by John Creasey
Gideon rang for Hobbs, who appeared in the doorway between the two rooms. Hobbs was his usual composed self, just a little more like a stockbroker or a banker than a Yard man.
“Good morning, Alec.”
“Good morning,” Hobbs said, and then smiled faintly. “You look almost belligerent this morning.”
“I’ve been reading the hijack business,” Gideon said. “We’ve got to break that wide open before it gets much bigger.”
“I wish we knew how big it is,” said Hobbs.
“Yes.” Gideon brooded. The hijacking and the immigration problem were the ones he should concentrate on, and Hobbs knew that as well as he did. He shrugged his shoulders. “Sit down,” he invited, and as Hobbs sat, he asked, “Anything from Brighton about the Pakistani business?”
“Nothing new,” Hobbs replied. “I thought you might want to talk about it.” That was Hobbs’s way of saying, “It’s time you went into it more closely, George.”
“But there’s something else from Brighton,” Hobbs said, “and we may be asked to send someone down.”
“Oh? What?”
“A man named Slater was murdered in a hotel,” Hobbs told him. “As far as Brighton can find out, he opened the door to someone who knifed him, then pushed him onto the bed, covered him over, and locked the door from the outside. A maid wanted to do the room this morning, and when he didn’t respond to taps on the door, she opened it with her passkey. The manager ran up when he heard her screaming. The man had been knifed through the stomach - dead for over twelve hours; rigor was well in.”
Gideon drummed his fingers on his desk.
“Slater—Slater. I’ve heard the name in connection with art, haven’t I?”
“The Pembroke art theft, seven years ago,” Hobbs told him.
“That’s it,” said Gideon. “He was the van driver.”
“That’s the man,” agreed Hobbs. “There’s a rather queer thing about it, too.”
“What?”
“A single hundred-dollar bill was found on the floor, just beneath the bed. On top of the dust.”
Gideon said slowly, “Has Brighton asked for help?”
“Not yet.”
“Who would you send?”
“Frobisher is coming back from Manchester today,” Hobbs told him. “They haven’t had any luck up there, and he says there doesn’t seem any more that he can do.”
“If Brighton does ask for help, send Frobisher,” Gideon said. “I’d like a word with him before he goes.” He hesitated, then lifted a receiver and asked, “Is Mr. Chamberlain in?” Chamberlain was the present Assistant Commissioner for crime, new to the post. There had been a succession of appointments to it, none of them satisfactory, and Gideon would have preferred to go straight to the Commissioner, but protocol prevented this.
“You’re through to Mr. Chamberlain,” the operator said.
“Good morning, sir,” Gideon said formally. “There’s been a murder at Brighton, and I think it would be a good thing if we were called in... I understand that we can’t insist, of course, but in this case I think we could anticipate things a bit...” There was a long pause, and Hobbs saw Gideon’s expression change, saw the hard glint in his eyes. “Very good, sir,” he said, and rang off.
It was a long time since Hobbs had seen Gideon look so angry, and he sat very still and silent; Gideon put his right hand in his pocket and took out a pipe with a large bowl. He had not smoked it for years, but he often smoothed the shiny bowl while it was inside his pocket. Hobbs could not recall having seen him take it out for several months; Lemaitre could have told him it was the one certain indication that Gideon was very angry indeed.
In a studiously even voice, he said, “The Assistant Commissioner doesn’t want me or anyone else to suggest to Brighton that we would like to be consulted over Slater’s murder. It is a matter which must be broached by Brighton to us.”
Hobbs said heavily, “I see.”
“Did Brighton tell you anything else?” Gideon asked, still very calm.
“No.”
“Not about the smuggled-Pakistani business?”
“That’s being handled mainly by Sussex,” Hobbs said.
“But Brighton is involved.”
“Yes.”
“I want to go into the smuggling,” Gideon said. “The latest report” - he put his hand on the filenames - “names three key men in London who may be organizing the racket. Are you convinced that Riddell is the best man for the job?”
Hobbs didn’t answer.
“Well, are you or aren’t you?” growled Gideon.
“I don’t think either of us would have assigned Riddell to the job,” said Hobbs. “He was the best available man when we first needed some information.”
“So you’re not satisfied with him,” said Gideon.
“Not completely, no.”
Gideon looked down at his hand, rounded into a fist with the pipe inside it, then clenched and clenched again, making the knuckles show pale against the leathery skin. He looked back at Hobbs, and was about to speak when one of the telephones rang. As if glad of the interruption, he picked up the receiver with his free hand.
“Gideon... Who?... What?” He almost bellowed; Hobbs had never heard him shout louder. He listened for a long time, and then went on in a quieter voice, “When?... Who?... How?...” He listened again, and then said, “Right.” He banged down the receiver, seemed to smoulder for a long time, and then said to Hobbs, in a very different tone, “A portrait by Velazquez, valued at over two hundred thousand pounds, has been stolen from the National Gallery, presumably yesterday. Is Thwaites in?”
“He was just before I came in here.” Hobbs caught his breath. “May I?” He touched the interoffice telephone and dialled. “Chief Inspectors’ Room?... Mr. Thwaites there?... Yes... Hallo, Thwaites. Come along to Mr. Gideon’s office, at once.”
He put down the receiver slowly, obviously badly shaken himself. Gideon had put his pipe away, as if something of his earlier tension had left him. He was still hard-faced and gruff, but no longer spoke with studied self-control.
“Stay while I talk to Thwaites, will you? Then I needn’t tell the story twice.” He smiled faintly. “Seems too much for coincidence, doesn’t it? An ex-convict involved in an old art theft murdered the day after another art theft.” There was a brief pause before he went on. “Alec, we need to replace Riddell. Think of a man who would do a better job on this immigration business, will you?”
As he spoke, there was a tap at the door, and Thwaites entered, massive enough to fill the doorway, a little untidy, and in need of a haircut; his suit needed cleaning and pressing, too; there were stains on the lapels and the lower part of the jacket.
Gideon was fully aware that even for an old-timer at the Yard a summons to the Commander’s office could be quite an ordeal, so he raised a hand in greeting. “Come in, Thwaites. Sit down. Cigarette?” All of this gave Thwaites time to overcome any momentary qualms. Gideon pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk and Thwaites took one and lit up. “Mr. Hobbs told me yesterday about your inquiries out at Hampstead and the connection with Sir Richard Falconer.”
Thwaites said, “And young Judd, sir.”
“And also the talk that there is a big buyer around who will buy what he wants and ask no questions,” Gideon said. “Now we’ve just heard of a major art theft that is going to cause us a lot of trouble unless we can do a quick job on it.”
Thwaites’s nervousness vanished in the instant.
“Something for me, sir?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, and went on with great deliberation: “The Velazquez ‘Prince’ has been stolen from the National Gallery.”
Thwaites, already leaning forward on his chair, sat perched with one hand stretched out as if fending off danger, his lips parted, showing very crowded but very white teeth in his lower jaw. He had a heavy jowl and a slightly bloodhound look, and his greying hair was thinning to a large bald patch. It was as if he had been struc
k dumb; even his breath seemed to stop.
Both Gideon and Hobbs watched, fascinated.
Gradually, Thwaites came to life, breathing inward slowly and then exuding a long, deep breath as he settled slowly back in his chair.
“How the hell did they do it?” he demanded gustily.
“That’s what you’re to find out,” Gideon told him. “No one yet knows when it was done, but it was either during the night or early this morning. They open to the public at ten o’clock; a woman artist is making a copy of ‘The Prince’ and can’t work when crowds are about, so she comes in before the gallery opens and after it closes. She was later than usual this morning - arrived about nine o’clock. She put up her easel and got her paints out, then studied the hand, which she was painting yesterday. Apparently, she knew at a glance that the texture was different, and when she took a close look, she raised the alarm. The Director was away, but the Acting Keeper was told the moment he got in. He telephoned me.” For the first time, Gideon paused, only to ask, “What help do you need, Thwaites?”
Thwaites hesitated, pursing his lips.
“You can have as many men as you want,” Gideon said. “This is going to cause a sensation, and we don’t want another fuss like the one we had over ‘The Duke of Wellington.’”
“I wasn’t really thinking of what help I would need,” said Thwaites, and he seemed a little embarrassed. “Excuse me, sir, but isn’t this much more Mr. Frobisher’s job?”
“He won’t be back until mid-afternoon,” Gideon said.
Thwaites raised his arms from his side, then let them flop in a gesture of resignation, and he looked as doleful as the bloodhound he resembled when he said: “Then I’d like six or seven men, sir, and a full team of experts. I’d like to treat this as seriously as a murder investigation.”
“Right!” Gideon pushed his chair back in a gesture of dismissal. “Mr. Hobbs will see you get what you want. You get over to the National Gallery as soon as you can, and—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Thwaites interrupted, with a kind of gloomy daring, “but would you go over yourself? Or ask Mr. Hobbs—?” He broke off, confused and yet doggedly persistent, glancing at Hobbs with a no offence-intended expression in his brown eyes. “I think it would be wise if one of you did.”
“All right,” Gideon said. “How long will you need to get your team ready and be over there?”
“Should be able to do it comfortably in half an hour, sir.”
“Good. Ask for Mr. Peebles, the Acting Keeper. One of us will be with him by the time you get there,” Gideon said.
“Thank you very much indeed,” said Thwaites, obviously greatly relieved.
Gideon also felt a sense of relief, a sense almost of pleasure, and as Thwaites went out he remembered the cold rage that had surged within when the Assistant Commissioner had spoken to him as if he were a cadet not yet out of training. He still felt resentment but no longer needed to exert himself to control his mood, and he welcomed the idea of going to the National Gallery himself.
Hobbs was speaking into the telephone.
“Send a car round at once for the Commander.” He put down the receiver and asked, “You going, sir, or shall I?”
“I’ll go,” said Gideon. At once he was doubtful, seeing an expression in Hobbs’s eyes which he read as disagreement or disapproval. He thought a little more swiftly than he spoke. “Thwaites seems to think that the National Gallery officials will prefer to deal with some top brass to begin with. Do you know anyone over there?”
“I know the Director, but he’s out of the country,” Hobbs answered. “In Italy, I believe, studying the way they’ve restored some of the paintings after the flood at the Pitti Palace.” He paused a moment, then continued, “One thing Thwaites ought to be told, if he thinks he’s going to be out of his depth socially or intellectually.” Ah.
“What?” asked Gideon, almost ominously.
“Not to be a bloody fool,” said Hobbs. “They’re not interested in the old-school tie; all they need to be sure of is that he knows what he’s talking about and doesn’t look on ‘The Prince’ as a bundle of banknotes.”
“Oh,” said Gideon, completely taken aback. But it wasn’t long before he began to smile. Then he chuckled. “Good!” he said heartily. “I’ll make sure they know what he’s like; you brief him.” He pushed his chair right back, stood up, and was at the door when he stopped to turn round. “This Pakistani immigration business.”
“Yes?” said Hobbs.
“Any idea who’d be right to replace Riddell?”
“Yes,” answered Hobbs promptly. “I’d like Honiwell if he weren’t on the Entwhistle case. He’d have to be fairly mobile for the immigration inquiry, which might make it difficult for him, to do both.”
“We’ll think about it,” said Gideon.
“We’ll think about it,” Hobbs repeated to himself when he was alone in his own office. His set expression, which so often gave him a look of arrogance, eased into a smile and the expression in his eyes was warm. “The day will come when he really will accept me.” Rather in the manner of Gideon, he chuckled; then he picked up the telephone to speak to Thwaites.
8: The Whispers
As Gideon stepped into the car that was waiting for him at the foot of the Yard’s steps, Big Ben struck eleven o’clock, the notes booming out sonorously and with doom-like inevitability. Beneath and around the tower, London’s traffic surged in its unending variety, and a few Members of Parliament, there for early work in committee, drove into the courtyard of the House of Commons. A group of late-season American tourists were looking, perhaps with disbelief, at the statue of Abraham Lincoln: the man who had best defined democracy keeping a silent watch on a citadel of democracy which was so often besieged with invisible enemies. There were sightseers in Whitehall, too, the usual groups about the statue-like Horse Guards, sabres drawn and helmets shimmering. As Gideon passed, he saw a gawky child reach up and touch a horse’s nose.
The traffic lights favoured Gideon, and his car swept across Trafalgar Square and then to the National Gallery. There crowds of people milled about the pavement and up the steps. On the steps themselves and at the entrance were thicker crowds, and as Gideon stepped out he heard plaintive calls and protesting and some strident voices.
“Why don’t they open the doors?”
“They won’t let us in, that’s the trouble.”
Policemen, keeping order and preventing the crowd from surging onto the road, saw and recognized Gideon. One saluted.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning. Clear a path, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” The constable had a hawkish face but a soft voice. With a kind of terrier patience, he forged a path through the crowd, and as Gideon stepped onto the big porch, he saw three other policemen guarding the doors, while a youth who had come up the staircase on the other side called: “Mr. Gideon!”
Gideon looked up - and a camera flashed.
“Excuse me, Commander,” an older man called out, “but what’s happened?”
Someone else began, “There a rumour that the—”
“As soon as anything’s known for certain, there will be a statement,” Gideon assured them. He pushed past the doorway and into the near-deserted hall, the South Vestibule. Here at the entrance turnstiles and the sales counters, assistants stood about aimlessly; two men on duty at the cloakroom, ready to collect cameras and umbrellas as well as hats and coats, looked baffled.
Gideon was thinking, If we don’t get the place open soon, we’ll have half Fleet Street here.
A tall man wearing a velvet suit, tight-waisted and looking vaguely old-fashioned, with a floppy bow tie and long but well-groomed hair, came forward.
“Commander Gideon, how very good of you to come in person.” The man stretched out his hand. “I am David Morcom, the Assistant Keeper.” His hand looked pale, the skin and flesh almost translucent, and Gideon was prepared to grip momentarily but not too firmly.
&nb
sp; But Morcom’s fingers bit into his hand like steel wire.
“My men are on the way over,” Gideon said. “I came to see if there’s any immediate thing I can do. We don’t want another Goya affair.”
“My God, we don’t!” exclaimed Morcom. He gave an unexpectedly charming smile. “The one reassurance I needed was that this would have the most urgent attention, and I don’t need any more telling. Would you like to see the room the picture was stolen from?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, “I certainly would.”
“We’ll go along here,” said Morcom. “Oh, Commander. I have to make a decision very quickly about opening this morning. You’ve seen for yourself what a crowd there is outside. What do you think I should do?”
“Give me a little time to think that over,” Gideon said.
They were walking, Morcom with very spritely step, Gideon with his customary deliberateness, along the galleries to the right, past attendants standing in little groups talking. All of them stopped at sight of the two men, and two or three times a whisper floated after them.
“That’s Gideon.”
“That’s the Commander himself.”
“That’s Gideon—Gideon—Gideon—”
It was like an echo, growing fainter and fainter.
Gideon, though used to finding his way about unfamiliar places, tried but failed to keep track of the different rooms they entered. Why did every picture gallery and museum seem like a maze? He found himself thinking of a man plotting a theft here. It would be so easy to disappear from one room and virtually vanish. If the man had an accomplice who slipped him a raincoat, say, or a cap, or if he had either one concealed underneath his jacket, he would be able to confuse all descriptions of him. But this was no moment to ask what the security precautions of the museum were, and in any case Thwaites was the man to check that. Frobisher certainly knew, of course. Whatever they were, the actual layout of the building would make a getaway comparatively easy.
