There were problems in the life of a policeman which did not occur in the lives of others - not even in those of highly placed civil servants. No policeman, for instance, could outwardly espouse a political cause, because that would imply some degree of bias or prejudice. And no matter what he felt, no policeman could express his opinions of certain other aspects of the life of the community. Two problems arose out of this for Gideon. First, it cut a policeman off from communication with his fellow men, never a good thing; and second, it made difficulties in finding out the truth, since it was seldom possible, without this communication, to understand both sides of any question; one could listen but could not discuss wisely.
Yet a policeman had certain prejudices, certain interests, certain enthusiasms, and a policeman had instinctive reactions which training and self-discipline could never prohibit.
Above all, a policeman had to see a man as a man, not prejudge him because of colour or creed, or even because he had a record as long as his arm. Such absolute objectivity was never easy, and however liberal or understanding one was, even if one had not the slightest racialist feeling, it was impossible not to be aware of the tensions over colour in England. There were the Fascist types who hated black or coloured people without cause or reason, and there were more, so many more, who had come to believe that the immigrants did harm to the society, the community, even to the economy. Moreover, there were those who accepted the immigrants without question provided they were in the next town, or at least in a different section of their own town.
Policemen must not have prejudices, and yet prejudice existed, and the subject of racialism was as rife at the Yard as it would be anywhere else.
The messenger brought in a cup of steaming coffee, with plenty of cream and only a little sugar. Gideon had barely pushed the empty cup aside when there was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
The first thing that struck him about Riddell was how the man had aged. He was handsome in his heavy-jowled way, though his brown hair was now streaked with silver, and his eyes, which had once been bright, were dull. He had put on weight, too.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Morning,” Gideon grunted. “Come and sit down.” Riddell sat and began to fumble in his pocket. “Smoke?” asked Gideon, pushing cigarettes across his desk.
“Ah, thanks,” Riddell said. He took one and lit up. Even then, he seemed to have some difficulty in coming to what he had to say, and Gideon prompted him.
“What’s this you’ve found out?”
“The smuggling is very widespread,” Riddell announced positively. ‘There’s much more of it than I realized, or else I’m being pessimistic.”
Gideon nodded, puzzled because the man was obviously troubled; he almost warmed to him.
“The fact is that at least three men are involved,” stated Riddell, at last. “I can’t offer proof yet, but it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be able to. Two of the men are Londoners, the third is an Indian - one of the early immigrants himself. None of them has ever been involved in crime before; certainly none has any record of any kind. The two Londoners own a lot of slum or near-slum property; the Indian rents the houses from them and lets off rooms at exorbitant rents. There’s a day shift and a night shift for the beds, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t wonder if they share the women, too, although God knows there are enough of them to go round.”
He paused, and the way he looked at Gideon suggested that he knew that Gideon, in those last few seconds, had hardened against him.
Gideon waited, and after a moment’s silence Riddell spoke again: “Oh, to hell with it, George! I can’t stand them. I don’t think they should ever have been allowed in. Give them a few years and they’ll have flooded us out. If I had my way, I’d send them back bloody fast!” Riddell got up and began to walk about, speaking in a low-pitched voice and drawing fiercely at his cigarette. Gideon, startled by the outburst and concerned with Riddell’s obvious emotion, did not interrupt. “That’s how I feel,” went on Riddell. “I don’t mind admitting that when you gave me this job I rubbed my hands. Now I can get some of the bastards, I told myself; now I can send them back where they belong.” He spun round and faced Gideon, his eyes suddenly ablaze. “I saw one of the immigrants who’d been smuggled in three weeks ago. He lives in a hole under the stairs; there’s no other word for it - rat-infested and filthy. It made me want to vomit when I saw it. And he’s got no money, hardly any food. Lives more like an animal than a human being.”
He moved stiffly toward the desk, stubbed out the cigarette, took another and lit it, and moved back two paces.
Gideon nodded, not ‘wanting to interrupt in case he stopped the flow and so dried up the passion.
“These bloody sharks took all the money he had, promised him work he can’t get, and will let him rot,” Riddell said. “Now there are two damned good reasons for wanting to stop the smuggling.”
Again, Gideon nodded.
“And where does that leave me?” demanded Riddell. “Right in the middle, George. I can’t think straight about it. I can’t even think for myself over it, let alone think as a copper. I’ll tell you something else. Every time I look at one of them, I think Out, you bitch, or Out, you son-of-a-bitch, and if I had a man working for me who was half as full of hate, I’d fire him. That’s what I really discovered, George. I can’t go on with the job; it’s got me facing two bloody ways. So—will you take me off?”
Gideon pursed his lips, then bent down, took out whisky and two glasses and a siphon of soda, and poured a stiff drink for Riddell and a mild one for himself.
“Cheers,” he said. “I’d like to think about it, Tom.”
“Do you really have to?” Riddell put the glass to his lips, muttered “Cheers,” and drank deeply. He had needed that drink.
“Yes,” Gideon said. “Yes, I do. How long have you been feeling like this?”
“About a week,” answered Riddell gruffly. “Tell me I ought to have told you before and agree. George—Commander—rather than go on with this job, I’d resign. I’m not joking: I’d resign. I can go any time; a year or so won’t make any difference.”
“A few days won’t make any difference, either,” Gideon reasoned. He knew that in fact if Riddell resigned now instead of waiting until he was fifty-five, he would lose a substantial proportion of his pension. “I’ll see you this time on Friday, with a decision.”
“It won’t make any diff—” began Riddell, and then broke off, and gave an almost sheepish grin “Sorry. Ought to know better than to think you couldn’t think up something to make me change my mind. Thank—er—thanks for letting me blow my top.” He finished his drink. “Twelve o’clock Friday, then.”
“Yes.” Gideon tapped the report. “Is this up to date?”
“On facts, yes.”
“But not on your assessment of the facts?”
“I don’t trust myself to make an assessment,” Riddell muttered.
“Well, I do. And I want one by ten o’clock Friday morning,” Gideon ordered. “Your handwriting will do, no need to get it typed. But I don’t want anything left out, Tom; I want the lot.”
After a pause, Riddell answered, in a much milder voice, “Yes, of course: I’ll do it, make a thorough job of it. And the report may shock you, George.”
“From what you say, there may be a lot to be passed on to the Home Office,” said Gideon.
“I’m no bloody welfare officer,” said Riddell. “But you’re right.” He paused again. “Anything else you want from me?
“No, thanks.”
“Right!” Riddell put his glass down, and went toward the door. “See you.”
He went out.
Gideon felt as if he had lived through a sudden, furious storm and, when the door closed, was almost breathless. He sat, Buddha-like, for several minutes, and then suddenly he laughed; but there was no humour in the laugh and little in his expression. He had not expected to forget the Velazquez theft so quickly, but it had gone right out of his mind.
One of his telephones rang, startling him. He let it ring for a few minutes before lifting the receiver.
“Gideon here.”
“Hallo, George. How are tricks?” It was the brisk and breezy voice of Lemaitre, whom Gideon had been thinking about earlier in the day. “Gotta bit of news for you I thought you’d like to know.”
“What’s that?” asked Gideon cautiously.
“I’m pretty sure I know where they’re making the new decimal-coinage slush,” stated Lemaitre.
“Pretty sure” was characteristic of him, and nine times out of ten he would be right. But on the tenth occasion he might simply have built up a case out of a single piece of information into which he had read a great deal of significance.
“Sounds good,” Gideon said, still cautiously. “Where?”
“An old foundry, in my manor. A place on the river, George. Only about a mile from the Mint itself - how about that? What I want to do is raid the place.”
“When?” asked Gideon.
“Tonight,” answered Lemaitre. “Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot, George - or catching the metal while it’s molten.” Lemaitre could hardly control a guffaw of laughter, so pleased was he by that turn of phrase. “The thing is, I’d need some help from the Thames Division.”
“Asked them yet?” inquired Gideon
“No,” said Lemaitre. “Wanted to clear it with you first”
There was much more than there appeared to be behind that simple statement: a hint of some feeling or conflict between Lemaitre’s division, on the land, and the Thames Division. It was a good thing to be warned such tension existed, just as it would be a bad thing to show that he felt it.
“How much help would you need?” asked Gideon, suddenly realizing that in fact Lemaitre might want much more than it was reasonable for one division to ask of another.
“Oh, a couple of patrol boats, in case we flush our birds and they try a getaway on the river,” said Lemaitre, and added airily: “Nothing much, really.”
Gideon grunted. “I’ll have a word with Thames,” he promised.
“Thanks a lot, Gee-Gee,” Lemaitre said, with more heartfelt thanks than the situation merited.
Gideon rang off and immediately put a call through to Thames Division. The Superintendent in charge wasn’t in, and he was put through at last to Chief Inspector Singleton, who had just completed a successful investigation into the use of the Thames for distributing stolen jewels.
“Good morning, sir,” said Singleton.
“Nice job you’ve just tidied up,” remarked Gideon.
“Good of you to say so,” replied Singleton. “Easy enough when I knew the angle, though. What can I do for you, sir?”
“You can have a couple of launches standing by tonight to liaise with a land raid by NE Division.” Gideon knew that he might get a reaction from Singleton which he would not get even from the Superintendent in charge.
To his astonishment, Singleton chuckled as if with high delight.
“So it worked,” he said.
“What worked?”
“The tactics I used with old Lem!” There was a brief pause, and then, obviously as Singleton remembered he was speaking to the boss, a sharp exclamation and silence.
“All right, let’s have it,” growled Gideon.
“Er—sorry, sir,” said Singleton. “It—er—it’s nothing really. One or two of Mr. Lemaitre’s men and one or two of ours have been getting on each other’s nerves lately, and Mr. Lemaitre knows it, so instead of coming direct to me, he came to you. Bit silly, really, but you know what we old coppers are.”
“I know,” said Gideon. “Better make it three launches.”
“Will Mr. Lemaitre get in touch with us about details?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, any annoyance he had felt fading. “Bit silly” was right: policemen of such age and experience should not behave like children, but it happened sometimes and out in the divisions a sense of isolation could develop, breeding pettiness. In place of his annoyance was a question he wanted to ask, but he could not bring himself to do so. Last year, a Metropolitan Police officer named Carmichael with a long and distinctive record had attempted to murder his wife. The officer, a friend of Singleton’s, had been tried and found guilty; he was serving a sentence of ten years’ imprisonment. His wife was now living with another man, a most likable man, who would marry her the moment the divorce came through. There had been talk of Carmichael suing for divorce from prison, but Gideon had heard nothing about this for some time.
Singleton was the most likely person to have any news.
All these things flashed though Gideon’s mind in a split second. Then Singleton said: “There’s one other thing, sir, while you’re on.”
Carmichael?
“What?” asked Gideon.
“You remember the time Jenkins was mixed up in that art theft - the time we nobbled him when he was trying to get away in a cargo boat with some of the loot?”
Gideon’s interest flared up.
“Yes, I remember very well.”
“Funny thing about him killing himself or being accidentally gassed last night, wasn’t it?” Singleton observed. “Especially as his old pal Slater was murdered in Brighton last night, too. One of our patrol-boat crews saw them together on the embankment the other day, and reported it when they heard what had happened. They had to go in close to have a look at some flotsam. Very peculiar, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” Gideon said. He could pretend that he knew about Jenkins’s death, or he could leave Singleton with a real glow by telling the truth. “I knew about Slater,” he said. “Jenkins is news to me. Thanks.” Then he added, with a faint laugh in his voice, “Look after N.E. Division, won’t you?”
He rang off on Singleton’s delighted chuckle, but did not echo that laughter as he pressed for Hobbs, knowing he might still be in Records.
But Hobbs came in, and they began to speak simultaneously.
“Have you heard—” Hobbs broke off.
“Have you heard—” Gideon broke off. “About Jenkins?” Hobbs asked quickly. “Just,” said Gideon. “Why didn’t I know before?”