“This,” John Spratt added, lightly, “is our year.”
Mark nodded, perkily. Matthew, whose face still held that note of apprehension, said nothing at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Man Who Confessed
For Gideon, it was a quiet weekend.
Now that the weather was better — still warm, but without the humidity — Kate seemed much better, too.
The weekend brought the people out in swarms. Londoners who did not go to the country or the coast, thronged the parks. The Lido at the Serpentine in Hyde Park was as bright and gay as any seaside resort; the boating there and on the other park lakes, on Regent’s Park Canal and on the Thames vied with any South Coast harbour. Everyman and his wife, in short, were out and about; even those who did not travel were busy in their gardens.
Gideon himself first mowed and then trimmed the lawns, both back and front, and thinned the front privet hedge. Kate hoed the one or two flower-beds and the small vegetable-patch — and for supper produced, in triumph, some radishes, spring onions and a lettuce which nearly had a heart.
“I wondered whether you’d like to go out to a meal?” he suggested.
“I’d rather not, dear,” Kate said. “You don’t mind cold beef, do you?”
“Tell me the time when I mind beef, however it comes!” Gideon retorted.
The truth was, he realised, that Kate didn’t want to make the effort of dressing to go up to the West End. Well, that had happened before, and she seemed bright enough -bright enough to be vexed with Malcolm when he came dashing in only to say he had to go out again.
“Malcolm, you haven’t had a solid meal —”
“Pooh, been eating all day! Just got to put a collar and tie on.” He rushed upstairs, and Kate was more put out than Gideon would have expected. But when he appeared again, spruced up, face shining, hair brushed, tie straight as a rod and shoes newly-polished, she appraised him with amused affection, and did not ask the obvious question. When he had gone, husband and wife looked at each other across the kitchen table and laughed.
“Girl-friend,” Gideon hazarded. “His first?”
“George, dear,” said Kate, “his twenty-first! For a detective -!”
They laughed together, and Gideon thought comfortably: she’s all right; it was just the heat. He turned to the sports page of the Sunday Sun and glanced through an enthusiastic editorial under headlines which trumpeted:
GREAT MONTH OF SPORT!
First Test-the DAKS — Wimbledon — The Derby With Wimbledon beginning tomorrow, the second England v. South Africa Test Match starting at Lords on Thursday, the DAKS Tournament at Wentworth providing the first major golfing event of the season and the Southern Counties Swimming Championships at Crystal Palace, this week begins a great month of sport.
Add polo at Windsor, where the Duke of Edinburgh will be playing, Greyhound-racing, Hot-rods at Wimbledon, rowing on the Thames, Cycle racing at Herne Hill and Athletics in half-a-dozen sports centres and stadiums, and we have a truly record June ahead of us. And the week after next with the Derby and the Oaks thrown in, will be furiously exciting.
At Wimbledon, six out of the first eight top seeds in the Men’s Singles are professionaclass="underline" three American, two Australian and one from Ecuador. Some of the unseeded players . . .
As Gideon read, it struck him with redoubled force that if any one man was to keep his finger on the pulse of London’s sport, he would need to be chosen quickly; it was already plenty late enough. And as the name and mental picture of Chief Inspector William Bligh kept recurring to him, that of young Tandy dropped into the background.
Bligh was due if not overdue for a superintendency; but everything which could possibly go wrong for him had gone wrong, in the past two or three years — including a divorce. There had been no breath of scandal, but somehow among certain authorities divorce of itself carried a connotation almost of stigma: an inherent suggestion that a police officer should give a perfect conventional example in his personal as well as his official life. Gideon believed, quite simply, that every man’s private life was his own and should only be considered officially if it could have an adverse effect on his work. Significantly Bligh, either because of tensions and emotional crises, had failed on several cases, including one which had received a lot of publicity. On the other hand, he was an ardent and exceptionally well-informed sports enthusiast, and did a great deal of work for the Metropolitan Police sporting associations.
Gideon tried to put him out of his mind, but only half-succeeded.
Kate went to bed early, and Malcolm came home late, with one or two smears of badly wiped-off lipstick on his mouth. Half-amused, half-thoughtful, Gideon pretended not to notice. But he was uneasily conscious of the fact that ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ of this generation took things for granted which still shocked him a little and would probably upset Kate a great deal. Well, at least Malcolm looked happy . . .
Kate was up at her usual seven-thirty, next morning, singing under her breath as she cooked breakfast. Penelope called, to say she would be back next day, instead of that evening.
“Had a wonderful wow of a weekend!” she told Kate.
“Wonderful wow of a weekend!” Gideon echoed, as he drove to the office. He was still half-amused, and a little preoccupied. Penny had once seemed very serious over a boyfriend — had, in fact, been engaged to him — but these days, seemed to have a variety of beaux. Now that she travelled with the orchestra, of course, she was home much less.
“And she’s twenty-five,” he reminded himself. “Don’t you forget it!”
He reached his office a little after, nine o’clock. It was warmer again and much more humid than over the weekend; the duty policeman in the hall was already looking damp and sticky.
His own office was cooler and the fan working — as far as he could judge no one else had been issued one. Who—?
His thoughts stopped him in his tracks.
“Could Scott-Marie have — ?” he muttered, incredulous. Then more strongly, derided himself. “Nonsense! It couldn’t be!” But he was thoughtful as he took off his jacket and put it on a hanger before turning to the reports Hobbs had put on his desk. The top one was about Charlie Blake’s murder, and Gideon opened it to find a cabled message: Telephoning Monday two o’clock London time Hopeful of results Lemaitre.
There was a report on the autopsy, a note that the inquest was to be held next day, and several more statements from passers-by who had seen Blake, including one from a night-watchman at a tea warehouse who claimed to have seen him get into the taxi. The watchman’s name was Dingle.
On the file dealing with the feared demonstration at Lords Cricket ground, there was a copy of Charles Henry’s report, two shorter reports from Detective-Constable Juanita Conception, and a few notes from Henry which were clearly intended to demonstrate the way he was sticking to the job. One note read:
It is now confirmed that a party of well-trained professional agitators is coming from the United States, travelling Tourist Class on the S.S. France. The name of the leader is Donelli — Mario Donelli: an American citizen of Italian extraction.
There was another file, giving a summary of the cases of shop-lifting, pocket-picking and bag-snatching over the past three months. Gideon glanced at two columns which provided the comparative figures for this year, and the same period in the previous year. A note in red, in Hobbs’ writing, said tersely, Average increase: 32%. So it hadn’t been imagination or over-sensitivity on his part; these crimes were very much on the increase.
“Have to do something about that,” he grimaced, thinking aloud. “I wonder if Hobbs is through? If he is —”
There was a tap at the door and Hobbs came in.