Gideon's Night

by John Creasey

  Years ago, Kate and he had lost a child, one about the dead baby’s age. He had been out, after Kate had pleaded with him to stay. That had begun an estrangement which only the years had broken down; and tonight there were three babies, one dead and two in danger. Until this minute he hadn’t thought of that.

  “George?”

  “Hello, I’m sill here.”

  There was a note of laughter in Kate’s voice.

  “It was Matthew. He found that he was hungry after all. Apparently you didn’t do him any serious harm. What did he talk about?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the larder, foraging.”

  “Well, don’t let him know that you know yet,” said Gideon. “This fancy might fade out. He wants to give up the idea of a university, and join the Force as a copper.”

  Gideon paused, but Kate didn’t respond immediately, and he went on more quickly and a little anxiously. “He has a silly notion that the life is adventurous and romantic, and I tried to make sure that he knows that it could be dull.”

  “I don’t know what you tried to do, but you succeeded in making him think that our policemen are wonderful - even including his father,” Kate said, quite normally. “I’ve suspected for some time that he didn’t want to sit for the examination, but” - she was anxious after all …”can’t we persuade him that he’d be more use at the Yard as a lawyer than …”

  “A flatfoot,” Gideon said dryly. “We’ll have a damned good try. Anything else, Kate?”

  “Not really,” Kate said, and then added almost brusquely. “What kind of a night is it up there?”

  “Bit misty,” Gideon said promptly.

  “I know you and a ‘bit misty,’” Kate said roundly. “It wouldn’t be thick here and thin by the river, but I didn’t mean that. I meant are you busy?’

  “Busyish,” said Gideon, and hesitated, and realized more clearly and without the sense of shock that the reason that he had gone to Hurdle Street was because of the death of his own child so many years ago. Subconscious compulsion. In the morning, Kate would open her newspaper and read the headlines, and if he didn’t tell her now, she would probably think that he had deliberately kept it back from her. So: “One very ugly job,” he told her.

  “Oh.”

  “Looks like a psychopathic case,” Gideon went on. “Three young babies have been kidnapped.” He needn’t tell her that one of them was dead.

  She was momentarily quiet again. Then:

  “I’m sorry it happened on the night you’re there,” she said, “but perhaps it’s as well for the parents that it did.” She implied: “You’ll do everything possible, it matters so much to you.” Then she went on with a spurious lightness of tone: “Any news of the Prowler?”

  “It looks as if he’s having a night off,” said Gideon.

  Another telephone rang and he glanced toward it - and, while it was still ringing, Kate said, “I can hear that. I’ll ring off, darling,” and she rang off. He smoothed his chin as he put the receiver back and stretched out for the other.

  Kate had done him a world of good; he must find some way of making her understand that.

  “Yes,” he said, “Gideon here.”

  “Got a Prowler job,” said Whittaker from the Information Room. “Out at Brixton.”

  This was it; the half-hoped-for and half-feared. Here was the deepest reason for Gideon being at the Yard tonight; here was the greatest challenge. By it, Kate, the kidnapped babies, Matthew, everything and everyone were bundled out of Gideon’s mind.

  “Bad case?’ he barked.

  “Usual, I suppose,” said Whittaker. “This girl had been out to a youth club. She usually comes home with her boy friend, but the boy had hurt his ankle and couldn’t walk so she came back on her own. This swine was crouching just inside the porch of her house; she didn’t see him until she was almost on him. He jumped at her and nearly choked the life out of her.”

  “Anything else?’

  “The usual. Cut some of her hair off, but that’s all.”

  “Fetish job,” Gideon said, making that half a statement and half a question. “He takes the hair away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got the colour, some of the hair, and … ?’

  “Chestnut, long wavy, and we’ve sent a few strands over to the lab.”

  “Fine,” said Gideon. “How is the girl?”

  “She’ll be all right when she’s got over the shock. It happened an hour ago. She wasn’t found for twenty minutes or so, and her parents lost their heads. I say she’ll be all right,” went on Whittaker in a different tone, “and she will be, but he came nearer to choking the life out of her than any of the others. One of these days …”

  “I know,” said Gideon. “What’ve we done?”

  “The usual. Flashed QR and ST Divisions and all patrol cars, and …”

  “Wait a minute,” Gideon said. “It’s a nasty night and we’ve already one big job on, but we’ve got to go ail out to get the Prowler, too. The two jobs overlap in places. So far they’re in the central districts, mostly near the river. I’ll call each of the outer ring divisions and get some help. You call available patrol cars and have them block bridges and underground stations. We’ll stop buses, too. We want a man with a lock of hair in his pocket, long hairs probably on his clothes. He …”

  “You’re really going to town,” Whittaker broke in.” We can’t start searching until …”

  “We don’t have to search; we only have to threaten to, and our man will panic,” said Gideon. “Get a move on - stop all traffic at barriers on bridges, main roads and stations, and put a cordon round.”

  “There could be hell to pay …”

  “There will be if you don’t get started,” Gideon said. “There won’t be many people out tonight, so traffic will be pretty thin. It can be done. Right?”

  “You’re the boss,” said Whittaker. “Right.”

  “Let me know how things go,” said Gideon.

  He had been aware of the door opening soon after he’d started to talk, and glanced up to see Appleby, brisk, fresh and rather startled. He put the receiver down but kept his hand on it.

  “Hear all that, Charley”

  “Yes. Prowler?”

  “Yes. Get on that telephone and call the outer ring Divisions - one for you and one for me, until we’ve done ‘em all. We want a dozen uniformed men from each into QR and ST, quick - and we want our own chaps at the road blocks.”

  Appleby was already at Lemaitre’s desk.

  “Then what?”

  “We want every pedestrian questioned about a baby seen out tonight, and about that hair,” said Gideon.

  “We need samples of the hair …”

  “You may have a lot of trouble in the morning,” warned Appleby.

  “I’ll take what’s coming, and if we get the Prowler or those babies we won’t have many questions. The fog is all the cover most crooks need; our chaps might as well concentrate on one or two.”

  “Right,” Appleby said.

  Both men were on the telephone without respite for twenty minutes. By that time the concentration of police in the Divisions directly concerned was nearly finished, bridge barriers were set up, and the great search was on.

  Gideon made written and mental notes as he went on, checked and double-checked, and made sure nothing had been forgotten. If the Prowler and those two children were inside the cordon, they would probably be found.

  When it was finished, he lit a cigarette and sat back.

  “Anything else doing?” he asked Appleby.

  “Not much, yet - only just turned eleven.” Appleby smoothed down his brittle-looking, close-cut hair. “Midgeley came on and said he’d told his chaps to layoff the pros tonight; anyone out for business in weather like this deserves a break.”

  Gideon grunted noncommittally.

  “The Hatton Garden chaps are over at Cannon Row,” Appleby went on. “Got three at a warehouse in Smithfield, helping themselv
es to carcasses of mutton. Couple of backdoor jobs in Park Lane. We called off two nightclub raids; wouldn’t be likely to get a big enough haul. Had a call from Paris; there’s a Johnny on the nine-o’clock plane carrying about two hundred watches - we’ve tipped off the Customs. That chap Grey over at Cannon Row for the landlady murders has collapsed - he’s been sent to the hospital, and old Gore thinks it’s genuine.”

  “Something I needn’t worry about now,” Gideon said. “And what else?”

  “That’s about all.”

  “Enough,” said Gideon ruefully.

  He had come to get the Prowler, because the Prowler was doing a lot of harm. It was always the devil when one man seemed able to cock a snook at the police for any length of time, and there was a risk that the Prowler would become more violent the longer he stayed free.

  Would he kill?

  That was an academic question. He would terrify, anyhow. Whittaker could say that his latest victim would be all right, but how did he know? What kind of shock to the nervous system was a thing like this? If it happened to one of his daughters he wouldn’t be complacent about it; he -

  A telephone rang.

  “Gideon,” he said.

  “There’s a Mrs. Penn on the line, sir,” said the operator, “and she particularly wants to speak to you.”

  “Penn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got her address?’ “Yes, sir, she’s at twenty-one Horley Street, Fulham.”

  “AB Division?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Put her through,” said Gideon.

  Here was the harassed, worried, stubborn and courageous Mrs. Penn, the woman whose young husband had run out on her, and who was sure that something “awful” had happened. He wondered how she had got hold of his name, and wondered also if he could find out more than Lemaitre or the Divisional men had yet been able to discover.

  He waited for a long time.

  Then the operator came on the line.

  “Sorry about that, sir, she’s gone off - been cut off, prob’ly. Shall I put her through when she comes on again?”

  “Yes,” said Gideon, “at once.”

  There was nothing he could do.

  In that part of southwest London covered by the ST and the QR Divisions, the police were not only out in strength, but they were in a much more angry mood than usual, for the Prowler had often struck on the borders of the two Divisions, and the Divisional Superintendents hadn’t minced words when they had said what they thought of the men on the beat. That, of course, was unjust. The Criminal Investigation Department was fairly well up to strength, but the uniformed branches were short one man in three of full establishment. The Superintendents knew it, but they also knew that something was needed to get their men right on their toes tonight, and a few nicely chosen words to individuals for passing on through sergeants had that effect. There was more: if the Prowler was caught it would be a feather in the Divisional cap.

  Above everything, Gideon was on the rampage.

  The fog was not so bad in that part of London, but patchy. The Prowler might decide to call it a day, but the police would assume that he hadn’t. Still, facts were facts. In that part of London there were nine times as many streets as there were policemen, and even when the reinforcements arrived there would still be many more streets than policemen. Some of the streets were so long that, even on a clear night, it was difficult to see from one end to the other. The Prowler might lurk in one street for an hour, and not run the slightest risk. He would hide in a doorway, too, or behind hedges or walls - always in the most unexpected place; but he only attacked from the front doors or the gardens of the houses of his victims. Only two certain things were known about him: the shiny face, probably a mask, and the fact that he always knew where to attack. He must study the places where he was going to work, being sure that a young girl lived there.

  He usually chose girls in their late ‘teens; pretty girls, too.

  Jennifer Lewis was nineteen.

  She was not usually afraid of the dark or afraid of the Prowler, for the Prowler although familiar as a name, was someone out of a book - a creature one read about but who didn’t really exist. She would not have worried about walking home on her own that night, except for the man who had sat on the bus opposite her and kept looking at her, and who had jumped off the bus just after her.

  Her home, in Middleton Street, Brixton, was over ten minutes’ walk from the bus stop, and part of the way it was along narrow, ill-lit streets. Because of the patchy fog, she couldn’t walk quite so quickly tonight; sometimes, near street lamps, it was almost dazzling, at others she found herself on the curb when she thought she was in the middle of the pavement.

  She was a pretty girl, with a nice figure and nice legs. Attractive in every way. She had a boy friend whom she felt sure she was going to marry in a few years’ time, but he was away on his National Service, and Jennifer Lewis believed that, if your own boy friend couldn’t see you home, no boy should.

  The man followed her; or she thought he did.

  She didn’t even see him when she looked round, but she could hear his footsteps, and they always seemed to be exactly the same distance away. She turned two corners, rather slowly each time, and he still came on. By then she was breathing hard and hating her fears, quickening her pace whenever she could, dreading moments when she had to slow down.

  Then the footsteps behind her stopped.

  She listened for a few seconds, fearful that they would start again, but they didn’t. She tried to convince herself that the man had reached his home, that he hadn’t been following her, but her imagination began to play tricks, and she was almost sure that he was tiptoeing after her, making no noise. Could he be walking on his stockinged feet?

  She strained her ears for the slightest sound, but there was none. The streets were deserted. Lights shone at the front of a few houses, but these were few and far between. The night was clearer as she neared her own street, and at last she came within sight of the lamp and the post box at the corner. For the first time since she had left the bus, she felt relief from tension, although she still walked quickly. As it happened, there was no street light near the front of her home, and, as the family lived at the back, there would be no light at the front windows. She passed the lighted window of one house, several doors away, and saw the shadows of a man and woman against the blind.

  Now she walked more naturally, and without tension.

  It was very nasty just here, the middle of a thicker fog patch, but there was no longer any danger of losing her way or wandering into the curb, because the gate of her house was painted a pale blue and couldn’t be mistaken. She saw it, looking almost as if it were coated with luminous paint, and opened it quickly. It squeaked a little, but she expected that. The silence about her was so complete that, of itself, it seemed frightening.

  Yet she was no longer frightened.

  She did not think of the Prowler.

  The porch of the house was narrow, and normally she could see every inch of it from the gate, but tonight the fog put it out of sight, as well as the door, which was painted black. She took three short steps toward the porch.…

  A figure appeared in front of her, the figure of a leaping man.

  Pain born of fear slashed across her breast; then came horror. But before she could scream, before she even tried to, the man’s hands were at her throat. She felt the pressure of his fingers, suddenly and savagely brutal.

  Her own arms were free and waving wildly.

  She felt herself carried backward by the man’s weight, and would have fallen but for his gripping fingers. She couldn’t breathe, had no hope at all of shouting, of calling for help. His face was close to hers, a hideous, grinning face, a mask of a face.

  Then she kicked him.

  She wore sensible walking shoes with solid toe caps and felt the kick strike home and heard him wince, even felt him relax his grip. She kicked again with all her strength, and for the sec
ond time the toe cap struck home. This time there was a sharp sound; she had caught him squarely on the shin. Again his fingers relaxed but didn’t let go altogether. She had time to clutch at his wrists, and dug her fingernails into the flesh.

  All the time she saw that leering mask of a face and heard him breathing, felt his hot breath on her cheeks.

  She could breathe.

  She screamed.

  “Help!” she shrieked, and the sound came shrill and louder than she had dared hope. “Help, help, help!” She pulled despairingly at the man’s wrists, feeling them warm and sticky where blood came from the scratches, and in her terror she kept screaming and kicking and writhing - until suddenly he struck her viciously across the face. She went staggering, gasping as he leaped for her again.

  She fell, but her hands were free for a moment and she struck out blindly. She caught her finger under the edge of that grinning mask, and actually dislodged the mask itself; when she struck again it slid off his face but was held by string or elastic in a grotesque position alongside him. He seemed like a two-headed monster - and the bared teeth and the savagery on his real face were worse by far than the false one.

  “Heeeeelp!” she screeched into the dark night, but could hear nothing, felt only the fingers of his left hand at her throat again as he knelt on her. She saw something bright and glinting in his other hand.

  A knife.

  Oh, God, no!

  Then she felt a tug at her hair. She didn’t realize what he was doing, but, as she fought, he banged her head against the cold stone of the ground, and she felt great pain.

  She nearly lost consciousness.

  Then footsteps sounded; of running men.

  The Prowler raised Jennifer’s head and banged it down three times, but at the third he peered upward into the murk, as if only then hearing the footsteps. He let her go, and jumped up. Men were coming in the same direction as the girl had come. The Prowler turned in the other as soon as he reached the pavement, and started to run - and his rubber-soled shoes made little sound.

  Clearly, a man said, “Hear that?”

  “Someone running.”

  “After him!”