But his job was here — to lead, guide, advise, decide. Henry was obviously standing or sitting like a statue . . . Is he the right one to trust with a gun? . . . But if not, who ought to be sent? . . . Indeed, there was hardly time to send anyone else . . .
“Are you — are you there, sir?” Henry could not keep quiet any longer.
“Yes. Have you a Justice of the Peace handy, to sign your permit for a gun?”
“Sitting by me, sir!” Henry’s voice took on a positively lyrical note.
“Then go ahead,” said Gideon.
He repressed the impulse to say: “Be careful.” One had to trust senior men like Henry, and they could only be judged after the event. But Henry, whatever his feelings, replied with studied calm: “Very good, sir.”
“I’ll be in my office,” Gideon told him, and hung up. It flashed into his mind that if the capture of Roche took too long, it might prevent him from getting home at half-past seven; but the thought was gone almost as soon as it formed. He spared another moment to hope devoutly that in his anger, Henry would not lose his head, then glanced again at the note: C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty.
It was now almost a quarter- there went Big Ben: it was a quarter to six. He glanced at the whisky cupboard, then looked away and rang for Hobbs, who opened the door so quickly he might almost have been standing there.
“Is Bligh there?” Gideon asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
‘I’ll see him,” said Gideon. And as Hobbs stood aside, Bligh came in, looking so happy that he was almost smug.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Good evening, sir,” Bligh said. “I’m sorry to worry you but I would be grateful for guidance on one or two aspects of this outdoor activity.”
His ruddy-hued face was bright, eager, deceptively youthful. In a man of forty-odd whose private life had been so disrupted and who had had such a long bad run, it was surprising. Was he over-eager, Gideon wondered? And in his own present mood, he hoped the man would not talk of trivia. But the ingenuous opening gambit at least stopped him from saying: “I haven’t long, Bligh.” There was something about the man which made Gideon feel he hadn’t really been aware of him before. It was clarity of eye, directness, frankness — something difficult to define.
“Go on,” Gideon said, as the door closed on Hobbs.
“Would it be possible, sir, to have a meeting, just a short one, of the Superintendents and officers in charge of the Divisional Stations and sub-stations in the areas most affected? Wimbledon, St. John’s Wood, perhaps Epsom and Banstead, with whom we shall have to co-ordinate?”
“Why a meeting?” asked Gideon, intrigued.
“Well, sir, there isn’t much time for me to go and see each officer, and —” Bligh paused and for a moment looked self-conscious, although still eager” — well, sir, most of them are senior in rank to me and it takes a little time to tell each one what I’m trying to do. If they were all together here, and if you could possibly outline the plan yourself, I wouldn’t have about eight or nine different explanations to make. What’s more, as they asked questions, we’d bring out different aspects; might bring out a lot of revealing local sidelights. I’m sure it would save a great deal of time, sir.”
And stop some of the Divisional Superintendents from being bloody-minded, Gideon reflected.
“Yes,” he said, “Good idea. Draft a memo and we’ll send it out tonight.”
“Er-would this do, sir?” asked Bligh, snatching a slip of paper from his pocket as if by sleight-of-hand.
Taking it, Gideon felt lighter-hearted than he had for a long time. He looked down quickly, to hide his smile, and read: “A conference will be held in the small lecture hall here at (say 11 a.m.) tomorrow, June 5th to discuss special preparations to be applied to the major outdoor sporting events of the month. Please attend, with any officer or officers with special knowledge. This does not include crowd-control.”
Lifting the telephone, he rang Hobbs. “Have I any special programme for tomorrow morning? . . . Mark off eleven o’clock to eleven-thirty for me, will you?” He rang off, put in the time, 11 o’clock, and signed the circular. “Have Information get that off, Bligh, and include neighbouring divisions -anyone you think might be helpful.”
“I will, sir! Thank you.”
“Anything else?” asked Gideon.
“No, sir, I think everything is under control. Would you care to have details of the preparations so far?”
“Later,” Gideon told him. “Certainly not tonight.” He drew his chair up to the desk in a gesture of dismissal and Bligh went out, obviously very pleased with himself. For a few moments Gideon felt a reflected glow of satisfaction, but it soon faded. He was almost living Henry’s life, at the moment, and would like nothing more than to be on the spot. But he must leave this job to Henry. He had to go through all the reports on his desk, attend to all the things he had not had time for during the day. There was at least forty minutes of solid reading, and he must have time to think over each case.
He rang Hobbs again,
“What time are you going tonight, Alec?”
“I’ll be here until eight o’clock, at least.”
“Gome in at seven, will you?”
He hung up and began to go through the reports; the Madderton Bank robbery, the threat to the Derby and Charlie Blake’s murder, the dozen and one cases which had risen, like scum, to the top of London’s crime. But he was never free from shadowy thoughts of Henry, of the injured girl, and of the risk that Roy Roche might yet cause serious trouble. And every now and again, he had a quick mental image of Kate.
