He looked very hard at Gideon, as if half-expecting some kind of reaction or reception. It was so much out of character that it at once reminded Gideon of his deputy’s apparent hesitancy on the Friday. He waited for an explanation, but Hobbs quickly became himself again. His greeting was formal enough to tell Gideon that someone else was in the other office; someone who might overhear what was being said.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Good morning, Alec.”
“We’ve an emergency this morning,” Hobbs told him.
“What kind of emergency?”
“About two pounds of heroin, stolen from a pharmaceutical chemist.”
“Oh,” Gideon said heavily. “What was the chemist doing with it?”
“He’d bought it from an acquaintance in the trade and was distributing it among addicts, and selling it abroad,” Hobbs answered promptly, startling Gideon. “It’s a somewhat unusual case, sir. We wouldn’t have known about it, if the owner hadn’t come and told us.”
Gideon pushed his chair back, slowly.
“A confession?”
“Yes, sir. He came straight to the Yard and asked for you. He’s in my office, now.” Hobbs, in his way, was pleading with Gideon to see the chemist; pleading with him, also, to handle him gently. He knew Gideon’s particular hatred of drugs, especially the pushing of drags among the young. He knew also that it was one of the forms of crime about which Gideon could really be harsh; blackmail, and any form of cruelty to children, were others. Now, he stood four-square — pleading; so unlike Hobbs: “He will give any help he can.”
“He could have started helping by not—” Gideon cut himself short. “Who is, he where’s he from, when did it happen and how long has he been here?”
Hobbs replied as if he had foreseen the questions and had carefully rehearsed the answer: “John Cecil Beckett, of 27g, Edgware Road. He is the owner of a small chemist shop and has two assistants; one of them his wife, one a young man who hasn’t turned up this morning. A small window at the side of the shop was forced, and the thief presumably got in through that. Nothing else was stolen, as far as Beckett knows. He’s been here about half-an-hour. He wasn’t really fit to be questioned until ten minutes or so ago — he was distraught.”
Gideon granted, “How is he now?”
“Fair.”
“I’ll see him,” Gideon conceded, knowing there had never been any doubt that he would. I’ll come into you in a couple of minutes.”
“Thank you,” Hobbs said simply, and half-turned.
“Before you go, Alec.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What about your nominees for the great month of sport?”
Hobbs smiled faintly as if appreciating the change of subject, and again answered with the utmost speed and precision:
“Tandy and Bligh, Commander.”
“Then we both think Bligh would be all right, so let’s talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Over at Madderton’s Bank,” answered Hobbs. “They had a raid there, last night.”
“Big one?”
“Biggish, by the sound of things.”
“H’mm . . . ” Gideon frowned, then ordered: “Well, just the same — send someone to replace Bligh. Have him here by eleven o’clock.”
“He’ll be here,” Hobbs promised, and went out.
Gideon moved to the window, very deliberately. He had already recovered from his reaction to the news of the drug theft, but had not recovered from his surprise at Hobbs’ manner, nor from awareness of his own extra-sensitivity over Hobbs, Kate, this pedlar in drugs — even Charles Henry and Police Constable Juanita Conception. And he had a feeling that he was not concentrating enough on any one case.
After a few minutes, however, he felt much less moody and self-analytical. The boats, gay and graceful, were already on the move with their summer crowds, and two gaily bedecked launches went slowly by with huge banners proclaiming: TO WIMBLEDON RETURN. He had never seen that before. The morning air off the river was fresh enough and there was so little humidity that he suspected a sudden change of wind direction in the past half-hour.
He went to Hobbs’ door, tapped, paused for a fraction of a second, and went in.
A man in his middle-twenties at most, straw-coloured hair sticking up as if neither combed nor brushed that morning, was sitting back in the armchair watching smoke curl upwards from the cigarette in his knuckly hand. His face was very pale and his eyes enormous-and he was quivering: almost as if he were an addict himself and was badly in need of a shot.
He sprang up.
“Mr. Gideon!”
“ ‘Morning,” Gideon said gruffly.
“Mr. Gideon, I — I-can only say I’m desperately sorry! I wouldn’t have touched it, but my wife isn’t well and — and I’m doing so badly at the shop.” He deplored his own excuse at once. “God knows I know I shouldn’t have touched it! But I did feel I could control the — the people who bought from me. And I had a — deal in hand to get rid of the filthy stuff. I — oh, God, get it back, sir! Get it back! If the thief starts on a new round, God knows how many will suffer.”
It would have been easy to say: “You should have thought of this before.” Instead, Gideon said: “We’ll get it back, but we’ll need your help.”
“I’ll do anything — anything I can!”
Gideon looked at Hobbs, and asked: “Is Mr. Charlesworth in, do you know?”
“Yes.”
“Take Mr. Beckett along to him, and make sure Mr. Charlesworth has all the assistance he needs.”
“I will,” said Hobbs.
“I’m sorry — bothering you, sir,” Beckett muttered. “But I knew you would do all you could — I knew you would! I’ve -I’ve a cousin on the Force, sir, and he -he absolutely swears by you. You will get the stuff back, won’t you?”
“I’ll be greatly surprised if we don’t, and very soon,” Gideon assured him. He glanced at Hobbs and motioned slightly towards the communicating door, and Hobbs nodded almost imperceptibly in return: he would be straight back as soon as he had finished with Beckett.
As he strode back into his own office, Gideon wondered how it was possible that a man who knew so much about heroin could contemplate making money by selling it illegally, and wondered why Beckett’s attitude had changed so much? He was suddenly and much more vividly aware of just what a danger the stolen stuff represented.
Two pounds of it! And a tenth of a grain could make an addict-half a grain a week keep him happy, by rotting his body and his mind. Gideon was suddenly possessed of the same sense of urgency as Beckett had shown.
Who had the stuff now?
“How much have you got?” a man demanded.
“Enough,” said the sharp-featured chemist’s assistant who had stolen the heroin from Beckett.
“Can you keep up a supply?”
“I can keep it up. Can you keep paying?”
“I can pay.”
“Who are your customers?” demanded the assistant.
‘‘You’d certainly like to know!”
“I want to be sure I get my money. Who are they, Jenks? I don’t want to know their names — I just want to know how well they’ll pay.”
The man named Jenks — thin, middle-aged, with a strangely pale complexion and a slight cast in one of his almost colourless grey eyes — put a hand to his pocket and brought out a bulging wallet. He took out a wad of notes and thrust them into the young chemist’s hands.
“There’s plenty more,” he said flatly. “Plenty more! I’ve got a market in a school — a private school. Don’t worry about your money. What they can’t find themselves, their wealthy families will pay. No one wants scandal, do they?”
Very slowly and deliberately, the young chemist counted the money — in all, nineteen ten pound notes — nodded, and turned away.
CHAPTER NINE
Chance in a Life Time
Chief Inspector William Bligh was in the strong-room at Madderton’s Bank when he had the recall message: “Report to the Deputy Commander at once.”