John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

After a pause, Roger said slowly: “I’ll tell him, but he’ll want more than Ricky. He’ll want to know if you’re working for anyone, he’ll want to know how you got your information — how you learned I was coming here, how you knew about the gold identity tag. Was it Fischer?”

“After I’ve got the money I’ll tell him everything he wants to know,” said Gissing. The full story of how one decadent Englishman held up the great Uncle Sam.” He laughed, and raised his hands. “Don’t waste any more time.”

Roger moved back, sat on the foot of the boy’s bed and smiled up into Gissing’s face. There was no window near the bed, and little danger, so Roger hoped, of broken glass hurting the child. As Roger had guessed, this move wasn’t at all what Gissing expected, and his show of confidence began to wear thin. At heart, Roger knew, Gissing must realize that the odds were all against him, that his best hope was to get away alive.

“Decadent’s right for you,” Roger said. “And dumb. You haven’t got even any commonsense left. You want Marino to play, but you ought to know that Marino’s big worry is whether there’s a power behind this kidnapping, a power which wants Shawn put out of action. Who’s the money for? If it’s for yourself, then he might play. I don’t say he will, but he might If you can convince him that it’s just a ransom racket, it will take a big load off his mind, but if he thinks that there’s a hostile power in the offing, he’ll worry about breaking up this spy-ring first and worry about Shawn afterwards. Who are you working for, Gissing? Don’t waste any time, because Marino gave me an hour.”

Would Gissing believe that?

Fifteen minutes had passed; at least fifteen.

Gissing said roughly: “So he gave you a time limit.” He tried to laugh, but it didn’t come off. He looked at his wrist-watch swiftly, then moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’ll tell you the size of it,” he went on. “No one’s behind it except me. Just me. The kid was easy. We doped him, and when he came round on the way to the airport, he was helpless with tiredness. McMahon doped him again on the aircraft, he was half asleep when they got off at Ganda. I knew Shawn would pay for him. Then I found out what Washington thought of Shawn. They can pay, too. I was over here on business when I discovered it. I had a spy in Shawn’s household.”

“Who?”

Gissing moistened his lips again, then shrugged the question away. There was no reason why that should jolt Roger’s mind into an idea which grew big, crowding a lot of other things out, but it did. It was an idea he’d had before but not so clearly.

“Who paid you that hundred thousand, Gissing?”

“You’d like to know. I’ll tell you this: Ed Pullinger located me and sold me the idea of holding up Uncle Sam. I did the deal because a spy in the FBI would always be useful, but for this job I raised the ante.

“I had used Americans to work for me because I wanted Marino to believe that he was dealing with renegade Americans. In London, you caught on to the car and on to me quicker than I thought you would. Things took a bad turn. Ed cracked and had to go. But I had the boy, so I could make Shawn do what I wanted. That way I held all the aces, and I’ve still got them in my hand. There isn’t any spy-ring. Ed Pullinger simply needed money, and I’m going to get plenty. I’m still sitting pretty.” He flashed his watch again. “Go and tell Marino what will happen to that kid, West.”

There couldn’t be more than five minutes to go, but even when believing there was thirty-five, Gissing was nervous.

“So you were that clever,” Roger said heavily. “You snatched the son of a man whom Washington would fight like hell for, which would bring out the FBI in force. Brilliant reasoning. Why bring Ricky here? Why take that chance in getting him out of England? Why did you want him in the United States so badly?”

Gissing said harshly: “Haven’t you got a mind? I wanted dollars. Shawn couldn’t pay in dollars in England. I wanted to come over here, things were hotting up for me in Europe. There was a chance to get myself a dollar fortune. I didn’t know how important Shawn was when I started, only that he was rich.”

The story could answer most things, but it left something out; the spy in the Shawn household — one who would help Gissing but hadn’t told him how important Shawn was.

An aeroplane droned, not far away, and was drawing nearer.

Gissing snapped: “That’s all! Go and tell Marino about that half-million.”

He didn’t expect to get it, of course, now he was just fighting for a chance to escape. He should have been satisfied with the money he’d got from Shawn, but greed had trapped him. He must have known he was finished but would not admit it.

The aeroplane seemed directly overhead.

There was another sound, of something coming down, a screeching, threatening whine which spanned the years, took Roger back to moments when he’d crouched or dived for cover. Gissing also knew the sound, and glanced upwards, mouth open. Jaybird looked puzzled. Roger braced himself.

The screech ended in a thunderous roar, the house shook, glass splintered and stabbed across the room, two pieces stuck into Gissing’s face, a piece cut the tip of Jaybird’s nose. That was the moment when Roger sprang. Getting the gun was like taking a toy from a child. He put a bullet through the gunman’s knee and one into Gissing’s chest, too high to kill. Then all he had to do was shield Ricky’s body and watch the door, gun in hand. He kept talking to the boy, trying desperately to calm the tormented mind, and was still trying when Marino’s men came racing up the stairs.

• • •

Marino did not miss a thing.

Immediately after the raiding party came an ambulance with two nurses, and the child was taken by the nurses and whisked away, to the balm of sedation. Afterwards there could be peace for him and freedom from torment and reunion. Or there could be more distress.

The news about Lissa was good; she was no longer in danger.

Marino sat in the Lincoln, watching his men come out with their prisoners; three, as well as Gissing, Jaybird and McMahon. The bomb had landed twenty yards away from the house. One corner had been shattered by blast, and there wasn’t a whole window left. A small fire had started from an oil-stove in the kitchen, but it was out already. The boy had gone, and Gissing was being carried on a stretcher towards a second ambulance. Marino looked away from the house towards the man, then up at Roger.

He’d heard the story; he didn’t know about Roger’s idea — his guess, his theory.

“And you believed Gissing,” he said, thoughtfully.

“It could be true,” Roger said. “If Pullinger has a voice left, you can check with him. It would answer most things, wouldn’t it? You don’t want a spy angle, do you? You know where the leakage was in your department, and the only worry you have is about the leakage in the household, because that will matter to Shawn.”

Marino fingered his chin; his knuckles were bruised. Gissing was in the ambulance and the engine started.

“Meaning Carl Fischer? I’ve known Carl a long time.”

“You’d known Pullinger a long time,” argued Roger. “Don’t forget your big worry will be convincing David Shawn that it won’t happen again.”

“We could convince David,” Marino said, “but it won’t be so easy with Belle.”

Roger looked at him levelly, and knew that they hadn’t been thinking along parallel lines; if his guess were right, it would take Marino completely by surprise. Was it a guess? It was all circumstantial evidence, but he’d begun many a successful murder hunt on less. He could think more clearly now, but he hadn’t much time.