John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“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?”