backed Rudge to win the Men’s Singles to the tune of ten thousand dollars, with the Jackie Spratt’s organisation. This wasn’t a case of racial hatred, George, it was just some crooked gambling.”
Gideon drank his whisky very slowly, staring at Hobbs all the time, and then picked up a telephone.
“Give me the Back Room Inspector,” he ordered, and a moment later went on: “Commander Gideon-yes. Deputy Commander Hobbs will have a special statement to make at eight o’clock precisely . . . That should catch all the morning; papers, shouldn’t it? . . . Good. Get everyone you can.” He rang off, sat back, and said: “Tell them the simple truth, Alec. That we are charging both Spratt and Jacobus with conspiracy to defraud. The Press can draw their own conclusions.”
“You know, you should do this yourself,” Hobbs remonstrated.
“I get too much publicity as it is,” Gideon told him. “It’s time you stepped into the limelight. Besides, I want to go home.” He finished his drink, and asked casually: “Seeing Penelope, tonight?”
“Tonight she has a date with a boy-friend,” Hobbs stated, drily.
Gideon did not comment or question but he wondered what was going through the other’s mind; whether the sequence of Penelope’s boy-friends hurt him; whether the time was near when he should try to talk more seriously to Hobbs. Or, indeed, to Penelope. But certainly the time was not yet. He nodded, unsmiling. “Well, I’m off.”
“Just one thing,” Hobbs stopped him. “I couldn’t be more glad that it’s not too serious, with Kate.”
“I know,” said Gideon gruffly. “Thanks, Alec.”
As he drove towards Fulham, his mind was filled with the strange panorama of events. With the fact that wherever he went, in his beloved London, he was — even now, he must be driving past the scenes of so many crimes, and as many in preparation. He wondered how many of the people whom
he passed would suffer from the upsurge of pick-pockets and bag-snatchers, and made a mental note to check that aspect with Bligh, tomorrow.
Bligh had got off to a wonderful start on this special job: odd, that a man of such obvious quality had been through such a bad patch. He might have a weakness Gideon hadn’t yet seen; he must study the man and his work very closely. He wondered a little idly whether there really was anything between Charles Henry and the Jamaican police woman, and he remembered with pleasure the clean sweep at Lords.
Seldom would the London police court be so busy as it would, tomorrow. The magistrate would probably take the accused — those who pleaded guilty, anyhow-in dozens. But there would still have to be a special, all-day court. He felt relaxed and content. There were more good days than bad ones, and today might well see the end of the Spratt family’s reign of corruption.
That evening, Cyril Jackson, his eyes bulging with excitement, went to see Aunty Martha — and the moment he got into her room, she grabbed his arm and twisted it so savagely that he cried out.
“Wotjer do that for?” he gasped. “What’s the matter with you?”
“You’ll get a lot worse than that if you don’t turn everything over to me,” said Martha, and clouted him across the face. Dazed, bewildered, he put his arms up to defend himself. “Think you can twist me, do you? I had someone watching you — you sneaked a quid out of a wallet before you put it in the car! Don’t lie to me, you —”
“But Aunty! I came to tip you off! The cops are watching — don’t hit me-I tell you, the cops are watching! I saw them! You’ve got to lay off Wimbledon, if you don’t want us all nabbed. Don’t!” he cried again. “Don’t hit me!”
“Who’s watching,” old Ted Triggett asked, in his tired voice.
“The cops!” screeched Cyril. “I keep telling you, the cops are on to us!”
Aunty Martha drew back her hand and stared in consternation. But he poured out his story so convincingly that she had to believe him. And within minutes, a five-pound reward in his pocket, he was off to warn the other graduates of the Charm School to keep clear of Wimbledon and switch over to Lords.
The next morning, with the newspapers spread out in front of them, Barnaby Rudge and Lou Willison could hardly control their excitement, and when the doctor came he was agog with the news. On every front page there was a picture of Barnaby Rudge side by side with pictures of John Spratt and Sebastian Jacobus.
“Just get me right for Monday,” breathed Barnaby. “Just get me right!”
“Barnaby,” Willison made himself say, “there’s next year.
You don’t have to take chances.” He saw the faces of his friends and the size of his disaster, but some quality in him made him insist: “There’s no need to take chances, Barnaby.”
“Just get me ready, Doc,” pleaded Barnaby.
“I’m having a damned good try,” the doctor said. “Let me look at that shoulder.”
Soon, the deep heat lamps were spreading their healing warmth and the manipulation began. Barnaby surrendered himself completely to the man who gave him hope. Willison went into the library to re-read the newspapers with their bitter-sweet story, and he was still sitting there when the telephone rang.
“Lou Willison,” he said, flatly.
“Lou.” It was the Englishman who had placed his bets, and he had a flash of bitter self-reproach at having driven the other to do that. “Lou, I’ve just had this officially. All bets on the Men’s Competition are being cancelled by the leading bookmakers. All money will be refunded. That’s official, I tell you. You won’t win, but you certainly won’t lose.”
Willison put down the receiver, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He began to tremble from reaction, but soon he was quite calm and composed.
For Gideon, for Hobbs, for Bligh and for Henry, for all the police, the next day went on normally. All the official hearings were held, the demonstrators were all fined twenty-five pounds or seven days’ imprisonment. John Spratt and Sebastian Jacobus were each remanded in custody for eight days.
At the warehouse offices of Jackie Spratt’s Limited, there was no evidence that Matthew and Mark knew what
