John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“Will you go and see the crowd?” asked Hobbs.

“I’ll see. Now, what else is — ?” Gideon frowned. Then asked, almost humorously incredulous: “Alec, is Penny scared of me?”

“In some ways, yes,” replied Hobbs, flatly. “In some ways you’re a pretty terrifying person, George. You set standards which —”

He broke off as the internal telephone rang: this might well be Information, with news of Kate. Gideon lifted the receiver quickly, smoothly, with no sign of tension.

“Yes?”

“There’s no one at your house in Harrington Street, sir,” the Chief Inspector in charge of Information reported. “The back door was unlocked, so there was no need to break in. Is there anything else we can do?”

“Have the house watched, and when my wife comes home have me informed at once,” ordered Gideon.

“Right, sir!”

Gideon rang off, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Then he looked up at Hobbs with a taut smile, pursing his lips in such a way that he really did seem frightening. He didn’t speak for a few moments, and when he did it was almost ruefully.

“I didn’t think the day would come when Kate would talk to you and not to me. You used to scare the wits out of her!”

“I scared Kate?” Hobbs stared, incredulously.

“You see, you don’t know how terrifying you are, either! I—”

Again he broke off, as a long shrill call from the telephone seemed to carry a note of exceptional urgency. Or emergency? He picked it up. “Gideon.”

“There’s a call from New York on the way for you, sir,” the operator told him. “Mr. Lemaitre would like to speak to you personally.”

“Put him through,” Gideon said. He motioned to the extension on Lemaitre’s old desk, and Hobbs picked up a pencil and the telephone at the same moment. Two or three different noises and two or three different voices, one strongly American in tone, sounded before Lemaitre’s own broad Cockney twang came across as clearly as if he were somewhere in London.

“Hi there, George!”

“Hallo, Lem,” Gideon responded, equably.

“We’re really on to something!”

“Let’s have it,” urged Gideon.

“I’ve talked to these smoking-room boys — all four of them — and they all say the same thing,” Lemaitre reported, “These two Americans are in the horse-training business — from Kentucky. Here goes: Colonel Jason Hood . . . JASON Hood, got that? And Thomas Moffat . . . Moffat — that’s it! They may be staying at the Chase Hotel, Kensington . . . In their cups, they said they’d come over to clean up on a big deal involving the Derby. It was obviously on their minds, the whole trip. Someone’s fixing it the way Charlie Blake told me, but I don’t know who or how. They didn’t ever name the people they were going to see, but we can take it from there, can’t we? One good long talk with them should fix it. I’m booked on a plane that gets me into London about ten-thirty tomorrow morning — but if I know me, after a flight that long, I won’t be much good for —”

“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.”