His front door bell rang again, and this time, the sound stabbed through him. He was expecting no one, and could not imagine who this could be. At last, he forced himself to answer the bell, reaching the door as it rang for the third time. He opened the door, and knew on the instant that the two men standing there were police officers.
He did not even have the courage to bluster.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Now,” said Gideon to Hobbs, next morning. “What have we got?”
“Problems,” answered Hobbs, drily. “Lemaitre’s back but he’s down with some kind of gastric trouble, and his wife says he’s doubled up with cramp. I told her to tell him not to attempt to come in.”
“Good. Turpin can stay in control of the Blake job.”
“Colonel Hood and Thomas Moffat have flown back to New York,” Hobbs added. “They caught a plane from London Airport late last night.”
“Oh, damn and blast it! If I hadn’t said wait, we could have talked to them.”
“At least it’s a pretty clear indication that someone doesn’t want them to talk to us,” Hobbs pointed out. “But there’s a rather odd little compensation.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Gideon said, wryly.
“They were seen off by one of Spratt’s runners — and with the Derby only a couple of weeks off, I’d say we can’t wait long before we tackle the Jackie Spratt organisation.”
“Go and see Lemaitre,” Gideon told him.
“Sure you won’t go yourself?”
“Yes. I may be on call from the Commissioner most of the day.” Gideon put his hand heavily on the folders in front of him: he had got that lot to deal with yet, too. “What else?”
“We’ve picked up Jacobus,” Hobbs told him, and his eyes brightened.
“Now that’s much better! Has he said anything?”
“So far, he’s refused to say a word — but there’s something odd about that, too.” Hobbs was obviously enjoying his report and Gideon had a feeling that he was deliberately letting out the good news piece by piece. So he waited, and Hobbs went on: “He had twenty-five ten pound notes on his writing-desk — in an envelope marked J.S.”
Gideon sat very still.
It could be one of those good days, he told himself, with rising excitement. It could be the day when the Yard got the breaks, at last, against Jackie Spratt’s. Hobbs almost certainly thought that was true; hence the gleam in his eyes.
“How does Jacobus explain the money?” Gideon asked him.
“He says it was a winning bet, placed with Spratt’s.”
“It could have been.”
“Yes,” said Hobbs. “But it wasn’t. The firm doesn’t put its pay-out money in envelopes: they use rubber-bands and a wrapper. It looks as if he had been paid for doing a special job. And we know he attacked Barnaby Rudge, which is a pretty special job.”
“Two and two,” remarked Gideon, with increasing elation. “Where’s the envelope?”
“Up in Fingerprints — we should get a report any minute. I’ve told all the others to wait till we send for them. Bligh’s already waiting.”
“Alec,” Gideon prompted, softly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Do you know, I couldn’t really tell you,” said Hobbs, just as quietly. “Or at least — George, I don’t like admitting it, and I’ve nothing solid to go on — but I have a feeling this is going to break Jackie Spratt’s wide open. And I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The Spratts have been backing Lavis to win the Men’s Singles — backing him very heavily, through different channels. Which means they wouldn’t want an outsider to win, would they?”
“They certainly wouldn’t!” Gideon’s excitement was audible, now, in his voice. “Have you told Bligh all this?”
“No. I think Bligh’s got enough on his plate, for the time being. I thought —”
Hobbs broke off at a tap on the communicating door with his own room. Gideon said “Come in”, and it was promptly opened by a big, grey-haired, untidily-dressed and shapeless-looking man, as pale and flabby as Gideon was tanned and hard. He was carrying an envelope and some papers in his hand and there was a gleam of rare enthusiasm in his eyes.
This was King-Hadden, the Superintendent in charge of Fingerprints, perhaps Gideon’s oldest friend at the Yard, after Lemaitre, and a man so old in the Yard’s service that in the ordinary way he took everything with almost maddening matter-of-factness. For him, this display of interest was downright excitement.
“Hallo, Nick,” Gideon greeted him.
“Morning, George — Alec.” Satisfaction positively shone from him as he advanced, holding the envelope as if it were precious. “Now we have got something, this morning! See that?” He put down the envelope and pointed to a grey patch. On close inspection, this proved to be a fingerprint which had been brought up by brushing grey powder over it-and as usual, much of the powder had contrived to adhere to the cuffs of King-Hadden’s coat.
Then out of the envelope, like a rabbit from a hat, he drew a photograph. “Photo-enlargement of the same
