John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“So far, he’s refused to say a word — but there’s something odd about that, too.” Hobbs was obviously enjoying his report and Gideon had a feeling that he was deliberately letting out the good news piece by piece. So he waited, and Hobbs went on: “He had twenty-five ten pound notes on his writing-desk — in an envelope marked J.S.”

Gideon sat very still.

It could be one of those good days, he told himself, with rising excitement. It could be the day when the Yard got the breaks, at last, against Jackie Spratt’s. Hobbs almost certainly thought that was true; hence the gleam in his eyes.

“How does Jacobus explain the money?” Gideon asked him.

“He says it was a winning bet, placed with Spratt’s.”

“It could have been.”

“Yes,” said Hobbs. “But it wasn’t. The firm doesn’t put its pay-out money in envelopes: they use rubber-bands and a wrapper. It looks as if he had been paid for doing a special job. And we know he attacked Barnaby Rudge, which is a pretty special job.”

“Two and two,” remarked Gideon, with increasing elation. “Where’s the envelope?”

“Up in Fingerprints — we should get a report any minute. I’ve told all the others to wait till we send for them. Bligh’s already waiting.”

“Alec,” Gideon prompted, softly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Do you know, I couldn’t really tell you,” said Hobbs, just as quietly. “Or at least — George, I don’t like admitting it, and I’ve nothing solid to go on — but I have a feeling this is going to break Jackie Spratt’s wide open. And I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The Spratts have been backing Lavis to win the Men’s Singles — backing him very heavily, through different channels. Which means they wouldn’t want an outsider to win, would they?”

“They certainly wouldn’t!” Gideon’s excitement was audible, now, in his voice. “Have you told Bligh all this?”

“No. I think Bligh’s got enough on his plate, for the time being. I thought —”

Hobbs broke off at a tap on the communicating door with his own room. Gideon said “Come in”, and it was promptly opened by a big, grey-haired, untidily-dressed and shapeless-looking man, as pale and flabby as Gideon was tanned and hard. He was carrying an envelope and some papers in his hand and there was a gleam of rare enthusiasm in his eyes.

This was King-Hadden, the Superintendent in charge of Fingerprints, perhaps Gideon’s oldest friend at the Yard, after Lemaitre, and a man so old in the Yard’s service that in the ordinary way he took everything with almost maddening matter-of-factness. For him, this display of interest was downright excitement.

“Hallo, Nick,” Gideon greeted him.

“Morning, George — Alec.” Satisfaction positively shone from him as he advanced, holding the envelope as if it were precious. “Now we have got something, this morning! See that?” He put down the envelope and pointed to a grey patch. On close inspection, this proved to be a fingerprint which had been brought up by brushing grey powder over it-and as usual, much of the powder had contrived to adhere to the cuffs of King-Hadden’s coat.

Then out of the envelope, like a rabbit from a hat, he drew a photograph. “Photo-enlargement of the same print,” he announced. “And then — look at this!”

Gideon waited, with a kind of choking excitement; Hobbs, too, was more visibly tensed-up than he had ever seen him.

With exasperating precision, King-Hadden took the other documents from under his arm and placed them carefully on Gideon’s desk so that both he and Hobbs could see them. This was a copy of the Records file on Charlie Blake, with Charlie’s dead face,.photographed, stuck to one corner. Pinned to this, was the photograph of a fingerprint.

“See that?” King-Hadden cried in triumph. “That’s the print we got off Blake’s neck-the thumb-print of his murderer. And that —” he pointed to the one on John Spratt’s envelope —”is identical! Same print; same person. The man who handled that envelope with the money in it was Blake’s killer. Find that man, George, and you’re home and dry!”

After a long moment, Gideon said into a hushed silence: “Where is Jacobus, Alec?”

“Over at Cannon Row,” Hobbs told him.

“Bring him here,” ordered Gideon. “Bring him here at once.” He looked at King-Hadden’s big, pale face with a grimly approving smile. “Good job you were so quick off the mark, Nick! Our man might have taken fright and—”

He glanced sharply at Hobbs. “He hasn’t, I hope?”

“We’re watching all the Spratt brothers,” Hobbs assured him. “They’re not going to get away. I’ll go over for Jacobus myself, George,” he added. “Would you like to see Bligh while I’m gone?”

After a pause, Gideon said: “Yes. Yes, I will.” He clapped a hand on King-Hadden’s shoulder as he went out, still very pleased with the way things were going. “Thanks again, Nick. That’s a real shot in the arm.” Then he turned to the communicating door as Bligh came in briskly from Hobbs’ office.

Without speaking, Gideon motioned to a chair. He needed a few seconds to adjust himself, unwind a little; and it would do Bligh no harm to control any impatience. He went to the window, and looked out; and the brightness and the gaiety of the river, the familiar panorama of Bridge and Embankment, brought him a kind of peace. It was such a pleasant day, too -the thirteenth in a row without rain, in London, but with a slight breeze which made the river surface dance and gentled his forehead as he stood there.

Bligh had obeyed the tacit injunction to sit, but he sat like a statue, hardly seeming to breathe.

At last-what must have been to Bligh, at long last-Gideon returned to his desk and seated himself in his own vast chair. He was aware of Bligh’s scrutiny, and wondered what was going on behind the younger man’s eyes. Gruffly, he told him: “Recognising Jacobus could be very important indeed.”

“My luck, sir,” said Bligh, and did not add: “has turned.”

“Call it luck if you like,” Gideon grunted. “We’re not sure yet, but it might take us to Jackie Spratt’s bunch.”

Bligh’s eyes glinted. “That would really be something, sir!”

He did not ask ‘how?’. He was behaving in copy-book fashion and there was no doubt at all that he was exerting every effort to ensure that his behaviour was impeccable.

“It would indeed. Now-today’s Test Match with South Africa. What have you in mind?”

“Well, sir, I’ve had a long talk with Mr. Henry and another with Detective-Constable Conception. I asked questions, she wrote the answers. I’ve talked to five of the Action Committee, but they’re a stubborn lot: won’t say a thing. However, Miss Conception is convinced that the action will be today — she says she saw a lot of the tickets which were distributed, and they were all first day reservations. I’ve seen over forty, myself, that were in the prisoners’ possession — and they were all for today. It seems a safe bet that all the rest are.”

“A thousand altogether, weren’t there?” Gideon remarked.

“Yes, sir. And if there’s going to be a big demonstration like that, you can be sure they’ll wait until the crowd’s at its biggest.”

“After the tea interval,” Gideon murmured.

“That’s right, sir. The fans leave their offices and works early and get in around four or four-thirty for the last two hours’ play. So I would guess the trouble will start somewhere around half-past four. We ought to be ready an hour earlier, at least.”

“Yes. Are there any indications of what the demonstration will be like?”

After a pause, Bligh said slowly: “Only one, sir. The tickets were all in ones and twos. I mean, they weren’t in long sequences — weren’t all bunched together. Miss Conception says those she saw were dotted pretty widely about the ground. Mostly in the popular stands, sir — the unreserved seats: the ten shillings and seven-and-sixes. If that’s true of the whole thousand, then it looks as if it could be a general attack from a thousand different places.”