John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“Wonderful wow of a weekend!” Gideon echoed, as he drove to the office. He was still half-amused, and a little preoccupied. Penny had once seemed very serious over a boyfriend — had, in fact, been engaged to him — but these days, seemed to have a variety of beaux. Now that she travelled with the orchestra, of course, she was home much less.

“And she’s twenty-five,” he reminded himself. “Don’t you forget it!”

He reached his office a little after, nine o’clock. It was warmer again and much more humid than over the weekend; the duty policeman in the hall was already looking damp and sticky.

His own office was cooler and the fan working — as far as he could judge no one else had been issued one. Who—?

His thoughts stopped him in his tracks.

“Could Scott-Marie have — ?” he muttered, incredulous. Then more strongly, derided himself. “Nonsense! It couldn’t be!” But he was thoughtful as he took off his jacket and put it on a hanger before turning to the reports Hobbs had put on his desk. The top one was about Charlie Blake’s murder, and Gideon opened it to find a cabled message: Telephoning Monday two o’clock London time Hopeful of results Lemaitre.

There was a report on the autopsy, a note that the inquest was to be held next day, and several more statements from passers-by who had seen Blake, including one from a night-watchman at a tea warehouse who claimed to have seen him get into the taxi. The watchman’s name was Dingle.

On the file dealing with the feared demonstration at Lords Cricket ground, there was a copy of Charles Henry’s report, two shorter reports from Detective-Constable Juanita Conception, and a few notes from Henry which were clearly intended to demonstrate the way he was sticking to the job. One note read:

It is now confirmed that a party of well-trained professional agitators is coming from the United States, travelling Tourist Class on the S.S. France. The name of the leader is Donelli — Mario Donelli: an American citizen of Italian extraction.

There was another file, giving a summary of the cases of shop-lifting, pocket-picking and bag-snatching over the past three months. Gideon glanced at two columns which provided the comparative figures for this year, and the same period in the previous year. A note in red, in Hobbs’ writing, said tersely, Average increase: 32%. So it hadn’t been imagination or over-sensitivity on his part; these crimes were very much on the increase.

“Have to do something about that,” he grimaced, thinking aloud. “I wonder if Hobbs is through? If he is —”

There was a tap at the door and Hobbs came in.

He looked very hard at Gideon, as if half-expecting some kind of reaction or reception. It was so much out of character that it at once reminded Gideon of his deputy’s apparent hesitancy on the Friday. He waited for an explanation, but Hobbs quickly became himself again. His greeting was formal enough to tell Gideon that someone else was in the other office; someone who might overhear what was being said.

“Good morning, Commander.”

“Good morning, Alec.”

“We’ve an emergency this morning,” Hobbs told him.

“What kind of emergency?”

“About two pounds of heroin, stolen from a pharmaceutical chemist.”

“Oh,” Gideon said heavily. “What was the chemist doing with it?”

“He’d bought it from an acquaintance in the trade and was distributing it among addicts, and selling it abroad,” Hobbs answered promptly, startling Gideon. “It’s a somewhat unusual case, sir. We wouldn’t have known about it, if the owner hadn’t come and told us.”

Gideon pushed his chair back, slowly.

“A confession?”

“Yes, sir. He came straight to the Yard and asked for you. He’s in my office, now.” Hobbs, in his way, was pleading with Gideon to see the chemist; pleading with him, also, to handle him gently. He knew Gideon’s particular hatred of drugs, especially the pushing of drags among the young. He knew also that it was one of the forms of crime about which Gideon could really be harsh; blackmail, and any form of cruelty to children, were others. Now, he stood four-square — pleading; so unlike Hobbs: “He will give any help he can.”

“He could have started helping by not—” Gideon cut himself short. “Who is, he where’s he from, when did it happen and how long has he been here?”

Hobbs replied as if he had foreseen the questions and had carefully rehearsed the answer: “John Cecil Beckett, of 27g, Edgware Road. He is the owner of a small chemist shop and has two assistants; one of them his wife, one a young man who hasn’t turned up this morning. A small window at the side of the shop was forced, and the thief presumably got in through that. Nothing else was stolen, as far as Beckett knows. He’s been here about half-an-hour. He wasn’t really fit to be questioned until ten minutes or so ago — he was distraught.”

Gideon granted, “How is he now?”

“Fair.”

“I’ll see him,” Gideon conceded, knowing there had never been any doubt that he would. I’ll come into you in a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you,” Hobbs said simply, and half-turned.

“Before you go, Alec.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What about your nominees for the great month of sport?”

Hobbs smiled faintly as if appreciating the change of subject, and again answered with the utmost speed and precision:

“Tandy and Bligh, Commander.”

“Then we both think Bligh would be all right, so let’s talk to him. Do you know where he is?”

“Over at Madderton’s Bank,” answered Hobbs. “They had a raid there, last night.”

“Big one?”

“Biggish, by the sound of things.”

“H’mm . . . ” Gideon frowned, then ordered: “Well, just the same — send someone to replace Bligh. Have him here by eleven o’clock.”

“He’ll be here,” Hobbs promised, and went out.

Gideon moved to the window, very deliberately. He had already recovered from his reaction to the news of the drug theft, but had not recovered from his surprise at Hobbs’ manner, nor from awareness of his own extra-sensitivity over Hobbs, Kate, this pedlar in drugs — even Charles Henry and Police Constable Juanita Conception. And he had a feeling that he was not concentrating enough on any one case.

After a few minutes, however, he felt much less moody and self-analytical. The boats, gay and graceful, were already on the move with their summer crowds, and two gaily bedecked launches went slowly by with huge banners proclaiming: TO WIMBLEDON RETURN. He had never seen that before. The morning air off the river was fresh enough and there was so little humidity that he suspected a sudden change of wind direction in the past half-hour.

He went to Hobbs’ door, tapped, paused for a fraction of a second, and went in.

A man in his middle-twenties at most, straw-coloured hair sticking up as if neither combed nor brushed that morning, was sitting back in the armchair watching smoke curl upwards from the cigarette in his knuckly hand. His face was very pale and his eyes enormous-and he was quivering: almost as if he were an addict himself and was badly in need of a shot.

He sprang up.

“Mr. Gideon!”

“ ‘Morning,” Gideon said gruffly.

“Mr. Gideon, I — I-can only say I’m desperately sorry! I wouldn’t have touched it, but my wife isn’t well and — and I’m doing so badly at the shop.” He deplored his own excuse at once. “God knows I know I shouldn’t have touched it! But I did feel I could control the — the people who bought from me. And I had a — deal in hand to get rid of the filthy stuff. I — oh, God, get it back, sir! Get it back! If the thief starts on a new round, God knows how many will suffer.”