The Shivering Mountain

by Paul Somers

  The full text of the message ran:

  WE HAVE KIDNAPPED ARTHUR LANDON AND ARE HOLDING HIM IN A PLACE WHERE YOU HAVE NO CHANCE OF FINDING HIM. THIS ABDUCTION IS A PURELY COMMERCIAL VENTURE AND WE SHALL RELEASE HIM AT ONCE IF WE ARE PAID THIRTY THOUSAND POUNDS. OTHERWISE WE SHALL KILL HIM. WE SHALL WATCH THE PRESS FOR YOUR REACTIONS.

  It was a fascinating document, and at once it set everyone speculating. The first question, obviously, was whether it was genuine. There was no certainty of that—it could easily have been concocted by some practical joker. It didn’t sound like the kind of letter one usually associated with kidnappers. The Gazette man actually suggested that not only the letter but the whole kidnapping might be phony—that it could have been undertaken in a spirit of youthful adventure, like the seizing of the Coronation Stone, but with less point. No one else thought that very likely, but it couldn’t be entirely ruled out.

  If the whole thing was genuine, then the contents of the letter told us quite a bit more about the kidnappers. In the first place, there were at least two of them. That wasn’t surprising, if the purpose of the operation was to hold Landon to ransom and not just to kill him. Murder could be a one-man job; organising a kidnapping and then looking after the prisoner would certainly require at least two. Then, again, they seemed to be a special sort of kidnappers. The tone of the letter was highly literate. The phrasing of the letter was confident and cool—indeed, if its threats were to be taken seriously, chilling. On the face of it, the writers were sophisticated and formidable men who knew exactly what they were about.

  There was a further point. It was now clearer than ever that we were dealing with people who had either been very closely associated with Landon or had been primed by someone closely associated with him. They’d not only known about his forthcoming visit to his daughter, and all the circumstances of the visit—they’d also known enough about the nature of his work to feel hopeful that the terrific ransom price of £30,000 wouldn’t be too high for someone to pay. They might well have been too hopeful—the general view was that their “commercial venture” was a pretty unpromising one—but at least they must have had something firm to go on. Unfortunately, knowing there’d been a close association didn’t help much when it came to picking them out. Further inquiries by the police at Crede, it seemed, had greatly widened the circle of those who’d had all the necessary information. Landon, pleased about his daughter’s engagement, had talked freely to his friends about his various visits. Several of the conversations had been in public places and could have been overheard. Any one of several dozen men might have known all that was necessary about the vital visit—and these men were precisely the ones who were closely associated with Landon in his special work and would know the value of it. Any of them could, in theory, have tipped off a couple of kidnappers, with the idea of sharing the loot. It didn’t seem probable that they had—but Landon was undoubtedly missing!

  The one solid piece of information we had was that the ransom letter had been posted in Sheffield—but that didn’t help much, either. Checks were being made at the Crede Establishment, we were told, about the recent movements of personnel, but it was clearly no more than a routine measure. No one really expected that one of Landon’s colleagues would turn out to have been in Sheffield the previous day. Even the fact that one, at least, of the kidnappers had been there didn’t mean that the Sheffield area was the place to look for Landon. It would have been an obvious precaution to post the letter well away from the hideout. In any case, there could be no effective “looking” without more clues. For the moment, the kidnappers were completely in control of the situation.

  We hadn’t seen Clara Waugh at the Ministry this time—apparently she’d been called there earlier in the day and been shown the letter and had then left. The time seemed to have come to interview her again, and when I rang the office I expected to be sent straight along to Palmers Road. Instead I was called back, only to find there’d been some mix-up about who was to see her, and that I was to go after all. I got to her house about two-thirty and found her standing on the pavement with Ronald Barr, who was just leaving. Barr said, “Good God, how many more of you?” when he realised I was a reporter. Evidently there’d been quite an invasion. He called to Clara, “See you to-night, darling—keep your chin up!” and waved, and drove away. I introduced myself to Clara and she asked me in. She didn’t seem to mind one more reporter—in fact I had the impression she was quite glad of any company. She looked strained and tired, but she had herself well in hand. There were some bottles and used glasses on a tray in the sitting-room, and I guessed she’d been fortifying herself. Considering the contents of that letter, I didn’t blame her.

  The interview went very smoothly, because she’d already been over all the ground with the others. I asked her if she felt the ransom letter was genuine and she said she hadn’t much doubt that it was. I asked her what she thought about it.

  “Well,” she said, “in a way it’s a tremendous relief, because at least it means that Father’s still alive, and I wasn’t at all sure about that.… But I don’t know what’s going to happen—it’s such a fantastic lot of money they’re asking for.”

  I agreed that it was. “Has your father got any wealthy friends?” I asked. “People who might club together, perhaps …?”

  She shook her head in a weary gesture. “I don’t think he knew anyone wealthy at all. Most of his friends are scientists, and they don’t get very much money. Father certainly didn’t—not the kind of money these people are interested in. He had enough for his needs, but that was all.”

  “What about you? No wealthy friends?”

  She gave a wry smile. “I dare say I could borrow twenty pounds if I was very hard pushed.”

  “Do you think the Government should pay the ransom—assuming the letter turns out to be genuine?”

  “Well, of course I do—it’s the only hope. And it’s only fair. Father’s worked terrifically hard for them, and it’s only because of the work he was doing that he’s in this awful position now.”

  “Do you think they will pay?”

  “I don’t know. I hope they will.… But I’m terribly afraid.”

  I gave a sympathetic nod. If I’d been her, I’d have been afraid, too! I asked her one or two more questions and then got up to leave. I said I hoped things would turn out all right for her. There wasn’t much else I could say. She said, “Thank you!—let’s hope so.” She walked with me to my car. She had a most graceful walk—her figure was a dream. When I looked at her I couldn’t help remembering that damned postcard of Lawson’s!

  That afternoon a tremendous political rumpus broke out over Landon. It was the Evening Post that started it. I never learned for certain where it got its information from, but its editor, a brilliant man named Max Waller, was known to be a close personal friend of Sir Maurice Proude, Landon’s administrative chief, and maybe Proude, desperately concerned about Landon’s safety, committed a calculated indiscretion. Anyway, that afternoon the Post published a piece by its Political Correspondent and a strong supporting editorial, virtually accusing the Government of having wilfully misled the country about Landon’s importance in the security set-up. According to the Post’s information, Landon had been the lynch-pin in an ambitious project for the defence of the country against high-speed rocket attack. Without Landon, the Post said, the solution of this most vital of all defence problems would be set back perhaps by years. It was precisely because of his unique gifts, which in his specialised field amounted to genius, that he had been given exceptional protection—and for the same reason, that his kidnapping had seemed worth while. The Minister of Supply, the Post declared, had underrated the gravity of the situation, not for reasons of security but to cover up official blundering.

  It was a terrific attack, and of course there was a terrific row. In the House that afternoon the Opposition raked the Supply Minister fore and aft, and he took a lot of punishment. At first he was inclined to bluster, hinting that
the Post might well have exposed itself to proceedings under the Official Secrets Act, but that didn’t get him anywhere. He naturally wouldn’t confirm the Post’s story, but he didn’t deny it, either, and by the time he sat down there wasn’t an M.P. who didn’t believe it to be true. The Government’s supporters were by now as worried as the Opposition, and several of them wanted to know the Government’s view of the ransom letter that had arrived that day, and what it proposed to do about it. In the end, the Prime Minister intervened to make a statement. He reminded the House that the genuineness of the letter had not yet been established. Even if it were, he said, the Government had no doubt of its duty. Arthur Landon was a valued public servant, a man of exceptional brilliance in his field, and it was true that the importance of his work to the country could hardly be overestimated. But no Government could pay ransom money to criminals. If it did, that would be an invitation to others to follow their example, and it would be the beginning of the end of law and order. What the Government could say was that no stone would be left unturned to trace the kidnappers and release Landon. If anything happened to him, no efforts would be spared to apprehend and punish the guilty men.… It was a pompous and cliché-ridden statement, yet it was hard to find fault with the sentiments. At least, that was my feeling when I read it.

  Next morning, though, the Press was by no means unanimous on the point. The more sober papers backed the Government, but two of the popular dailies with the largest circulations took the view that it would be disastrous folly to risk losing a man like Landon if thirty thousand pounds could secure his freedom, and that the public interest required a much more realistic attitude. Would a Government refuse to pay kidnappers in time of war, one of them asked, if the safety of some vitally important person were at stake?—and was not the present state of the world almost as dangerous as though we were at war? In any case, if the Government found it impossible to meet the demand on grounds of principle, were there no unofficial bodies who would take responsibility for paying the ransom money?

  That was one aspect of the discussion—what might be called the moral side. But alongside it, every paper was vigorously debating the feasibility of securing Landon’s release by paying the ransom. Cases were cited where large ransoms had been paid to kidnappers by friends and relatives without any subsequent release of the person kidnapped. Often the victim had later been discovered dead. It had to be borne in mind that by now Landon would know and be able to describe his captors, and that in those circumstances it was gravely open to doubt whether they would ever dare to release him. The morning’s debate must have made melancholy reading for Clara.

  The argument raged all day, involving pretty well everyone. The pubs were noisier with altercation than I’d known them for a long time. There were people for action, and people against it, but by now there seemed to be virtual agreement on two points—that the results of losing Landon could scarcely be more serious for the country; and that if the ransom wasn’t paid he probably hadn’t got a hope. It was only too obvious that the police were completely in the dark and had nothing whatever to go on. The slightest slip-up by the kidnappers might give them their opportunity but until then they were powerless—and there was no good reason to expect any slip-up. Wherever the kidnappers had hidden Landon, it must be somewhere pretty safe, because by now his face was as well known to the public as though he’d been a TV announcer and the whole country had been urged to keep watch for any out-of-the-ordinary incident that might give a clue to his whereabouts. And there just hadn’t been any. The dangerous time for the kidnappers had been the night of his abduction. Having survived that, having got Landon under cover, all they had to do was sit tight and wait.

  I was sent out of town that night on an entirely different story, so I didn’t hear the big news till I got back next day. It was sensational. Two more letters had arrived at the Ministry by the first post that morning, and one of them was from Landon himself. Clara had been called in to identify the handwriting, which she’d had no difficulty in doing. The letter had been written with a ball-point pen, on the same sort of typing paper as the first message from the kidnappers. It had said:

  “I am being well-treated and I am in good health, I have read what the newspapers have written—that my abductors will kill me in the end because I could describe them. I wish to say that both of them have worn face-coverings in my presence on all occasions and that up to now I could not describe them. If it is decided to pay the ransom money, therefore, I see no reason why they should kill me. Otherwise, they say they will, and I’m afraid they may mean it. I have written this of my own volition, in an effort to help myself. I am not allowed to say anything more. Arthur Landon.”

  The second letter had been made up of newspaper capitals, as before, and had said tersely:

  LANDON WILL BE KILLED AT MIDNIGHT NEXT TUESDAY IF THE THIRTY THOUSAND POUNDS HAS NOT BEEN PAID BY THEN. WE SHALL CONTINUE TO WATCH THE PRESS FOR SIGNS OF A SENSIBLE RESPONSE.

  The two letters had been sent separately, each in the same sort of foolscap envelope as before. The envelope containing Landon’s letter had been addressed in his own handwriting, the other in gummed capitals. Both had been posted in a box at Staines, Middlesex, some time between the last collection the previous evening, which had been at 7.30, and the first that day, which had been at 8 a.m.

  There was one thing at least that we didn’t have to wonder about any more. We knew now that the kidnapping was genuine and the danger deadly and imminent. But there was plenty of fresh ground for speculation. Could Landon’s letter be taken at its face value, or had he been forced to write what he had? Had he really not seen the face of his captors? On the whole, the view was that he hadn’t. The handwriting was firm. It didn’t look like the sort of letter a man was being forced to write under some immediate threat. You could dictate a calm-sounding, well-composed letter, but you couldn’t force a man’s hand to be steady as he wrote it down. The more you threatened, the less steady it would be. So this, presumably, was the genuine Landon, telling the truth. And if the kidnappers had taken the trouble to keep their faces covered all the time, that seemed a hopeful sign, for it suggested that they’d always intended to release Landon in return for payment, and had planned for it.

  Why Staines? Staines was near London, on the way to the West. Sheffield had been in the North. The likeliest answer, once again, seemed to be that neither place had any special significance. The unknown kidnappers were free to travel all over the country at will, provided Landon’s prison was secure, so they could post their messages anywhere. Variety would help to confuse the police, and give nothing away. There was certainly no slip-up yet.

  It was in the late afternoon that the office grapevine began to whisper of dramatic new events. Something, one gathered, was afoot. Sensitive antennae recorded strange goings-on. The Editor was known to have had a specially important lunch and no one could say with whom. Several of the senior executives had been called in to see him at unusual times. The chairman and one of the directors had been seen on their way up to the Board Room, though there was not normally a Board Meeting on Thursdays. The afternoon news conference was presided over by the Assistant Editor, which was rare on a weekday. By five o’clock, the privileged few who knew were discussing the matter conspiratorially in corridors. By six, the news was out. The Record was going to offer to pay the ransom money!

  It was a daring publicity idea—full of hazards, but likely to be most productive of goodwill if it came off. By now majority opinion in the country was undoubtedly in favour of some sort of action, and I thought we’d been pretty smart to get in before the other papers. I was supposed to be off duty at seven but I couldn’t tear myself away from the office and when the early edition of the paper came up soon after ten I grabbed a copy eagerly. The announcement was made in bold type on the front page. The Record it said, would make one payment of £30,000 to the kidnappers in return for their undertaking to release Landon. It would be paid in accordance with any reasona
ble instructions from the kidnappers, and the Editor was ready to receive those instructions in any way the kidnappers cared to convey them.

  On an inside page, there was an article by the Editor himself, explaining the paper’s action to our two million readers. The decision had been taken, he wrote, in the public interest, because we believed the country could not afford to sacrifice Landon. The offer was being made with a full sense of responsibility, and after the most careful consideration of all the issues involved. The Board realised that their decision would arouse controversy and that some people would be against it. They did not pretend that there was not another side to the question. It was repugnant to have to bargain with criminals, but the Board believed that this was an exceptional occasion. The Record yielded place to no one in condemning the outrageous crime that had been committed, and once Landon was released it would do all in its power to help bring the criminals to justice. The Board were aware that there was no certainty that Landon would in fact be released, but they believed that the chance must be taken and were prepared to pay for their belief.… It was a good article, frank and persuasive. Reading it, I could almost believe myself that our sole interest in the matter was to get Landon freed!