John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

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.