The moment he read it, Bligh’s heart dropped like a stone. He had been called out early and assigned to this investigation, and his first thought had been that the great men were giving him another chance: Madderton’s, one of the few remaining private banks with its headquarters in the West End, was an influential one. The raid was bound to get a lot of publicity and if he could pull off a quick result, that could only benefit him.
Bligh was moody, these days; not far from being depressed -partly because he did not like being alone so much. He missed his wife much more than he would have imagined: had he known exactly how he would feel, he would probably not have agreed to a divorce so quickly. He now believed that his marriage had not been on the rocks, but merely, going through the doldrums, and he would have given a lot to know how she was getting on with her new husband. The second reason was the frequency with which, these days, cases he was investigating went sour on him. Every man at the Yard had bad patches; but this had lasted for nearly two years, and of late he had been given few assignments of any consequence.
Madderton’s had seemed his great chance. Moreover, within ten minutes of reaching the bank, which was near Piccadilly, off St. James’s Palace, he had been fairly sure who had committed the raid. Dynamite, the way furniture was piled up as a protection against flying debris, entrance forced by use of a key probably supplied by a watchman — it was a classic Chipper Lee job. Bligh had been so elated that he had nearly telephoned a report right away. Then, caution had stepped in. Supposing there were only similarities, and he was wrong? It would be much wiser to check, so there could be no possibility of mistake.
His eyes had glowed with sudden excitement. Supposing he could pick Chipper Lee up and charge him, before reporting? A quick, slick job on a prestige case was exactly what he needed. But before he could put this in hand, a director of the bank had arrived. Next had come a representative from the Bank of England, since much of the stolen currency was in United States dollars and German and Swiss francs.
He had delayed action until he had the total amount fairly fully assessed; it would be in the region of half a million pounds. Then, just when he was about to put out a call for Lee, he had been asked to go and see the Chairman of Madderton’s at his Hampstead Heath home. That had been too good a chance to miss.
Coming back, he had passed Lords cricket ground and wondered fleetingly whether he would have a chance to see the coming match against the South Africans. Then, as he was about to re-enter the bank’s strong-room, he had been called to the telephone.
“Report to the Deputy Commander at once.”
He could not imagine why, unless he was to be taken off this particular assignment. If that were so, it would be given to one of the Superintendents who specialised in currency thefts and smuggling, so it wouldn’t matter what he put in his reports: the new man would make the arrest. And it was Chipper Lee. What a damned fool he had been, not to go straight ahead!
There had been several newspapermen at the bank when he had left.
“Anything for us, Chief Inspector?” they chorused.
“No-sorry.” No, there would be an official hand-out, soon . . .
At the Yard, he pulled up too sharply and nearly scraped another car, the door of which was opening. A Superintendent, long-legged Gordon, looked at him sourly.
“In a hurry, Bligh?”
“Sorry,” muttered Bligh. And thought, despairingly: “Nothing goes right. Nothing ever goes right, these days!”
He went up in the lift and along to Hobbs’ office, reminding himself that if he showed any resentment at all it would only do harm. Hobbs always put him a little on edge, anyway. He would have to be bright, brisk and formal. He tapped, and went in — to see Hobbs at a telephone. Oh, God. Should he have waited? But Hobbs waved him to a chair. He sat deliberately well back in it, determined not to show the slightest sign of nervousness, a big, ruddy-faced, dark-haired man who, in spite of his inner feelings, had a look of aggressiveness about him — a go-getter of a man.
Hobbs was saying: “Yes, pick him up . . . What’s his name? . . . Corby? . . . Yes, pick him up as soon as you can.” He replaced one receiver, lifted another, said to Bligh: “I won’t be a moment,” then spoke into the telephone: “Fingerprints found at the chemist’s shop are those of a man named Corby, whom we’ve had in twice for drug distribution . . . Yes, I’ve given instructions . . . Yes . . . Yes, in five or ten minutes — will that be all right? Thank you, sir.” He rang off, looked at Bligh blankly for a moment as if wondering why he was there: his mind obviously still on something else.
Bligh was thinking: “He’s just talked to Gideon, and something’s going to blow in five or ten minutes. Not me, I hope.”
When he did speak, Hobbs’ voice was pleasant and his manner direct. “How are things at Madderton’s?”
“About half a million was stolen,” Bligh reported formally. “And if it wasn’t Chipper Lee, I’ll eat my hat!” The moment he said that, he wished he hadn’t; supposing there was a remote chance that he was wrong?
“Picked him up?” asked Hobbs.
“No.” Bligh drew a deep breath, then took the bull by the horns. “I’ve goofed on so many cases lately, I thought I’d double-check.”
“But you feel sure?”
“Yes — and I can’t believe I’m wrong.”
“Then pick him up as soon as you can,” said Hobbs, calmly, and Bligh had a feeling that the other man knew it had come as a kind of reprieve to him, even though he showed no sign of it as he went on: “The Commander wants to talk to you about a special assignment, but we’ve both got to attend an emergency conference and won’t be able to see you for half-an-hour. You can go down to Information and put out the call for Lee.”
Bligh’s eyes were very bright as he stood up.
“Thank you, sir.” He took an enormous stride towards the door, then stopped to look back: “Er- couldn’t give me a clue about the special assignment, could you?”
“Sport,” said Hobbs, and smiled faintly. “We need a man who is really familiar with all forms, especially those taking place in London this month.” His smile faded as he added: “This could be a chance in a lifetime, Bligh.” He left no time for comment: “Be at the Commander’s office in three-quarters of an hour, will you? That is, twelve noon,”
The meeting was of all Commanders and Deputy-Commanders, with Sir Reginald Scott-Marie in the chair. Gideon thought he looked more severe than usual, and was half-prepared for bad news. But this wasn’t bad, in the Yard sense.
“I’ve just had official but confidential information that the General Election will be held in the first week of July — that is, in a little over three weeks,” the Commissioner stated flatly. “It’s an unusual time, and I have no information about the reasons behind the summer date. We shall have to be at full strength — Uniform, particularly. I cannot send a memorandum at this stage but I wanted you all to know and begin to make plans.”
The Commander of the Uniformed Branch looked appalled.
“But this is impossible, sir! We’ll have to cancel leave, and—”
“I do realise that,” Scott-Marie interrupted crisply. “I know that it creates problems. That is why I have given you as much notice as possible. My greatest concern is to find a way of explaining such postponements without giving the true reason.”
Gideon, sitting at the big, oval conference table opposite the Commissioner, now believed he understood Scott-Marie’s manner; he was less troubled than angry that this should have been thrust upon them.
No one spoke.
“I suppose —” began Gideon.
“There’s no reason in it,” remarked Uniform, bitterly.
There was silence.
“Yes, Gideon?” prompted Scott-Marie.