Gideons Sport (1970) 'The finest of all Scotland Yard Series' -- New York Times It is June, London basks in the sun, Londoners and visitors look forward to the great sporting events of the summer. But each presents Scotland Yard with its own particular challenge. The Derby -- will there be an attempt to 'fix' the greatest race of the year? Lords -- will the appearance of the South African team trigger off political demonstrations? Wimbledon -- will something happen to prevent a young American negro from battling through to the top? Headaches for Commander George Gideon, problems that he must cope with. And what of his own private problems: Has he been too much of a cop and not enough of a husband and father? And has he walked too long beside a crooked path to trust a granger's smile? 'Mr. Marric - weaves a continuous exiting narrative which gives the impression of perfect authenticity' Sunday Times John Creasey writing as J. J. Marric. Gideons Sport (1970) I am most grateful to Major A. D. Mills, Secretary and Treasurer of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, who not only showed me round the famous "Wimbledon", but also read the manuscript of this book and put me right on many details. John Creasey Note: This book was already in proof form when threats were made to 'demonstrate' during the M.C.C.'s 1970 Test Matches against South Africa. I should hate anyone to think that anything in this book is either cause or effect! CHAPTER ONE Hot Day George Gideon, Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police in London, pushed back the chair in his .office overlooking the River Thames, wiped his neck and dabbed his forehead with a big handkerchief, and stepped to the window. It was one of those windless, airless days, outside as well as in, when no window seemed large enough and certainly none opened half as far as it should. A very big man, massive of neck and shoulder, with a belly like a board and a torso of exceptional thickness and strength, he felt the heat more~"than most, and was as exasperated by it as anyone. Yet as he stood at the window and looked across the bright, sunlit surface of the water, his mood mellowed. What a wonderful place London was! The moment a heat-wave "struck, the city became through its river a home of pageantry. Launches, offering trips as far up as Hampton Court and Richmond and way down beyond London Bridge, looked as if their owners had been furiously busy overnight, dabbing bright paint and hanging gay little flags. Launches, sculls, rowing-boats, even two or three colourful sails, changed the workaday river to a pleasure playground for tens of thousands: every boat in sight was crammed. The little flags fluttering in the boat-made breeze above the great stretch of water gave an illusion of coolness. This weather had lasted, now, for five days and it was still only May: that alone would be memorable, in London. In recent years, even June had seldom flamed and temperatures had regularly fallen lower and rain more heavily than either ever should. London in the summer had its special problems, too, and the police as well as criminals known, unknown, or in the making, old lags and first offenders, were all affected. For the moment, Gideon was not thinking of those problems. But there was a file on his desk marked Outdoor Events, June and he had already glanced through it and would again before discussing it next morning with officers of the C.I.D. as well as other branches, mostly from the Civil Department. As tomorrow was the first of June, this session was at least a week late, largely because all departments had been forced to concentrate, in mid-May, on a state visit. Now, he was thinking just of his beloved London. A telephone rang-one which came through the Yard's switchboard. He turned reluctantly, to pick it up. His movements were slow and deliberate, distinctly affected by the heat. "Gideon." "Mr. Lemaitre would like a word with you, sir." "Put him through," said Gideon. His reaction to a call from Lemaitre, now the Superintendent in charge of one of the East End divisions. -- perhaps London's toughest - was different from his reaction to a call from any other officer. Lemaitre had once shared this room; acting as his deputy, sitting at a desk now pushed into a corner and used for files and a set of Police Gazettes from the first number, in 1786, when it had been called Hue and Cry. And whatever his shortcomings, which most certainly existed, Lemaitre was a warm personality; shrewd and loyal almost to a fault. There were times when Gideon missed him, and this was one of those times, "George?" "What is it, Lem?" "Gotta bitta news for you," stated Lemaitre, in happy certainty. "I hope its good," said Gideon, cautiously. "Good -- and hot!" Lemaitre assured him. "George, there's going to be wholesale doping of Derby runners. And I mean wholesale!" He laughed on a raucous note. "Be really something, wouldn't it, if one, two and three were all disqualified?" Two things were already ringing warning bells in Gideon's mind. One, that Lemaitre was almost excited, which probably meant that he had only just heard this 'news' and hadn't checked it yet. Two, that any such widespread doping was highly improbable. "It certainly would be a sensation," he conceded. "Might just as well not run the race at all." He was already checking tie actual date. At one time, the Derby had been run on the first Wednesday in June, come what may; now, it varied from - year to year. Ah, there it was: Saturday, June 23rd, just over three weeks ahead. "Where'd you hear the rumour?" he asked. "A runner for Jackie Spratt's. No need to worry, George, it's hot. He was coming over from New York on the QE 2 - landed two days ago. He picked it up on board. All absolutely certain, corroborated, the McCoy! I'm seeing the runner myself, tonight." "Where?" "The Old Steps, Limehouse." Gideon was tempted to utter a word of warning, but checked himself. There were a lot of things that senior C.I.D. men would be wiser not to do, but the urge to be en the look-out for a job to handle oneself was sometimes irresistible. He had learned this to his cost, and Lemaitre wasn't a young beginner: he knew what he was doing. "Get chapter and verse, Lem," he allowed himself to urge. "Trust me!" said Lemaitre, with almost cocky confidence. "Like me to come along and report, in the morning?" "Check with me first," Gideon told him. "I'd like to see you but there may be too many briefings. Call about ten o'clock." "Right. Oh, by the way, George - what day was summer last year?" Gideon put down the receiver, pretending not to hear. He felt a flash of exasperation; that kind of facetious humour was Lemaitre's speciality and, in the right mood, it could be funny, but Gideon wasn't in the right mood. He had just been glowing at the thought of London's loveliness; just been recalling the glorious summers of his boyhood. He smiled wryly to himself. Did one always remember the good and forget the bad, in one's past? The question answered itself even as he asked it, bringing to mind in successive flashbacks two schoolday incidents. One, an occasion when he had been caned and humiliated for writing 'dirty' words on a wash-room door - and two of the words he had never even heard of! He had been absolutely guilt-free. The boy who had been guilty had let him suffer the punishment; and afterwards, in the playground, he had jeered: "Bloody fool, that's what you are! If you knew it was me, why the hell didn't you say so?" To this day, in such a mood as he was now, the old injustice still had the power to hurt; well, perhaps not really hurt, but certainly it still brought a feeling of heavy-hearted-ness, a sense of dismay at the existence of unrightable wrongs. The other memory, something quite different, was of the one and only time he had been selected to play for the school First Eleven - and the cricket match had been rained off. He had never forgotten how unutterably miserable he had been. Such things had at least enabled him to share the hurts and disappointments and frustrations of his children, but he could still feel some of that old, aching awareness that he had been robbed of a chance which had never come again. Suddenly, he gave a snort of laughter. "What the devil am I sentimentalising about?" he demanded, of the empty office. "I ought to be checking Lem's story!" He sat down at his desk again, and made a note about Jackie Spratt's runner and the doping of Derby horses. Jackie Spratt's was the name of a large book-making firm, started by a long-dead father and now operated by three brothers. Each of the brothers was a public school product; each in his own way was clever. The firm had become a vast concern, with hundreds of betting shops throughout the country, but its headquarters were still in the East End. Gideon, who was not a gambling man but would have an occasional flutter, had no strong opinions on the rights and wrongs of betting; his job was to maintain the law. Since the new Gaming Act, with licensed betting-shops everywhere, there had been few problems with street runners, but many more -- and usually serious - problems with the smart new casinos, while the slot machines, too, had their 'protectors' and their rackets. These were general issues, but Jackie Spratt's was a problem on its own. There was no proof but good reason to believe that the three brothers were behind a great deal of fixing' and corruption, particularly involving horse-racing and boxing. No doping case had ever been traced back to them; no boxer who had thrown a fight led back to them. Yet everybody "knew' the truth. They were a parasitic growth on the body of sport. One day, Gideon and the Yard persuaded themselves, Jackie Spratt's would go too far-and it was conceivable mat day would come with this year's Derby. Lemaitre, however, was notably possessed of a facile optimism which discouraged Gideon from setting too much store by such a hope. For the moment, he pushed it to the back of his mind. He looked through the file, with great deliberation. Even sitting there, he was perspiring. The day was not only airless but very humid. His handkerchief became a damp ball; fee could almost have wrung it out. Tossing it aside, he shrugged himself out of his jacket-a medium-weight one •which felt winter-heavy at this temperature. "It must be ninety!" he grumbled, almost indignantly. He felt a little cooler in his shirt-sleeves, but his braces in the middle of his back. The telephone rang several times, each call about some trifle, and his palm soon grew sticky with handling the receiver. He loosened his tie, and almost as his collar sagged, the door opened with a perfunctory tap and the Commissioner came in. The Commissioner at Scotland Yard was like royalty, and Gideon was immediately and acutely conscious of being in his shirt and braces, and so sticky that sweat actually rolled down his cheeks. He pushed his chair back and rose as the door closed. The Commissioner, in a pale grey over-check suit, looked as cool as if he had stepped out of an ice-box, as immaculate as if he had come straight from his tailor. It was months since he had been near Gideon's office. "Good afternoon, Commander." "Good afternoon, sir." Gideon pushed back his thick iron-grey hair and rounded the desk to move an armchair forward. Its casters stuck in a threadbare patch of carpet and he had to fight back the impulse to use brute strength. He eased it clear and pushed it into position. "Thanks." Scott-Marie sat down and draped one long leg over the other. "Have you had time to study the belated programme of outdoor events in London for June?" "Not to study it, sir," Gideon said. "I was looking through it as you came in." He sat down, wretchedly conscious of his bright green braces and the dampness at his neck and arms. But to put on his coat would not only reveal his embarrassment: it would be difficult, being so damp, to slip it on easily. He tried to forget that it was hanging on the back of his chair. He had a great respect and regard for Sir Reginald Scott-Marie, and they were on good terms. Yet the fact remained that the only time Gideon really felt at ease with him, was when he was at the Commissioner's home. "I've just looked through it, too," Scott-Marie told him, as he was wondering whether to mention Lemaitre's tip about the Derby situation, and deciding not to; it was best only to tell Scott-Marie of facts, - or at least fully-substantiated evidence. "Does anything in particular worry you?" Gideon frowned. He looked slow-thinking, almost bull-like, but in fact the headings of the listed events were chasing one another rapidly and accurately through his mind. Golf at Richmond... the South African cricket team here on tour... Wimbledon, even more of a crowd-puller now that it was open to professionals as well as amateurs... racing at Ascot and a dozen other places near London, quite apart from Derby week at Epsom. The air display at Farnborough, in Surrey, too, would mean crowds at the London stations . . . other tennis fixtures . . . polo ... at least two major athletics meetings... a Commonwealth tournament at the White City, and a European one at Wembley. There was also dog-racing, speedway and motor racing, in or near London. But none of these gave him any slightest inkling of what Scott-Marie meant. "No," he answered at last. "Not in particular, sir." Then a thought flashed into his mind. "Unless the South Africans, at Lords-?" Scott-Marie's expression lost its severity. Gideon noticed this and also noticed a beading of sweat on the Commissioner's own forehead, particularly where the hair grew back to make a sharp widow's peak. "That's it." Scott-Marie stood up and took off his coat, draping it over the back of an upright chair. He didn't wear braces, and his crocodile skin belt was firmly drawn about a waist which probably hadn't expanded two inches in twenty years. "I hadn't given it more than a passing thought, but the Home Secretary has just telephoned to say that he wants special precautions taken." "Do you think he has any particular reason?" asked Gideon. "He gave me no intimation that he had, and I imagine there is some kind of political motivation. He may simply want to be absolutely sure there is no political demonstration -- at least," Scott-Marie gave his dry smile: "none that gets out of control - during his last few months in office." "We haven't done too badly by him yet." Gideon smiled just as drily. "We've done very well, which, of course, is no reason why we shouldn't try to do even better." Scott-Marie took out his handkerchief, shook it free of its folds, and dabbed his forehead. "You've heard no rumours of trouble at Lords?" Gideon shook his head. "No. But I'll send out an instruction for all divisions to report any talk there may be. And I'll brief the A.B. Division to take special precautions. Just one thing, sir," he added, thoughtfully. "What's that?" "If the Home Secretary has been given a tip, we should be told what it's about." 'I'll try to make sure that we are," promised Scott-Marie. "Are you taking special precautions about any of the other events?" "So far, routine looks likely to be enough. We've reasonable time with over three weeks before the Derby, nearly a week to the game with South Africa. Wimbledon's almost on us, but the real crowds don't start for a few days. I'll watch the situation very closely, sir." "I'm sure you will." Scott-Marie gave another dab at his forehead and one at his neck. "I gather that things in general are fairly quiet?" "The usual summer calm," Gideon told him. "It always makes me a bit uneasy. There's a tendency for everyone to slacken off; especially when we have a warm spell, like this." "Well, this is the fifth day. I suppose it will break before the weekend." Shrugging resignedly, the Commissioner stood up and Gideon, feeling much cooler, moved quickly to help him into his jacket. "Thanks. If I have any further word from the Home Office, I'll tell you. Let me know at once if you have any word from anyone." "I certainly will," promised Gideon, opening the door. Not even this created a breeze and as Scott-Marie walked off, Gideon closed the door and went slowly to the window. Scott-Marie always provoked him to thought and speculation. His first thought, now, was: how characteristic of the man to take his jacket off -- a simple gesture to show that he also felt the heat of the office, and to put Gideon at his ease. His second thought was that the Home Secretary was probably simply making sure the Yard kept on its toes. Taken by and large this particular incumbent, James Teddall, the Minister in charge of Britain's home affairs, was a good one. The police, through the Commissioner, were directly responsible to him, and he had never pushed the Force too far: never tried to over-assert his authority. As Gideon had said, the police hadn't done badly by him yet. The recollection made him smile. At the beginning of Teddall's ministry there had been threats of a mammoth, combined, anti-Vietnam war, anti-colour bar, anti-colonialism demonstration. Several organisations had joined forces to concentrate four columns, each over twenty thousand strong, in a march on the time-honoured venue for political demonstrations: Trafalgar Square. There had been a great deal of newspaper panic-publicity - even a demand for troops to be brought in to help maintain order, since troops could be armed more easily than the police. Scott-Marie had presided at a meeting of the several Commanders of the Metropolitan Force together with their chief assistants and Home Office officials. At the end of the meeting, he had said simply: "I think we can cope, gentlemen. We need a minimum of force and a maximum of good-humour. That is the phrase Commander Gideon used and I cannot think of a better. I shall advise the Home Secretary that we do not need help." Coming from a man who had reached high rank in the Army before retiring, the advice had carried great weight. But the Commander of the uniformed branch, an old friend of Gideon, had been very edgy. "These young devils could cause a lot of trouble, George," he had growled after the meeting. "Yes, but they probably won't." "It's easy for you - we bear the brunt of it!" the Uniform Commander had complained. "You can have every man in the C.I.D., and you know it," Gideon had replied. "And with all leave stopped and every man on duty, there shouldn't be much to worry about." But even he had wondered, for there were ugly stories of trained saboteurs and experienced rabble rousers being brought into the country; reports of the planned use by the trouble-makers of tear-gas; even reports of alleged caches of arms with which to fight the police. As the Sunday had drawn near, every senior officer - and probably most men of all ranks in the Force - had been on edge, prepared for near-catastrophe. The demonstration, a complete success, had caused practically no incidents. A few smoke-bombs, a few marbles tossed under the feet of the police horses, a few isolated struggles - and a great deal of good humour and repartee between demonstrators and the police., Trafalgar Square had looked as if all London had been picnicking there over the weekend and left all their rubbish behind them, but there was no damage. Other demonstrations had followed much the same trend. The police had discovered by trial and error the best way to handle would-be rioters and had also discovered something which had not surprised Gideon at all. Most of the demonstrators were good-natured, decent, reasonable human beings. His smile faded slowly as he thought beyond this. There was one subject which seemed to bring out the worst in all the people involved, even the decent and the reasonable: that subject was racialism. He himself was emotionally incapable of racial prejudice: to him, a man was simply a man. But many did feel such prejudice and there were times when the bitterness of racial conflict reached an ugly crescendo, in London particularly, over the present social structure of South Africa. There had been talk of the cricket team from South Africa - with England, Australia and the West Indies, one of the Big Four of the sport - being banned in the way that South Africa had been banned from the Olympic Games in Mexico City. But after consulting with the Home Office, the cricket authorities had invited them. It was an all-white team, just as their Olympic athletes would have been all-white, and there had been much talk of demonstrations against them. But their 'plane had arrived from Johannesburg in teeming rain, and the planned demonstration had fizzled out to a few shouts and raised fists and some sodden banners. Since then, there had been a handful of 'End Apartheid' protesters at the grounds where the touring team had played: nothing more. Next week they were to meet England in a Test Match; the second in the series of five. The first had been drawn. There was a lot of interest in the promising young players on each side, and Lords was the home and the Mecca of cricket. Trouble there could damage not only the game but relations in the whole field of sport, between two nations and their peoples. The more Gideon thought about it, the more he realised that he would have to pull out all stops. For it was the C.I.D.'s task to find out in advance if real trouble-makers were at work; to learn beyond doubt whether there was real danger of incitement to violence. With that accepted, he had to decide who was the best man to lead the inquiries. "I'll talk about it to Hobbs in the morning," he decided. aloud. Then a call came in from the City Police about some currency smuggling, and he put sport and its problem's out of his mind. CHAPTER TWO Hot Night As Londoners went home, that evening-in buses, tube, trains and private cars which jammed the main arteries until it was a miracle that traffic moved at all - it was almost too hot to move, too hot to breathe. The sultry stillness intensified; the stench of exhaust fumes made it far, far worse. Tens of thousands, the men in shirt-sleeves, the women in summer dresses, walked part of the way through the parks - London's 'lungs' - but the air was little better even there. Nearly everyone, regardless of age, was listless and tired and could easily have become bad-tempered. The traffic police had special permission to discard their tunics and in their pale, grey-blue shirts and elbow-length white cuffs, patiently directed traffic so badly-congested that one feared it could never move. It did move, although with agonising slowness, and sooner or later the weary Londoners managed to get home. Some to tiny apartments; some to luxurious flats; some to mean little houses whose front doors opened direct on to the pavements of narrow streets; some to the nearer suburbs, with their smooth, green lawns and gardens of flowers at the front and of vegetables at the back. Beyond these, in the dormitory suburbs, the bigger houses stood in spacious, well-kept grounds and parkland. There were many new estates of expensively priced houses as well as the high-rise apartment blocks overlooking parkland or commons. All of these were as near to the truly rural as one could hope to get, while still being virtually 'in' a city of near nine million human beings. Not unnaturally, by far the greater majority of those home-going Londoners were honest. But as the law of averages would lead one to expect, some made their living by crime. One of these, who was much more thorough, much more efficient, much more wealthy than her closest intimates dreamed or even the police suspected, was Martha 'Aunty' Triggett. And Martha Triggett thrived on crowds and sporting events. Martha Triggett had a husband, a small and self-effacing man named Edward, who was a clerk at a betting-shop. Martha, who was also small, though plump, was anything but self-effacing. A most gregarious soul, who loved the limelight and loved company, she had worked up a nice little business: one 'school' for beauticians and women's hair stylists, and another for hairdressers for men. She gave each a month's training, good training as far as it went, then sent them out to get jobs in a London hard-pressed for hairdressers of either sex. She also ran another 'school' in conjunction with these two: a school for bag-snatchers and pick-pockets, who became remarkably skilled at their jobs. She called this the Charm School. Aunty, if asked, could not explain precisely how this school had begun; although under pressure she made many brave attempts, offering remarkable variations on how she had seen what a good thing the Charm School could become. There were, however, two things, one a phrase and one a theme, common to all the variations. "Oh, my dear," she would say, her bright blue eyes lighting up, "it was a stroke of genius. I have to admit it was a stroke of genius?' With which she would puff out her pigeon bosom and tuck away imaginary loose strands of her immaculate mass of gold-blonde hair-it had not changed colour in twenty years - and accept the exclamations, the awe, the congratulations of her listeners. And, sooner or later, she would say: "Of course, I never influenced anybody to be bad-not even in the early days of the Charm School. If a person wants to be strictly honest, I always say, let them! But the truth is, dears, not everybody is honest. In fact - " she would survey her pupils with a wicked gleam in her eye, and go on: "It's not so very hard to sort the wheat from the chaff, I can tell you! But it started by accident, really - I left a purse out one day and a light-fingered little basket had a pound note out of it in no time. I sent him home with a flea in his ear, I can tell you." All her listeners would laugh dutifully, until she had gathered enough acclaim, whereat she would break through the laughter in her throaty voice: "Then I left odd money about and watched what happened. Those who brought it to me got a toffee or a fag - as a reward, see. Those who kept it-well, just you imagine! There was one-he's still on the game today and never been caught: no names, no packdrill, mind. He was a proper marvel. I went to see his Pa, and believe you me his Pa was a real old pro - been at it all his life, he had, and taught all his kids before they were breeched. He was that smart I Only had to go out once or twice a week, he did - and now, his kids keep him in luxury. Well, then: you're all apprentices here, and you've got to learn the techniques and there's no better way than pictures ..." • Aunty would roll down a small screen and show coloured pictures of her graduates working among crowds. "Sporting crowds are by far the best," she would go on. "They get so excited that even after the game they're so worked up they couldn't tell if you was picking their pocket or giving them a bit of you-know-what!" This particular sally was always received with a tremendous gust of laughter, but the film which followed was watched with rapt attention. The viewers would see small figures moving among the crowds; lifting jackets, slipping hands in pockets, even cutting rear pockets with a razor blade to catch the wallet as it fell out. And there were the girls who opened and rifled handbags while women were talking to each other. There were shopping scenes, too, in the big Knightsbridge stores and in Oxford and Regent Streets as well as the suburban shopping centres, where girls were particularly active. "If a girl's seen carrying two handbags, no one's all that surprised," Aunty would say. "But if a boy's caught with just one, he'll be in the nick before the night's out." There were other pictures: close-ups of experts at 'practice', close-ups of the moment of discovery; little tricks such as treading on a victim's toe or passing the loot to an accomplice, then facing an accusation with an air of injured innocence. Nothing was omitted. And over the years, Aunty Martha Triggett had built up a remarkable organisation, so that nothing at all was wasted. She had sales outlets for stolen bags and purses, the powder-compacts and other make-up paraphernalia that went in them, watches, pens, pencils-for the cigarette-cases and lighters, trinkets and even key-rings and used combs. She had been doing this for so long, without being caught and as far as she knew without being suspected, that she no longer had any sense of danger. "Do what you're told," she would say to her pupils, "and nobody's ever going to catch you." What she longed for most was a long, hot summer. Fingers were chilled in winter and the pickings weren't so good. This summer so far had been very successful, and she had great hopes for June... There was in fact one man, a young policeman, who had suspicions about Aunty Martha Triggett. His name was Donaldson, Bob Donaldson, and he had been in the Force for only thirteen months. Before that, he had been in a number of jobs, including men's hairdressing: he had been a pupil of Aunty Martha's School and knew that a Charm School existed without knowing just what it was. He was at that time stationed in Wimbledon, in the south-west, and Martha Triggett operated from Stepney, in the southeast. Donaldson, not only young but very alert, wondered about her occasionally. But it was no use speculating aloud to a station sergeant, so he kept his suspicions to himself. Not only the police and Aunty Martha were preparing for June's great sporting events; the bookmakers were expecting to be very busy. The volume of betting on cricket, tennis and golf was negligible, of course, compared with the amount on racing, boxing, the speedways and the dogs. But there were very good pickings and the big bookmakers always quoted prices on the major events. There were some surprising odds offered and taken, for instance, on the best players at Wimbledon, who were 'seeded' so that they could not be drawn against each other in the early rounds of the tournament. This year, there was more betting than usual; partly because of the big money prizes which put the professionals high among the seeded players, yet gave amateurs a powerful incentive to win. There were also prices, fairly even, on who would win the cricket series between South Africa and England by winning most matches out of five. There were hundreds of small bookmakers in London, but only three major houses. Of these, Jackie Spratt's was a law unto itself. The others were wholly reputable and trustworthy, despite rumours that they would 'fix' this fight or that race. It wasn't simply that bookmakers were as honest as any other businessmen; it was that they were particularly vulnerable to any rumours of dishonesty or fixing. The police knew this as well as anybody, and since the new Gaming Act had come into force and betting was easier to conduct legally, a camaraderie had been built up between the police and the bookmakers as individuals, as well as through their main association. On that particular evening, while Gideon was sitting in his Fulham garden, trying to get cool, and Martha Triggett had cancelled a Charm School session because it was so hot, two of the Big Three bookmakers sat on the terrace of the Royal Automobile Club, drinking cold beer. One, Sir Arthur Filby, was tall, handsome, grey-haired and aristocratic in appearance. The other, Archibald Smith, looked the prototype of the typical musical comedy bookmaker-big, overweight, red-faced and with a neck so thick that there were always two rolls of fat at the back, lurking above his invariably over-loud, over-check suit. His grey hair was cut so short that at a distance he appeared almost bald; at close quarters, it bristled. "We had an odd one in, today," he remarked, owlishly. "Concerned with what?" asked Filby. "Barnaby Rudge." "The tennis chap, you mean?" "The darkie," Smith nodded, "from Alabama." "What's so odd about him?" Filby queried, blankly. "Didn't say odd about him, old boy! An odd one about him. Ten thousand pounds on any odds the chap could get, that Rudge will win Wimbledon." "Take it!" urged Filby, promptly. "He hasn't an earthly. Even at a hundred to one, you'd pick up ten thou. Want to hedge some of it?" "I want to know more about it." Smith's deep-set, periwinkle-blue eyes had a speculative glint. "I checked around a bit. No one else has been approached. The general feeling was a hundred to one others - and he's one of them!" "Humph," ejaculated Filby. "And if he won," Smith pointed out, "someone would be a million down!" Filby sat up, contemplated his glass as if suspicious of its cleanliness, and then looked hard at Smith. "I see what you mean," he said. "Impossible." "A pony," Smith shrugged. "Even a hundred. Possibly a thousand quid - I could understand anyone putting it on as a long shot. But ten thousand! That isn't chicken-feed, even to a millionaire." Filby sipped, stared moodily at his glass, tossed the drink down and raised a hand for a waiter. "Who's behind it?" he asked. "I've no idea." "No name? Same again, by the way?" "Ta. I can manage one more." Filby raised two fingers and as the waiter turned and went off, he echoed: "No idea?"' "Oh, I know who wants to put the money up." "Cash?" "You're not very bright tonight, old boy!" Smith protested. "You don't think anyone would be expected to take that on credit, do you?" "I must be drinking too much," Filby murmured. "But really! Who wants to risk his ten thou?" "A man named Lous Willison. An American." "What's he do?" "He's a builder." "From Alabama?" "Not bad," Smith shot Filby a glance that was half-wondering, half-amused. "Yes - Alabama and Georgia." "Is he in a big way?" "As a builder, I don't know. I checked with the American Consulate, Trade Division - said I was contemplating putting up a factory there and I'd been recommended to use Willison. They gave him a perfectly good reference but said he wasn't a very big operator." "Black or white?" "What do you mean?" Smith asked, then suddenly saw the implication and said shortly, his voice hardening: "White. But what difference does that make?" "Could make a lot," replied Filby, soothingly. "If there's a group of negroes who would like to see their man win Wimbledon - " He broke off, choking back a laugh. "Could be they've got a bombshell and see Wimbledon as a terrific race symbol?" "As a matter of fact," Smith told him, soberly, "it could have a bloody big impact-don't make any mistake about that. And when you get a good negro athlete-look how nearly Ashe pulled it off! How long ago was that?" "Last year. The question is, did you take the bet?" "I stalled." "Lay it off with the smaller boys, Archie," Filby advised, as if tiring of the subject. "Not yet." Smith's mind was obviously quite made up. "First, I want to know if anyone else is putting heavy money on Barnaby Rudge. Barnaby Rudge," he repeated, in a puzzled way. "Isn't that name familiar?" "You could read a chap called Dickens," Filby said drily. "All right, I'll keep my antennae out, and pass on any news." Their drinks had been set down as he spoke and he handed Smith his and then raised his own. "Cheers. How's the money shaping, on the Derby?" Smith frowned. "Damn queer about that, too," he complained. "Something's up." "That's what my scouts and my books keep telling me." Filby squinted at his glass, then drank deeply. "And that's very worrying, Archie - that could really take us. If you ask me ..." CHAPTER THREE The Old Steps The Old Steps, at Limehouse, was one of the most celebrated and popular public houses in the East End of London, for at least three reasons. It was in Wapping High Street, overlooking the Thames-not far from the Headquarters of the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police - and a very old, very narrow alley which ran down beside it to steps and a jetty contributed to an 'atmosphere' of gas-lit eeriness. Indeed, by night the approach at least was gas-lit, for the publican retained the gas lamps in the alley and over the doorways. It was a 'free house': not tied to a brewery or chain, but independently-owned and so able to dispense every conceivable kind of beer and spirits. What was more, it boasted a pianist: one of the best in London. He was young, but adept in the tradition of the late Victorian and Edwardian ages, and every night was chorus and sing-song night. The pianist, a pale, hunched little man, could play almost any' tune by ear or from long practice, with the kind of beat which made everyone join in the singing: he himself seemed to put every ounce of energy into his playing. He was at the piano when Chief Superintendent Lemaitre entered, that evening, to a roar of voices singing: "... give me your answer, do!" Lemaitre began to hum as he pushed his way through the smoke-blue haze towards the saloon bar. No one appeared to take especial notice of his progress, but at least three pairs of eyes turned towards him, half-furtively. Lemaitre was quite aware of it. He looked like an ageing sparrow in his pale brown suit and spotted red and white bow tie; thin-faced, spare-boned, his sparse, dark hair slicked down. Without appearing to notice, he knew that one expert cracksman, one well-known shop-lifter and a man who made his living by stealing fruit from the wholesale markets, was in the saloon. Two were alone, one was with his wife. In a far corner were two detective-sergeants from the Thames Division, and one raised his hand. Lemaitre gave him the thumbs-up sign, and began to hum: "I'm half-crazy, all for the love of you!... Half of light, Joe ... It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carnage .., My old dutch been in?" he wasn't expecting his wife, but he wanted the barman and everyone within earshot to think that he was. "... upon the seat of a bicycle built for two...! Ta." "Ain't seen her," grunted the barman. "Out with her latest and finest, I suppose," said Lemaitre. "Women!" He tossed down half of the beer. "Cheers." He looked about the crowded room at fifty or sixty faces, but could not find the man he had come to see: the 'accidental' meeting had been arranged by telephone. He had no doubt that his informant, a man named Charlie Blake, knew what he was talking about. And tonight he was to pass on the names of the people planning the doping of Derby runners. Charlie wasn't among the crowd, now clapping and cheering as the pianist took first a bow and then a drink from a pewter tankard on top of the old, burl walnut piano. People were calling out: "Give us another, Tommy!" "How about a bit of pop, for a change?" "Never heard of the Beatles, Tommy?" "Give us 'My Old Dutch'," one old woman called. "Me and me old china's bin married fifty years." "You never got married in your life!" another oldish woman yelled, and the resultant roar of laughter was almost deafening. A man's voice sounded above the din. "Her six kids've got something to complain about, then!" There was another eruption of laughter, everyone joining in. The-potmen moved about, carrying trays crammed with glasses and tankards, showing unbelievable balance and dexterity. The bar itself was so crowded that Lemaitre was pressed hard against a corner. He lit cigarette after cigarette from the previous butt and kept glancing at the door, ostensibly on the look-out for his wife. But Charlie Blake did not come. An hour earlier, Charlie Blake had left his tiny house in Whitechapel and started out for the Old Steps. He was a man in his middle fifties, not unlike Lemaitre to look at, but smaller and more dapper, with thick hair, dyed jet-black, and slightly fuller in the face. A card-player of remarkable skill, he crossed the Atlantic two or three times each year, playing cards and making nearly enough money to live by. He made still more by picking up racing information and passing it on. He knew better than most people how much loose talk there was in the big smoking-rooms of the transatlantic liners, especially at the end of an evening of heavy drinking, and he made full use of this. He was in many ways a nice little man. His wife was fond of him, although she entertained lovers quite shamelessly whenever Charlie was away. She kept his small but pleasantly-appointed house in good order, and fed him well. He was generous with the children of his neighbours -he himself was childless - and he greatly enjoyed walking. On this hot summer night, he was dressed as coolly as anyone in London, wearing a beige-coloured linen jacket and tropical-weight trousers, with openwork brown-and-white shoes. Now and again he eased his collar: the heat always gave him a rash on the neck and he used a special ointment to soothe the irritation; but in such heat as this, the collar seemed to stick to the ointment. He walked quite briskly and it did not enter his mind that he was in any kind of danger. Still less did the possibility of danger occur to him when he saw a taxi driven by an acquaintance pull up. "Want a lift, Charlie?" "I'm okay," he said cheerfully. "My plates of meat are good for a lot of miles, yet!" He looked down at his