly and crossing to the window, stood staring out at the shrubbery which hid the practice court, his jaws clenching and unclenching.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Willison asked desperately,

“Absolutely.” The young doctor shrugged. “He might be all right in three days, but either the shoulder or the leg could let him down if he plays too soon. That gash in his leg will take some healing, but there’s no muscle damage and we can kill the pain.”

Barnaby was muttering to himself: “So they hate me — hate me because I’m a negro! They hate me.” He turned slowly to Willison and the doctor, and they stood appalled at the expression in his eyes. “They hate me and I hate them! Every damn white man, I hate.” He was quivering with fury, and his eyes were glazed. “I was going to win, I tell you! I was going to win!’

Dr. Miller said as reassuringly as he could: “There will be another time, Mr. Rudge. If you need me again, Mr. Willison, I’ll be at home.” He packed his bag and went to the door; then, as Barnaby still stood glaring at them both, he paused to add: “I shall do anything I can.”

Willison was thinking: Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars — disappeared into thin air. My God, this will ruin me! Then his train of thought changed and he moved towards the young negro. If he himself felt as if the ground had been blasted from under his feet, what must Barnaby feel like?

“Barnaby,” he said, quietly. “Maybe you need another year. This way, you haven’t lost. This way, you’ll have a lot of sympathy next year. And you’ll win then, all right! It’s just a question of waiting.” Every word had to be forced from his lips: all the time, he was sick at the thought of how much he had lost.

Barnaby muttered: “Just because I’m black. No other reason — just because I’m black!”

Willison was thinking: Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars! He put his hand on Barnaby’s left shoulder, but the boy shrugged himself violently free. Willison kept his hand outstretched and said: “Barnaby, you feel like hell and I don’t blame you. But don’t take it out on me.”

There was no softening in the hardness of Barnaby Rudge’s eyes.

There was a bright glint in John Spratt’s eyes as he read the Evening News, later that evening; for a front page banner headline screamed:

RACE HATRED HITS WIMBLEDON Play on Number 3 Court at Wimbledon today was interrupted by a cry of ‘Go home, nigger!’ as Barnaby Rudge, a non-seeded player of great power, was about to serve for a match point against Bruce Hamilton, the Queensland champion. The cry put Rudge off his service, and Hamilton, in a splendid sporting gesture, threw away the next two points.

This was the first time any hint of racial prejudice has ever been revealed among the Wimbledon crowds . . .

The story was a summary of Rudge’s playing career, named Willison as his sponsor, and made reference to the several other non-white contenders. Then John Spratt looked down at the stop-press, and saw the red-printed paragraph:

Barnaby Rudge attacked.

Negro contender for Wimbledon crown attacked in car park late this afternoon. Understood his right shoulder and left leg were injured. Police on the scene prevented more serious injuries. See p. 1.

Soon, a messenger was on the way from John Spratt’s office to Sebastian Jacobus, with two hundred and fifty pounds inside an envelope which John himself had sealed.

Jacobus was alone in his small flat in Chelsea, when the front door bell rang. It made him jump, and he hated the possibility that this was the police. Instead, it was Spratt’s messenger. He ripped open the envelope, saw the money, gave the messenger a pound note from his pocket and returned to his living-room. He poured himself a strong whisky-and-soda, for his nerves had been badly shaken by the near-disaster. Then he counted the money, but even that did little to soothe him.

His three associates had gone to ground in their respective homes; but he knew that if anyone had been recognised, it was he.

His front door bell rang again, and this time, the sound stabbed through him. He was expecting no one, and could not imagine who this could be. At last, he forced himself to answer the bell, reaching the door as it rang for the third time. He opened the door, and knew on the instant that the two men standing there were police officers.

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.

“Wallers has a doubles and a mixed doubles,” remarked the first objector.

“He might be able to get them played off first — might be glad to,” put in a man who hadn’t spoken. “I think we should try.” He looked at the Referee. “Can we, Ben?”

“If we make it clear that the match must be played on Monday,” the Referee said, judiciously, “I think we can do it quite comfortably. I’m sure Cyril Wallers would suggest that, if he knew it would help. There is a great deal of sympathy for Rudge among players and spectators alike and I feel this is most certainly a case where we should try. I’d like your approval, though, gentlemen?”

There was a pause, as the chairman looked first in one direction and then in the other, before saying: “I think we can make that unanimous, then. Thank you. You’ll let him know, Ben? Good. Now, with a little luck, we’ll have time to see the Lavis-Collis match on the Centre Court!”

Barnaby Rudge had an aura of radiance as he read the letter, delivered to him by hand only half-an-hour later. And Willison could hardly speak, he was so relieved. Half-an-hour later still, Barnaby was with the young doctor, who was examining the wrenched shoulder. It was so painful that it was almost ludicrous to think it might be better in time.

“But the X-ray shows there’s nothing broken,” Dr. Miller pointed out. “We’ll see what my magic can do.” He glanced down at Barnaby’s leg, without adding that he was still more worried about the shin injury than the shoulder.

Very slowly, very tremblingly, Sebastian Jacobus looked at Gideon across Gideon’s desk, and said: “I’d have done it for nothing. I’d be glad to do it again. I didn’t need paying for putting that black bastard off the court! They shouldn’t be allowed —”

“That’s enough” Gideon interrupted coldly. “You were paid to attack Rudge. The money is a clear indication of that. We know you didn’t place any bets that day and we know you have heavy gambling debts at the Gotham Casino and others. Who paid you, Jacobus? Don’t waste any more time.”

There was silence, before Hobbs said: “That Spratt crew wouldn’t keep so quiet. They’re not worth anyone’s protection.”

Jacobus swung round, his eyes blazing, and cried: “How did you know it was Spratt? Who the hell told — ?” And then broke off, realising how completely he had been tricked.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Clean Sweep

At twenty minutes to five that afternoon, the South African captain turned a fast yorker from England’s most consistent bowler to the leg side, and two English fieldsmen raced for the red ball to try to cut it off from the boundary, and so save one, if not two, runs.

Until that moment, the scene was typical of Lords and as near idyllic as it could be. Here were the best cricketers England had, playing in the game which had been born not fifty miles from this spot; eleven men, bronzed from the bright summer, clad in white which showed stark against the emerald-green of the pitch and outfield — a green maintained by a miracle of groundsmen’s skill and patience. And there were two of their opponents from South Africa, a country which had inherited the game so long ago, and now could field a team on equal terms with England’s own.

Nearly thirty thousand people watched — as many as the ground would hold.

Every seat was filled. Every patch of grass between the front seats and the wooden boundary was filled, too; mostly with young boys. It was hot. Sellers of score-cards moved among the crowd in their constant quest for business, Around by the newly built Tavern, hundreds stood elbow to elbow, beer-glasses in their hands.

The stands had all been painted for this season, and despite the multitude, everything looked spick and span. Women in their gayest dresses, old and young men in their shirt-sleeves, watched the little red ball and the two men racing towards it and the other two running between the wickets — adding to a total already ominous for England: 163 runs for two men out. Every eye, save those upturned in drinking or down-turned while scraping the last taste of ice-cream from a carton, was directed towards the ball. So much energy, so much effort; almost as if life depended on it.

One of the fieldsmen stopped the ball with his foot. The other dived and picked it up, turned and threw it back towards the centre of the field, and there was a burst of eager applause.

That was the moment when a great number of spectators began to stand up — all young men and girls — in every corner of the ground.

The uprising began, obviously, on some prearranged signal. Those among the crowd used to the ways of spectators, thought no more than that these youths were stretching cramped legs-for this was the end of an over: a natural break in the game. But each of those who stood up took something from his or her pocket. Each was looking intently towards the field, and each was heading for a gangway, pushing unceremoniously past his neighbours.

Bligh, watching from the Members’ Stand, said to the Inspector with him: “Here it comes!” He looked in a dozen directions at once and his heart was racing, his words had a touch of breathlessness.

Here and there, innocent spectators called: “Sit down!”

None of the young men and women did so, but a few tossed smoke and stink-bombs at those who protested, and little bursts,of smoke and tiny clouds of evil-smelling gas began to waft in the gentle breeze. Coughing began, and shouts of protest, but no one in the middle of the field showed even the slightest interest. For this was England’s summer ritual and only heavy rains or rank disaster could affect the players on the field or interfere with the stately progress of the umpires.

As the demonstrators reached the gangways, older men sitting on the steps stood up. To the spectators, it must have looked as if the authorities had allowed the exits to be cluttered, and were now moving people on.

Not in one or a dozen but in hundreds of .places, exactly the same thing happened. The demonstrators, now obviously ready to invade the pitch from every corner of the ground, suddenly found their wrists gripped and firm pressure exerted — and then, amazed, found themselves heading away from, not towards, their goal! Most were too utterly astonished to put up a fight or even to protest. A few broke away and ran — only to find themselves confronted by policemen in uniform, delighted at this break in the routine business of crowd control. Perhaps a dozen demonstrators dodged clear of these and raced towards the gates only to find the police waiting outside them, with the Black Marias.

Over eight hundred and seventy persons were arrested on a charge of causing a public nuisance. Yet play was not interrupted even for a single over, and few in the crowd even guessed what had happened, before they heard about it on television and radio that night.

“Absolutely a clean sweep, sir!” Bligh almost crowed into the telephone. “Complete success, thank God!”

“Very well done,” Gideon told him, with heartfelt satisfaction. “Very well done indeed!”

“Excellent!” Sir Reginald Scott-Marie said. “I shall telephone the Home Secretary at once. I couldn’t be more pleased, George.”

Detective-Constable Conception sat up in her bed, her lips heavily sticking-plastered on one side. What food she was able to eat was in liquid form, and only through the other side of her mouth. She watched Charles Henry as he told her exactly what had happened at Lords; and when he had finished, there were tears in her eyes.

“And none of it would have been possible, but for you, Juanita,” he told her. “And George-I mean Commander Gideon — has recommended some official acknowledgement, so he understands . . .”

Lemaitre, at five o’clock that evening, was still feeling washed out, but much better than when Hobbs had come to get his report. It always irked him when he had to stay indoors, and now he was particularly anxious to talk to Gideon. His wife was out, and he put in a call to the Yard. Gideon wasn’t in his office, nor was Hobbs; so he spoke to Information.

“I can tell you one tiling,” the Information Chief Inspector told him: “Those two Americans you were after have flown back to New York.”

“Oh, hell!” exploded Lemaitre. He replaced the receiver resentfully, glared at it, picked up a glass of milk — prescribed by Chloe — sipped it, and then slowly drank it all. Then he went and put the finishing touches to the report he had prepared in New York. He was far from certain that he had a cast-iron case to present, and it was proof the Yard needed. When the telephone suddenly rang he was glooming about this; face wrinkled, brow furrowed.

“Lemaitre,” he growled; then realised that he wasn’t at his office.

“Hold on, please — Commander Gideon wants you.”

Lemaitre’s frown cleared, but his expression took on the lugubriousness of a Basset hound as he waited the few seconds before Gideon came on the line.

“Lem —”

“George,. I’m awfully sorry about this. I —”

“Never mind being sorry,” Gideon said, briskly. “Are you on>your feet?”

“Yes, I’m over the worst. Never let me have oysters —”

“We’ve all the evidence we need to arrest John Spratt on a charge of murdering Charlie Blake,” Gideon cut in. “It’s hard and fast, and I want him brought in this evening. If you’re not fit—”

“Just give me time to get my clothes on,” Lemaitre cried. “Just give me ten minutes!”

He could almost see Gideon smile.

He dressed with the meticulous care befitting so great an occasion, yet in less than fifteen minutes he was on his way to his Divisional headquarters. He arrived only five minutes before the evidence, which consisted of the two different pictures of the finger print taken from the envelope and one known for certain to be John Spratt’s. Within minutes, he had the back and sides of the converted warehouse covered, and took Superintendent Turpin and two detective-sergeants with him to the front entrance. The ground floor was still buzzing with activity; television screens showing pictures of horse-racing, Wimbledon and Lords; others flashing odds, cumulative betting totals and results. A startled manager said:

“I don’t know if Mr. John is in, sir. I’ll enquire if you’ll wait just —”

“No, thanks,” Lemaitre said. “I’ll go up.”

The manager made an ineffectual attempt to stop him, but finally pressed the lift button. There might be a secret warning system, Lemaitre realised, but unless he had a helicopter on the roof, Spratt hadn’t a chance of getting away. As he stepped out of the lift, he saw the three brothers. All obviously alarmed, they crowded in the doorway of their big office-cum-sitting-room.

Lemaitre, with one of his men on either side of him, felt the whole scene had the unreality of a film, even as he used the words with which he had been familiar most of his Me. But as he eyed John Spratt — still a remarkably handsome man, despite his thunderous brow, and now, when he had no power left, still .looking powerful and dangerous-he used those words with great relish.

“You are John Spratt?” he asked, formally.

Instead of being facetious or defiant, John Spratt said:

“Yes.”

“I am a police officer,” stated Lemaitre, “and it is my duty to charge you with the murder of Charles Henry Blake on the evening of the second of June. It is my further duty to advise you that you are not compelled to make a statement but that anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence at your trial.”

There was a long, unbelievably tense, pause. Lemaitre waited for some final act of defiance, but none came. Mark Spratt simply buried his face in his hands. Matthew stared at his brother, white-faced, and said: “We’ll soon have you free, John.” But his voice held a hoarseness that all too plainly came of fear.

“I have nothing to say,” John Spratt said clearly. And as clearly, added to his brothers: “Look after Naomi. Whatever happens, look after Naomi.”

Mark nodded; Matthew said in the same hoarse voice: “We will.”

With Lemaitre at his side, one detective in front and one behind, they went out of the room and down the stairs, not in the lift. As they went, other police came in and took over the premises: not interfering with the business, but making sure no papers were destroyed. Lemaitre’s party left by a side entrance and drove off in a police car. The whole proceedings had taken less than nine minutes.

Superintendent Turpin stayed behind, to question the brothers and to search.

“George —” Lemaitre’s eyes were shining —”you could have had him picked up by Turpin or anyone. Thanks. Thanks a lot!” .

“He was your man,” Gideon said. “And your next job, Lem, is to find out whether we can charge either or both of his brothers as accomplices or accessories before or after the fact. Arrange the hearing for as late as possible tomorrow-I might be able to make it myself.”

Lemaitre went out, perky and happy, at about seven o’clock, and he had not been gone ten minutes before Hobbs came in. Gideon, without a word, took out the whisky, and Hobbs sat down.

“Cheers.” Gideon smiled, very relaxed. “It’s been a good day.”

“Better than you know,” said Hobbs. “Cheers.”

“What is it I don’t know?” Gideon demanded.

“We picked up the heroin stolen from Beckett’s shop. It was to be distributed through private schools.” Before Gideon could go on, Hobbs added: “And Sebastian Jacobus has just made a full statement, confirming that he was paid to attack Barnaby Rudge. And Louis Willison, the American sponsor of Rudge, has already stated that he backed Rudge to win the Men’s Singles to the tune of ten thousand dollars, with the Jackie Spratt’s organisation. This wasn’t a case of racial hatred, George, it was just some crooked gambling.”

Gideon drank his whisky very slowly, staring at Hobbs all the time, and then picked up a telephone.

“Give me the Back Room Inspector,” he ordered, and a moment later went on: “Commander Gideon-yes. Deputy Commander Hobbs will have a special statement to make at eight o’clock precisely . . . That should catch all the morning; papers, shouldn’t it? . . . Good. Get everyone you can.” He rang off, sat back, and said: “Tell them the simple truth, Alec. That we are charging both Spratt and Jacobus with conspiracy to defraud. The Press can draw their own conclusions.”

“You know, you should do this yourself,” Hobbs remonstrated.

“I get too much publicity as it is,” Gideon told him. “It’s time you stepped into the limelight. Besides, I want to go home.” He finished his drink, and asked casually: “Seeing Penelope, tonight?”

“Tonight she has a date with a boy-friend,” Hobbs stated, drily.

Gideon did not comment or question but he wondered what was going through the other’s mind; whether the sequence of Penelope’s boy-friends hurt him; whether the time was near when he should try to talk more seriously to Hobbs. Or, indeed, to Penelope. But certainly the time was not yet. He nodded, unsmiling. “Well, I’m off.”

“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.