“Don’t be a fool, Arthur — if we’re in this together, we’re in it together.” Smith still held out the glass and quite suddenly Filby took it, splashing the liquid up the side of the glass, and gulped half of it down.
“It’s a deal!” he said, and put out his hand.
Archibald Smith’s florid face broke into a broad, satisfied smile, and for a few moments that made him look positively attractive and almost boyish. He gripped Filby’s hand, and then began to talk more freely. He was using a private detective a man named Sidey, whose job was to find debtors
who had run off without paying their losses. He had in fact Barnaby Rudge and Willison under surveillance for sometime. He would now instruct Sidey to get into the grounds of The Towers, and see what happened on the court.
Take it step by step,” he explained cautiously. That’s my baby!” Filby approved. “How about something to eat, Archie?”
About the time that the two bookmakers were eating told salmon and salad with tiny, tasty new potatoes, Gideon as eating a ham sandwich in his office. He planned to save in ten or fifteen minutes, so as to be at the AB Division headquarters in good time to see Henry and the young policewoman. He was pondering over the candidates for the sports and open air events job. Did he need a sports enthusiast, or would someone who didn’t care much about sports and games be better? He answered the question almost as he posed it: an enthusiast would be better, someone who would be completely familiar with the sporting life of London; one who could find satisfaction and pleasure in what he was doing and would work day and night on it. A youngish man, preferably one of the Detective Inspectors or Chief Inspectors in line for promotion.
He knew them all by sight and name and knew their quality, but he didn’t really know much about their attitude to sport. Except young Tandy. Tandy was in his middle-thirties, a public school man but without Hobbs’ family background. A public school man would certainly be better for close work with the authorities at Wimbledon, at Lords, and the Jockey Club. He knew Tandy was a Rugby footballer of some renown and had boxed for his school. Did he play tennis and golf? Gideon pondered as he ate, pondered as he went down to a car, this time chauffeur-driven; he wanted to concentrate, but not on London traffic.
The streets were unbelievably congested. There was no doubt at all that London roads were becoming impossible on most days. There was always a standstill block somewhere in London, and today it came in the Regent Street area and at Piccadilly Circus. The mass of cars, buses, taxis, was almost too great to believe. So was the serried mass of faces on every side; harried people looking for a chance to cross the road.
He saw an old 1957 or 1958 Austin taxi with a mottled black top, and his thoughts flashed to Charlie Blake. Soon, he was remembering the Fifty States and half-envying Lemaitre. Then, very quickly, he was back thinking and worrying about Kate. Probably she needed a good holiday. They’d had a few long weekends this year, but none that could be called a rest. Come to think of it, he could do with a week or two off; he had not given it a thought for a long time; Kate, bless her, wouldn’t pressure him. At one time, though, she would have done; at one time, in fact, their marriage had been on the point of break-up. But now it was on rock-like foundation. Only death -
The thought stabbed into him with physical pain. Supposing anything happened to Kate?
“Oh, nonsense!” he muttered.
“Excuse me, sir?” said his driver.
“Er- go past Lords, will you?” Gideon asked, and the man seemed quite satisfied, and stayed on the main road instead of cutting through the side streets as he would normally have done.
Soon, they were at the junction of Finchley Road and where Lords Cricket ground, hallowed to many, was surrounded by a tall, smoke-grimed brick wall. There was a game on: glancing along at the Tavern entrance, Gideon saw the little crowds at the turnstile entrances. When the big match was on between South Africa and England, crowds would be thronging in by this time, the ‘early from the office’ thousands would come in increasing swarms. As he pondered these facts, he remembered a Chief Inspector named Bligh, a man who was going through a bad patch and who was very keen on sport.
They left the ground on their left, and soon turned right, pulling up at five minutes past two outside the new Divisional Police Building. Henry had no idea he was coming, and on this occasion, Gideon thought, that might be just as well.
CHAPTER SIX
Gideon knew he was recognised as soon as he stepped out of the car; was equally sure there was an alert system here, to warn of the arrival of V.I.P.’s, and that the system was in operation. He judged this from the well-contrived start of ‘surprise’ from the duty sergeant, from the extra briskness and almost military precision of uniformed and plainclothes men.
“Yes, Commander.”
This way, Commander.”
“Is Mr. Henry expecting you, Commander?”
He was, not!
A door opened and a man came out, in shirt-sleeves, roaring with laughter as he looked back into the room; he would have cannoned into Gideon had Gideon not dodged. He slammed the door and turned, saw and recognised Gideon and seemed to change on the instant to a statue, he was so rigidly still. His expression was one of horrified surprise; obviously the alert system was not a hundred per cent efficient.
“Good afternoon,” Gideon murmured, and passed on.
Henry’s office was on the third floor but the open-type stairs were shallow and by walking up, he would give the Divisional Superintendent just a little time to get his wind. Led by a uniformed constable half his age, he reached Henry’s door as it opened. Henry concealed his feelings very well, and actually smiled a welcome.
“Good afternoon, Commander! I didn’t expect you.”
“Didn’t expect myself,” Gideon said off-handedly. “I’d forgotten what a palace they made for you here.” He had also noticed that the three-year-old modern construction building was spick and span; no marks on painted walls, no smears on the floor: indicative of a man in charge who kept a tight control.
The office he entered was a large, square room with contemporary-type furniture, a long window overlooking
