John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“Ssshh! Still asleep.”

“I shan’t wake her,” Gideon whispered.

“Goodbye, Daddy.” The Soft, peach-bloom cheek came forward for a kiss. “You’re a dear, really,” she informed him, whispering as she passed: “Especially for a man!”

Gideon began to chuckle, stopped himself, went into the bedroom and crossed to the window. As he expected, an M.G. was outside with her latest boy-friend at the wheel. He was a nice-looking, fair-haired youth, who jumped out and took her case. There was a hurried consultation, and the boy glanced up at the window. Then, resignedly, he went to the driving side of the car, and began to push, while Penelope went behind the car and added her own weight. She was not going to allow the noisy engine of a sports car to wake her mother.

Penelope wasn’t prone to taking things too seriously, so she must really be concerned. Gideon turned and looked down at his wife; frowning, beginning to worry.

And then the telephone rang.

He saw Kate start as he snatched the receiver from the bedside table. He could have bellowed at the caller, but instead lie watched Kate as he steeled himself to say: “Commander Gideon.”

“George.” Only one man had a voice like that and only one man could breathe such urgency into one word. Gideon’s anger faded; he was suddenly very intent on Lemaitre.

“Yes, Lem?”

“George — that runner for Jackie Spratt’s — you remember?”

Of course he remembered. “Yes?”

“They’ve just taken his body out of the river,” Lemaitre told him. “He didn’t turn up at the pub, last night. I feel awful, George. I shouldn’t have arranged to meet him there. Too bloody cocky, that’s my trouble. Never learn! I—”

“How was he killed?” Gideon interrupted.

For the first time he was aware of Kate looking at him; from half-closed eyes it was true, but obviously awake and aware of what was being said. He raised a hand to her as he listened to Lemaitre, who was answering with a curious kind of incoherence.

“Strangled — manual strangulation. And there’s a funny thing, George. He had a rash on his neck-heat, the doc thinks — and had smeared some ointment over it. Oily stuff. We might get a couple of thumb-prints. Strangled by a man in front of him, thumb marks — bloody great bruises, on either side of the windpipe. Thrown in the river off Surrey Docks, caught in the wash of a pleasure boat-they’ve been running all night, making a fortune-and he was pushed up to some barges tied up for painting, wedged between two of them. If it hadn’t been for that, he might not have been found for a week. Had to have some luck.”

“Who did?” asked Gideon, bleakly. Then: “Where’s the body?”

“In the morgue, here.”

“Who’s the doctor?”

“Webb. But George, we need a pathologist, I’m sure of that, and —”

“Send for the best one who can get over at once,” ordered Gideon. “Any other clues of any kind?”

“Not a bloody thing,” answered Lemaitre. “George, I feel terrible!”

“You’ll feel a damned sight worse if you let any grass grow under your feet,” growled Gideon. “Report again at ten.”

“Okay, on the dot!” Lemaitre promised, and put down his receiver with anxious alacrity. He had an hour and a half in which to get some kind of report for Gideon and he would go almost mad trying to get at least one piece of permissible evidence. Gideon could imagine him as he put the receiver down and moved towards Kate, who had pushed the sheet further away from her chin. Her marble-white shoulders seemed to glow in the morning light. He bent over and kissed her forehead.

“Hallo, love! Awake, then?”

“George! Is it very late?”

“No-and no need for you to get up, either. I’ve had breakfast and that bright pair of children of ours have gone.” He moved away, still looking at her, seeing faint shadows at her eyes which were quite new to him. He took his tie off the dressing-table mirror, dressed, yanked at a too-tight collar and rummaged in a drawer for one with a larger neckband. All this time Kate lay, half-covered, watching and smiling. But there was a significant difference; normally, she would have been out of bed, pushing him away, putting her hand on the larger shirt in a trice. He put the fresh shirt on and knotted the tie. “That’s better. Stay there while I get you a cup of tea.”

“No, George, I —”

“Stay there!” he ordered.

And she stayed.

He made tea and toast and took a laden tray up to her, told her gruffly to take it easy, the heat was no joke, and then left, a little after nine o’clock. He had to walk a few hundred yards to the garage where he kept his car, round a corner. He could be fetched and carried by one of his men, of course, but he preferred to drive himself unless it were urgent or very official business. The car started at the first touch. There was no need to drive past his house, nevertheless he did, glancing up at the window. There was no sign of Kate.

Of course there wasn’t; there never was in the morning.

He left one of the constables on duty to park his car in the Yard itself, nodded and occasionally grunted in response to greetings of “Good morning, sir!”, “Good morning, Commander!”, “Good morning, Mr. Gideon!”, until at last he turned into his own office.

It was ten minutes past nine.

An unexpected breeze cooled his face as he opened the door, and papers, although anchored to the desk by weights and books, fluttered noisily. He slipped quickly inside, puzzled, until he saw the cause of it — a fan, whirring at speed, perched on top of a filing-cabinet. Wonder who the blazes did that? he thought. His jacket was already half-way off as he went over and looked at the whirling blades inside the little iron cage, and the breeze was very welcome on his face. Then he went to his desk and sat down, looking at the pile of folders which had been placed on it. One was Outdoor Events, June. The others, each clearly marked on a tab, were all precisely described. One startled him: Superintendent Lemaitre: River Death Inquiry.

Lem certainly hadn’t been long and as certainly hadn’t been here, so this must have been put here by Gideon’s own deputy — Deputy Commander Alec Hobbs. So, of course had the others; all hang-over cases on which Yard men were working, some in London, some with Regional and County Borough police forces co-operating with the Metropolitan area. Apart from Lemaitre’s case, there appeared to be no new ones in, which meant that none of the overnight crimes had persuaded Hobbs that it merited Gideon’s personal attention. Only occasionally was Hobbs wrong.

He glanced through seven reports. Two bank robberies, a case of arson, a fraud case, an assault charge involving a woman against a woman, but not particularly serious. He looked through the rest saw nothing new in any of them, pushed the last one aside and dialled the number of the office next to his own. Hobbs was within a few feet, but Gideon didn’t want to see him yet; just wanted a little clarification.

Hobbs answered promptly.

“Good morning, sir.”

“What kind of a morning?” asked Gideon.

“Nothing of particular importance,” Hobbs answered, in his controlled and completely assured way. He was the other end of the scale from Lemaitre; Repton and Cambridge, very much the English gentleman. More a Scott-Marie type than a Gideon although they had come to know, like, and admire each other. “No one has specifically asked to see you and practically everything else is routine — except, of course, Lemaitre’s problem.”

“I’ve no appointments,” Gideon told him. “Have Lem over here by half-past eleven, say. He’s to call at ten.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And come in as soon as you’re through briefing,” said Gideon, and rang off.