by John Creasey
“Will it affect you much?” Kate asked, as they went upstairs to bed.
“Shouldn’t think so,” answered Gideon. “On the whole, good not bad I’d say.”
This was no night for talking about police work, and he was sure that if the fog had been used as a cover for major crimes, he would be told if any were discovered. But he did not really expect much.
He was right.
The real professionals stayed at home. A few small-time criminals burgled houses near their own homes. Some who were planning to leave the country by air, with stolen jewels or currency in their baggage, had to sweat it out at the airports. Others did what the two men Gideon had caught had done; preyed on the elderly groping their way home.
There was, in fact, only one major crime in London that night; a murder which the murderer believed would never be discovered.
His name was Robert Marriott.
He was a married man of thirty-four, with an attractive wife and three children, the oldest nine, the youngest two.
He was an unusually good-looking man whose smile could light up the whole of his face, and could set many a girl’s heart beating fast.
He had stopped one girl’s heart from beating at all, over a year ago, and that body had never been discovered, so why should this? For his killing he needed fog, thick, impenetrable fog, and he had been waiting for such a night as this for months, nourishing a hope which grew into impatience as November came and still there was no fog.
But last night there had been some, and the forecast was for more, and much thicker, tomorrow: which was now today.
So he had telephoned Mary.
“Hallo, darling!”
“Oh, Bob – it is you!”
“Yes, darling, it is your old friend and lover, Robert the Marriott.”
“Bob, where are you?”
“Where do you think I am?”
“I hope you’re in London,” Mary had said.
“And for once your hopes are vindicated,” he had told her. “The fog is a blessing – I can’t go north.”
“You mean – you’re free tonight?”
“Free as I shall ever be.”
“Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!”
“It will be, if you’re free too.”
“Oh, I can be, I—Bob! Everyone’s talking about leaving early tonight because of the fog, I could get away by four o’clock.”
“Four!” Robert Marriott had echoed with fine-sounding enthusiasm. “It really is our night, sweetheart, because I can get away soon after three. Don’t speak, let me think.”
In fact, he knew exactly what he was going to say, in some perverted way he enjoyed this mockery of acting. He could picture her with her young, round face and her pretty blonde curls and her slightly swelling stomach, where their child lay so snug and warm.
“I’ve got it!” he said at last, as if he had made a great discovery and a great decision. “I’ll be at the entrance to the Cumberland Hotel at four o’clock.”
“Oh, darling, be inside. It’ll be warmer!”
“All right!” he promised. “I’ll be inside, but—you’ll have your coat, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, puzzled. “Why?”
“Because I want to go for our usual walk,” he said. “I’d hate to miss a stroll through the park, fog or no fog!”
“Oh, that will be lovely,” she replied, eagerly. “I just don’t want you standing about, I could be held up at the last minute.”
“Try not to be,” he had urged. “And I’ve a surprise for you!”
She had not kept him waiting for a single minute. She had come in wearing a close-fitting hat and a scarf and a loose fitting overcoat so nondescript that no one would possibly recognise her again. Nor would they recognise him, for he had a false beard and moustache, which made him look so different that although she saw him, she did not recognise him. Disappointment was heavy on her face when she made a complete circle of the foyer, and passed close to him.
“I told you I had a surprise for you,” he had said.
He could see her now, spinning round, eyes radiant at the sound of his voice, then clouding, then glowing again as he stretched out his hands.
“Bob, you’ve grown—”
He had not allowed her to say “a beard” but had taken her in his arms. Anyone who saw them would have guessed they were lovers who had been parted for a long time. Arm-in-arm they went out of the hotel across streets where visibility was poor but not dangerous, into the park – Hyde Park – where they had done their love-making in the long, warm summer nights.
Where he had done other love-making.
The fog had been very thick, here.
The strange thing was that knowing what he planned to do he could still feel desire for her. As strange, that in the thicket where he took her the fog and the cold seemed to melt away. He spread his raincoat for a sheet, and her coat over them. It was not strange that, soon, he should fondle her, and caress her neck, and she did not suspect what he was about to do when at last his hands tensed to a killer grip. She gasped when he twisted; but that was all.
Soon, he opened his brief-case, took out tools, and began to dig the hole in which to bury her.
The top soil was rich and loose; even the shrubs were easy to pull up. He removed four, then used a large trowel to scoop out the sub-soil, which was gravel for several feet down. It was heavy work, and he sweated so much that drops fell down his face and on to the earth.
Once, he thought he heard a footstep, and his heart seemed to turn over.
He stopped digging, got up on one knee, and listened intently, but the sound was not repeated. For a few minutes he was very cautious, constantly raising his head to listen, but gradually he began to work faster, until he was satisfied that the hole was large enough.
He lifted Mary’s body, lowering it carefully, tucking in the sprawling limbs. It was not long before it was partially covered. He rested for a while, listening but hearing only distant, mournful sounds. When he started again he dug into gravel he had not disturbed before. It was surprisingly loose, and for this he was thankful, until his trowel struck something hard and metallic. Puzzled, he dug further.
At last he cleared enough gravel away to make out the shape of a box.
He thought: Someone’s buried that! And he stared in horror. They’ll come back! He was suddenly panic-stricken, for if whoever had buried the box came back for it, they might find Mary’s body. For a terrifying moment he thought: I must dig her up, take her away! But even in the fog he dared not do that.
If he left the box here and they found it, they would not worry to dig deeper.
He shoved the dark soil over the gravel and covered the box again, and, gasping for breath, replanted the shrubs. No one would be surprised to see the soil disturbed about newly planted shrubs. What mattered was to get away. He cleaned his tools and put them back in his brief-case, then shook the raincoat free and folded it; he could throw that away later.
Once outside the shrubbery he peered in all directions, but there was only the fog. He walked away, trying to prevent himself from hurrying.
Chapter Four
BRIGHT MORNING
It was still dark when Gideon awoke. Kate was breathing the regular, deep breath of healthy sleep, and he lay on his side for a few minutes, relaxed, and remembering. Then he pushed bedclothes back cautiously and got out of bed, noting that the hands of the round bedside alarm clock pointed to ten past seven. An early morning at the office would do no harm. He had a quick shave, a tub, and was dressed within twenty minutes. Creeping down the stairs in his slippers, he congratulated himself that Kate hadn’t stirred. As he reached the telephone extension in the hall, he heard the faint tok of sound which always preceded a ring, and snatched up the receiver.
; “Gideon,” he said quietly.
“That was quick,” said a Cockney voice, and Gideon recognised it as the voice of an old friend and colleague, once his chief aide, now a superintendent at N.E. Division, one of the roughest in London. “Good-morning, George!”
“Good-morning, Lem. What’s your trouble?”
“Me? Trouble? Never let it be said!” Lemaitre was in a light-hearted and happy mood, not the easiest to bear with early in the morning. But Lemaitre would not call him at home unless there was a good reason. “You heard the rumour?”
“What rumour?”
“A great big London copper was seen going home with a jam jar full of tadpoles.”
“Only they weren’t tadpoles,” Gideon retorted. He was surprised that the story had got around so quickly, and wondered who’d started it. “What’s on your mind, Lem?”
“That jam jar,” answered Lemaitre.
“Lem, this is no time to—”
“Sorry, George,” Lemaitre interrupted hastily. “But if it has the fingerprints on it I think it has, then I’d like to get it tested and checked early.”
“I’ll take it to the Yard. Why the hurry?” Gideon wanted to know.
“Because the man whose dabs are on it, if I’m right, is a nasty piece of work named Sparrow Smith, and I want Sparrow on several jobs and I’d like him inside on a week’s remand. He’s planning a trip,” added Lemaitre. “I had a tip that he bought a ticket to Rome last night and is still at the airport. I’d like to pick him up before he leaves, and the planes are beginning to fly again.”
“I’ll have the jam jar picked up, taken to the Yard, and have Fingerprints call you,” Gideon promised.
“Thanks,” said Lemaitre. “I called them first, thought you may have sent it in already. Meanwhile old Bill at Heathrow is keeping an eye on Sparrow for me. I’ve got nothing on him, George, but we can delay him long enough to have those prints checked.” After a moment’s pause, Lemaitre asked with a laugh in his voice: “What does it feel like to be out on the beat again?”
“Good,” answered Gideon. “How—” He broke off, for he could ask questions later. “Lem—you call Information and have them pick this jam jar up, will you? It will be ready in five minutes.”
“Right-ho!” Lemaitre, still, apparently, on top of the world, rang off, leaving Gideon shaking his head.
He put the jam jar into a shoe box and was sticking down the lid as a police car pulled up. Gideon went to it as the passenger opened the door.
“Don’t get out,” he said. “Take this to Fingerprints at the Yard, immediately.”
“We’ll see to it, sir. Good thing the fog’s cleared, the roads are a mess.”
That was the first time Gideon realised that the fog had gone completely, and it was noticeably cooler. He wondered what kind of “mess” the roads were in as he went back to the kitchen and made himself some tea. He would get breakfast at the Yard, he decided; and could be on his way soon after eight.
As he drove along New King’s Road he understood the patrol car man’s remark. Cars were stranded, some in, some on the kerb, some on the pavement, some dangerously far from the kerb. Bicycles lay about, too, where their riders had simply given up. A few motorists were already starting their cars, others were getting off buses and walking towards their stranded vehicles. This would be happening all over London, of course. But if he knew London, Uniform and the Traffic police, the roads would be normal by midday and if fog hadn’t returned there would be no trouble tonight.
He wondered why Lemaitre wanted Sparrow Smith and if the man who had escaped last night was indeed Smith; and he turned off the main road to the one on the other side of the Common, drawn by some compulsion he did not think twice about. On the pavement close to the spot where he had been attacked was an old-fashioned leather cosh, flexible, filled with lead shot, capable of knocking a man out with one blow; capable of killing if the blow was hard enough, and yet leaving practically no superficial sign of injury.
He got out and picked this up, by the thick end, looked about and noticed nothing more until, back at the wheel, he saw something glisten beneath the street lamp, the light of which was fading in the coming dawn.
The glistening thing was a watch glass; unbroken. It might have nothing to do with what had happened here last night, but he put it with the cosh on the seat next to him, and started off again. He was back on New King’s Road when he saw two police cars, one with two detectives from the Fulham sub-division, turn off towards the Common.
“Wonder what they’re after?” he asked aloud.
He was held up at traffic lights at the extreme edge of the Common, and looking about noticed a big, badly written sign fastened to the trunk of a tree. The lettering, in red and blue, was badly smeared from the damp, but the message remained, clearly visible:
CLEAN UP OUR PARKS
The lights changed, engines roared, the man behind Gideon honked a “Get a move on” protest and Gideon moved on. Traffic, swollen by much that came from Fulham Broadway was now so thick that he had no chance to ponder.
It took him half an hour to reach Parliament Square; nearly another ten minutes to get to Scotland Yard. Everything here was normal. Mounting the long flight of stone steps the air echoed with “Good-mornings”. He passed a dozen Japanese in a group in the hall, one of the parties of police from overseas who had long been a feature of Scotland Yard; noticed a tall, strikingly attractive young woman obviously waiting for something or someone, then strode on to his own office. This had two windows overlooking the Embankment and the Thames. A desk, armchairs, filing cabinets and a table made up the furniture.
His desk was bare, but for three telephones and the trays fastened to it, marked: Out, In, Pending, Typing Pool. He was surprised, for usually it was spread with reports of cases already vetted by Alec Hobbs, the Deputy Commander. Hobbs was still a widower, and usually in early. What would happen to his punctuality after he had married Penny, his, Gideon’s, daughter, Gideon couldn’t imagine, for she was a concert pianist whose work kept her up late at night.
Where was Alec?
Gideon reminded himself that he was earlier than usual. Alec was probably in his own office, next door, going through mail and papers. Gideon gave a loud cough, to warn the other, and opened the door.
Hobbs wasn’t at his desk; his hat and coat weren’t on their stand.
Gideon frowned as he approached the pile of unopened letters on Hobbs’s desk. Unless there was something very urgent it would probably be better to leave everything untouched, but there were some pending investigations he was anxious to follow-up quickly. He was sitting on a corner of Hobbs’s desk, turning the letters over, when he heard his own telephone bell ring. So he lifted this one.
“Put the call from my room through here,” he said to the operator.
“One moment, sir—you’re through.”
“Commander?” It was Lemaitre again, but less informal.
“Yes, Lem?”
“We got him,” Lemaitre announced with great satisfaction. “Sparrow’s dabs were on that jam jar, couldn’t want anything clearer, so we’ve got him. George—”
“What ?” asked Gideon into a pause.
“You’ll see he’s remanded in custody for a week, won’t you? I need a week to check the other jobs I want to prove against him.”
“I can’t see anything but an eight-day remand and we’ll oppose bail,” Gideon promised. “Where is he now?”
“On the way from Heathrow to Fulham.”
“Good. Lem—how did you hear about me and the jam jar ?”
“Cor lumme, it’s everywhere!” Lemaitre exclaimed. “Some bright spark put it out on the teletype last night—hasn’t Hobbs shown you a copy?”
“He’s not in yet,” Gideon replied.
“Alec’s not? Well, I can read it
out—”
“Don’t worry, thanks,” Gideon said, and went on: “Did you have much trouble last night?”
“Not so much as usual,” Lemaitre assured him, “except—” there was a laugh in his voice, Gideon had seldom known him in a brighter mood —”the Enemies of Loving Couples have been at it again.”
“You’re talking in riddles this morning,” Gideon said, trying not to sound too gruff and disapproving. Lematire had always had the ability to get on his nerves.
“Riddles? Hasn’t Alec told you about Elsie?”
“Lem, I haven’t time to waste,” Gideon said, sharply.
“Er—sorry, George.” Lemaitre was always quick to withdraw from a position of danger. “What I mean is, some of the bushes in Hyde Park were cut down and others were pulled up by the roots last night. The bushes are love nests, if you know what I mean, and the Enemies of Loving Couples, or Elsie, are doing quite a job of destroying the nests. Yes, sir! Quite a job.” Lemaitre suddenly adopted an atrociously bad American accent, while Gideon saw in his mind’s eye a sign with the colours running into each other, but reading:
CLEAN UP OUR PARKS
“What kind of a job?”” Gideon asked.
“I’ve told you. There will be no rolling in the hay in Hyde Park again, no cover-up for illicit passion. You mean Alec hasn’t briefed you about what’s been going on?”
“Not yet,” Gideon answered.
“Biding his time,” Lemaitre opined, sagely. “He’s a deep ‘un. How’s the affair between him and Penny coming along?”
“The way love affairs usually come along,” Gideon answered, somewhat heavily. “That is, the church bell variety.”
Penny was twenty-six, Hobbs over forty and a widower; and he, Gideon, visualised a fairly early wedding.
“Good!” replied Lemaitre heartily. “Penny always was the apple of my eye. Well, thanks for the jam jar job, George! Anything else you want me for?”
“Not now,” Gideon answered shortly.
