Police Constable Sturgeon, of the Central London Division, was on duty — alone. He knew that his next big job would be to help keep the traffic moving when the theaters emptied. The plainclothesmen would look after the pickpockets who selected that hour to get busy.
Constable Sturgeon had noticed a group of youths, quite well dressed, rather noisy, coming out of one of the side streets. He glanced round to see if any other constables were near, but saw none. He strolled in the direction of the group, hoping that the sight of his uniform would quiet them. Instead, it seemed to do the opposite — to excite them.
There were six of them. As he approached, they made a cordon across the pavement at the spot where the Circus led into Coventry Street. People behind them and people in front were suddenly hampered. In the bewildering way of all big cities a crowd gathered in a few seconds. No one protested at first; everyone assumed that there had been some kind of accident.
Sturgeon knew that the youths were doing this deliberately.
“Break it up, chaps,” he said in a pleasant voice; he had been warned that a hectoring note was a bad one to start with.
None of the six spoke. Sturgeon only had a split second’s warning of what was going to happen. Then they attacked. One made a flying tackle and brought the constable down, and the others swooped.
A woman screamed, and a man shouted, “Stop that!” in a quivering voice. Someone called waveringly, “Police!”
Sturgeon felt as if a pack of wild dogs had savaged him. As if in the distance he heard the shrill of a police whistle, and then he lost consciousness. But all the assailants were gone by the time the police had rushed in strength to Piccadilly Circus.
“They all got away,” reported Superintendent Lemaitre the next morning. “Every single perisher. The division had a dozen chaps there inside of five minutes, but it was too late. A couple of passers-by got black eyes trying to stop the swine. And this is the second time, George.”
Gideon blocked much of the sunlight coming through the window that overlooked the Embankment. In silhouette he looked huge. His shoulders were hunched and he had one hand deep in his pocket.
“How’s Sturgeon?” he demanded.
“Twenty-seven stitches.”
“Can he talk?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Have Central check all their chaps, and you check all ours. See if you can get any description of the attackers. Find out if any of them can be identified with those responsible for the outbreak of trouble last week.”
“Right, George,” said Lemaitre.
He knew just how incensed Gideon was about such a thing as this happening on “his” beat. He was not surprised when Gideon announced, the next day, that he was going to the Charing Cross Hospital, where they had taken P.C. Sturgeon.
Coming out of the ward was a tall, slim, nice-looking girl. Her eyes were bright, as if shining with tears.
“Are you a friend of Constable Sturgeon?” inquired Gideon.
“I… I’m his fiancée.”
“Oh. I see. I’m Commander Gideon. If you see his parents tell them how sorry I am, won’t you? And you can be positive we’ll find out who did this and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“It mustn’t happen again,” the girl said, and her voice broke. “It will be weeks before he’s able to get about.”
“Mind telling me one thing?” asked Gideon.
“If… if I can.”
“Was he nervous about going to Piccadilly? Did he have any reason to dislike that particular part of his beat?”
“Good heavens, no. I think he loves it.”
Sturgeon himself, barely able to talk, did not say that he “loved it,” but he confirmed that he liked that part of his beat. He did not remember having seen any of his assailants before, and had no idea at all about the possible motive.
“As a matter of fact, sir,” he said huskily, “I got the idea that they were doing it for sheer enjoyment.”
Gideon arranged for a closer watch to be kept on the Circus and gave instructions for a radio call to be made to the Yard if there seemed to be any gathering of young toughs. There were three or four false alarms in the week. Twice Gideon took Kate, his wife, for a drive as far as Whitehall, and then calmly walked her to Piccadilly.
He chose nightfall. The bright lights, the gay colors, the throngs of people of all nationalities, the chatter of voices, the laughter, the furtiveness, the timidity, the gaping visitors — all these things were part of this place.
On Monday of the next week another police constable saw a group of dark-haired youths who looked as if they might be out for trouble. He signaled a radio car. The car called for help from the Yard. Two policemen approached the group — one from the front, one from behind. Quite suddenly the youths acted exactly as they had with Sturgeon — made a thin cordon across the pavement.
The constable, hand on his truncheon, spoke as if casually.
“Break it up there. Don’t let’s have any trouble.”
“Trouble!” one of the young men spat at him — and they all leaped.
Two plainclothesmen and three more uniformed officers were onto them before the constable was brought down. After a short sharp fight two of the six managed to dash across the road in front of moving traffic and escape. Four were hauled round the comer. A Black Maria was soon on the spot, and they were charged with disturbing the peace.
The next morning Gideon sat in court while the charges were being heard. A divisional Chief Inspector asked for a remand in custody.
“I really don’t see that such a remand is necessary,” said a lawyer appearing for the young toughs. “These are hard-working lads from good families. They all belong to a social club in Victoria, and have never been in trouble before. They had a little too much to drink and lost their heads, that’s all. Each has pleaded guilty, your worship, and I’m sure each will apologize. May I submit that it might well be sufficient to bind them over?”
The four youths looked fresh, bright-eyed, even wholesome.
“What… ah… what have you to say to that, Chief Inspector?” inquired the magistrate, a fair man.
“We would like time to obtain more information about the accused, sir.”
“I see. Very well. I shall remand each of the accused for eight days, each on his own recognizances of £25. Can you each find £25?” he asked the accused, as if craftily.
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“Silly old fool,” said Lemaitre to Gideon. “They’ll jump their bail — what does he think twenty-five quid means to a chap of eighteen these days?”
“We want to find out all we can about them,” Gideon said. “And more about the club, too. Oh… and find out if Sturgeon recognizes any of them.”
Sturgeon did not.
The youths appeared after their remand, and each was bound over to keep the peace.
“If you ask me they’re young savages out to make trouble — they don’t need a motive,” Lemaitre said. “And it might happen again — any time the young louts are looking for kicks. It’s a sign of the times, George. That’s what it is.”
“It’s a sign of nerves when a club like theirs needs a mouthpiece,” Gideon said. “Have we discovered anything about the place?”
“Seventy or eighty members — mixed sexes — ages seventeen to twenty-one,” reported Lemaitre. “All the usual club activities.”
“Have a closer eye kept on it,” Gideon ordered.
It was exactly four days later that Lemaitre stormed into Gideon’s office, clapped his bony hands together, and twanged, “Now we’re in business, George! A lot of those club members go to Sammy Dench occasionally. Sammy is the smartest fence in London. Now if we could only find out why he uses those kids — put your thinking cap on, George!”