by John Creasey
He rang off, and stared at Hobbs’s empty chair. Why hadn’t he, Hobbs, told him, Gideon, more about this vandalism in the parks? For whatever the cause and no matter how morally justified the perpetrators believed themselves to be, it was vandalism.
Going back over what he did know, Gideon reproached himself. A Superintendent Norton had been on the case, but was now on sick leave: Hobbs had asked if they should have a replacement, and Gideon had said: “Not unless it looks like getting out of hand.”
Well, it was beginning to!
Should he make a note for Hobbs and leave it on the desk? No, he decided; next time they were talking he would bring up the subject, if Alec didn’t get it in first. He probably would.
There was one major investigation in hand, in some ways the most serious for some years. It dealt with a series of jewel robberies, mostly from private houses but with a fair sprinkling from dealers. Only really valuable jewels were stolen, and at first the inquiries had been routine: each case had been followed up, a description of the jewels circulated not only throughout Great Britain but to most of the world’s police forces. After a while it was thought that the crimes were linked. None of the stolen jewels had been recovered either by the police or the insurance companies.
Six months before, in this room, Hobbs had suggested: “I’d like to put one man on the investigation, Commander. It looks as if it’s a well- organised series of burglaries, no matter how quickly we visit the fences we never find anything.”
“Good idea,” Gideon had agreed. “Who’ve you got in mind?” He could remember Hobbs’s faint smile even now, as if Hobbs had anticipated Gideon’s reaction when he said: “Spruce Bruce.”
“Must we?” Gideon had growled.
“Do you know, George,” Hobbs had said, dropping formality – a rare thing in the office – “I think Nathaniel Bruce is the only man here you’ve ever really shown prejudice against and dislike for.”
“Hope I’ve not made it public knowledge,” Gideon had said.
“No one thinks you dote on him,” Hobbs had said drily, “but I suspect you keep the strongest of your reactions for me. Has he ever upset you?”
Gideon had pursed his lips; as he pursed them now.
“Not by any specific thing, no. His manner somehow gets under my skin.”
“A bit hard on him,” Hobbs had suggested.
“I shouldn’t have thought so. He’s a first-class man, seldom misses a trick, and has a very good record of arrests,” Gideon said. “Any dislike I may have for him is hardly likely to hold him back.”
Now, after six months, there was no progress; only a much longer list of victims, so that every now and again a newspaper ran an article asking why Scotland Yard was allowing so much licence to jewel thieves; the case had become a kind of running sore.
Here on Hobbs’s desk was a handwritten note: Would be grateful for an early interview. N.B. The loops were very exaggerated, there was something almost feminine about the writing. Gideon, mindful of his talk with Hobbs, dialled Bruce’s number. Immediately there was a response in a rather high-pitched voice: “Superintendent Bruce.”
“Gideon here,” Gideon said, briskly. “Mr. Hobbs has been delayed. Do you want to wait for him, or see me about your note?”
“I’d like to see you, sir. The sooner the better.”
“Then make it now. I’m in Mr. Hobbs’s office,” Gideon said, and rang off.
If Spruce Bruce lived up to his reputation he would not be long; and before Gideon had been able to do more than look through some recent notes on the jewel robberies there was a tap at the door and the superintendent came in. He was a dapper man, immaculately and even overdressed in a neo-Edwardian cut suit. His dark hair was plastered over his head and he used some kind of scented hair-dressing. Under curling eyelashes his brown eyes had the shiny brightness of a chestnut fresh from its husk.
“Good-morning, Commander. The Deputy isn’t sick, I hope.”
“I don’t know what’s delayed him,” said Gideon, and went on without preamble: “What’s so urgent?”
“I think it urgent and I’m sure Mr. Hobbs would. I hope you will agree, Commander.” If this was an attempt to ingratiate himself, it wasn’t very good. “A man was picked up in Hyde Park last night. He drew attention to himself by running away when he saw two of our men who were seeing a party of Yugoslavs across to the Albert Hall. He slipped, and was picked up as I say. He had these with him.”
Dramatically, Bruce thrust his hand inside his pocket and drew out a wash-leather bag. The neck was untied and Bruce allowed a cascade of diamonds to fall from the bag on to his palm. They scintillated so brightly that Gideon was fascinated.
“The diamonds stolen three weeks ago from Leet and Son in Hatton Garden, sir,” Bruce stated. “I’ve checked size, carat weight, brilliance and colour. No doubt at all. It looks as if the prisoner had either hidden the bag in some bushes, as there are particles of soil in the folds, or dropped them at some stage.”
“Could be,” Gideon agreed. “What do you want to do?”
“Well, with your permission, sir, I won’t report to Leet and Son just yet. We’ve got this man and he may talk – so far he won’t give his name and he says he found the wash-leather bag on the ground. What I would like to do is consult my brother, sir.”
“Brother?” echoed Gideon, startled. “Yes, sir. My brother – whom Mr. Hobbs has met over the Elsie nuisance – is Controller of Parks. Both of us desired when at school to enter some kind of public service, and he, being a born gardener, took just such a post in St. James’s. He’s worked himself up to Controller, sir – the parks mean as much to him as the police force does to me. He will be able to say where the dirt on the bag came from, and—he’ll give us every possible help, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure he will,” echoed Gideon mechanically. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Commander!” Bruce, as pleased as a child promised a new treat, turned like a dancer on the balls of his feet, and went out.
Gideon pondered for a few moments: it would be impossible to find a more enthusiastic and dedicated officer, it was a thousand pities there was something about him that he, Gideon, didn’t like. He shrugged, and turned to the other files.
The most important was about a six-month-old bank raid. One of the men known to be involved was still free but there was a whisper that he was in London. This morning brought no further report, and no major crimes had been reported during the night.
He heard his telephone bell ringing again and this time went into his own office to answer it.
“Gideon, here.”
“Oh, Daddy!” It was Penelope; a rather breathless Penny.
Gideon had the strangest flash of premonition: that she and Alec had got married, had jumped the gun, had—
“Have you seen Alec this morning?”
“He’s not in yet,” said Gideon, tremendously relieved.
“I can’t understand it,” said Penelope. “He didn’t call me after the performance last night, and he nearly always does. I’m in Liverpool,” she added, as an afterthought, “and we’re playing tonight again. There’s no morning rehearsal, so ask him to ring me at the hotel before half-past one, will you?”
“Yes,” said Gideon.
“Bless you! I wouldn’t worry you at the Yard unless I were—well, I don’t understand it,” Penelope repeated, and without another word she rang off.
Gideon, putting the receiver down slowly, did not understand it either, but there must be a simple explanation: Hobbs had been held up somewhere by the fog. Yet trying to convince himself of that wasn’t easy: he could understand Alec being held up but not his failure to telephone Penny, nor his failure to telephone the Yard. Now it was half-past nine: very late for Alec Hobbs. It was much too early to be worried, of course, and yet Gideon was uneasy. Moreove
r, his routine was disorganised: Hobbs usually vetted all the cases under review and discussed them with Gideon, but one could not wait indefinitely.
He sent for six superintendents in charge of pending cases. The oldest was Jim Danson, close to retirement at fifty-five; the youngest, Alan Banning, who, at thirty, was one of the youngest Chief Detective Superintendents at the Yard. He was the only one who made no reference to a jam jar.
At last, Gideon closed the door on the last of them. He wanted to see the jam jar telex piece, and was about to go into Hobbs’s room to make a thorough search for it when his telephone bell rang.
“Gideon,” he said gruffly.
“Sorry to worry you, sir,” a man said. “It’s Reception here. There’s a lady who had an appointment with Mr. Hobbs at nine o’clock, and she’s still waiting. Mr Hobbs doesn’t seem to have come in yet.”
“Who is she and what is her appointment about?” asked Gideon.
“She is a Miss Hilda Jessop, sir—op. And she says Mr. Hobbs knew what it was about and it’s difficult to explain in a few words.”
“Oh, all right, bring her along,” Gideon conceded. It was half-past eleven and she had been kicking her heels for a long time. Where was Hobbs? This was so unlike him.
Gideon was at the window looking on to the rare November spectacle of a sunlit Thames when there was a tap at the door. On his “Come in,” it opened and the lovely woman he had seen earlier was ushered into the room.
Chapter Five
MORE OF “ELSIE”
She was really lovely; a true platinum blonde with silvery grey eyes, a perfect complexion and an unusual regularity of feature. She might be a little too perfect, and might lack some animation – but no, there was feeling in her expression as she came forward.
“Miss Hilda Jessop, sir,” announced the police constable from Reception, and went out, closing the door quietly.
“Good-morning,” Gideon said. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a long wait.”
“It is so unlike Alec,” she replied.
The way she uttered the name suggested familiarity; it could imply that she had come to see Hobbs on personal business.
“Very,” Gideon said drily. “Do sit down.”
“Thank you.” Like Kate, she had a natural grace of movement; and she had an attractive figure and slim, nicely shaped legs. Her shoes, like her gloves, were impeccable. “Will he be much longer, do you think?”
“I’ve no idea,” Gideon said.
“You mean he isn’t out on an assignment?” She sounded incredulous.
“Not to my knowledge,” Gideon replied.
“Then what on earth can have happened?” Her pleasantly modulated voice rose in what seemed to be genuine concern. “I took it for granted—but I should have known better,” she said, as if vexedly. “Alec wouldn’t stand me up like that.”
Again, there was that hint of familiarity.
“Alec wouldn’t deliberately keep anybody waiting,” Gideon said shortly. “Is this visit a personal one, Miss Jessop, or is it a police matter? If official, I may be able to help.”
She hesitated for a long time before answering; “It is official, although I first talked to Alec about it as a friend.” She adjusted the hem of her skirt, then suddenly went on with a rush: “It has become urgent or I wouldn’t have worried you.”
“What is urgent?” Gideon asked.
By now, he had a feeling that she was being deliberately evasive; was teasing him with obscure comments to hold his attention, and he did not like anyone, not even a beautiful woman, using such tactics on him. He had another anxiety. This woman might be very attractive to Hobbs – attractive enough to make him break his engagement to Penelope.
Was he being a fool?
“So he hasn’t told you about me,” she said.
“Not a word,” replied Gideon.
“Ah, how like him,” she said with a smile. “He told me he would say nothing to anybody until we’d met this morning. I—Commander, I think I am in danger of my life.”
The words came out flatly, each one sharp, cold, clipped. Her expression seemed to freeze; so did her body. Gideon did not know whether to groan in dismay, or take her seriously. People who believed themselves under threat were daily callers at the Yard. But – this young woman seemed to mean exactly what she had said, and yet she watched him as if knowing that he doubted her.
“And was Mr. Hobbs investigating the circumstances?” asked Gideon.
“Yes.”
It began to add up. She was a friend, possibly a friend of a friend, and Hobbs had been inveigled into promising to help; had, perhaps, made some inquiries. Hobbs would be as wary as Gideon of anyone who seemed to have a persecution complex, but if this woman had some kind of claim on him, he might well have promised to investigate. He would keep the story from Gideon, not want to harass him with what might prove to be a trivial affair.
“And he was to have told you this morning what he had discovered?” Gideon encouraged.
“It was to be a quid pro quo,” Hilda retorted. “I was to tell him what I had discovered, also.”
“You know,” Gideon said, leaning back in his swivel chair, “I hate to admit it but I really haven’t the faintest idea what you are trying to tell me.”
“Alec and I made a deal,” she said sharply.
“About what?”
“The parks.”
“The parks!” Gideon ejaculated.
“Yes. You must have heard of the campaign to clean up London’s parks and gardens. You must have.” She eyed him intently. “You surely know that there are people who behave with such promiscuous indecency in the parks that others no longer feel it possible to walk through them. As I told Alec, the attitude of the police is one of the most shameful aspects of a shameful situation.”
“Oh,” said Gideon. “And what is the attitude of the police?”
“Utter indifference,” Hilda Jessop replied. “It is difficult to believe they have not been instructed to turn a blind eye to what goes on. Young people sprawl in the grass, even close to the paths, in the most shameful of attitudes, and as for what goes on in the bushes—”
“Bushes!” Gideon had a swift mental picture of Lemaitre, and a momentary illusion that he could hear the Cockney voice … “What I mean is, some of the bushes in Hyde Park were cut down and others 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.”
“What kind of bargain did you strike with Mr. Hobbs?” Gideon demanded curiously.
“A very simple one. He wanted to know who was damaging the bushes and thickets in the park, a form of vandalism which he told me is on the increase. I promised to find out, if I could, whether any of the militant organisations were responsible.”
“Women’s militant organisations?”
“Mostly,” Hilda Jessop admitted.
“Did you find out?”
“I think I might have some clues.”
“Such as—” Gideon began, and paused hopefully.
“I really don’t intend to give information away without learning anything in return,” the young woman retorted. “Alec promised to find out whether there is any directive to the police to turn a blind eye to what goes on. Is there, Mr. Gideon? Is there? Surely you must know, if anyone does.”
Gideon studied her for what must have seemed a long time, and she did not look away; her directness was not far removed from boldness, and she was demanding an answer. Gradually he felt anger rising: against this woman and her attitude, her – was arrogance the right word? He leaned forward, placing his large hands palm downward on the desk.
“Miss Jessop,” he said, “causing damage to public property can be a
serious offence, punishable in certain circumstances by imprisonment. Any person who withholds information from the police about such offences is virtually conniving at their continuance. If you have such information I want it, here and now, please.”
She was completely taken aback by his change of attitude; and she was far from the first person to have been deceived by his mild and easy manner. He was, in some circumstances, granite hard; and in others ruthless. He was first and last a policeman, allowing nothing to stop him from maintaining the law. Now he looked not only massive but powerful as he stared stonily at the young woman before him.
“Now, please,” he repeated in an unrelenting voice.
“I don’t know—” she began.
“If you came here with information for Mr. Hobbs you can give it to me,” he interrupted. “Do you know who is responsible for the vandalism in the parks, Miss Jessop?”
She scarcely moved her lips as she answered: “I—I might.”
“Please don’t play with words. Do you or don’t you?”
Gideon wondered whether he was goading her into stubbornness; he did not think she was an ordinary woman and was sure his change of approach had caught her off balance. He wished he knew more than the little Lemaitre had told him, and was nagged by the fact that Hobbs had obviously kept much away from him.
Suddenly, she was defiant: “I think I know. I am not sure.”
“We can soon make sure.”
“Have the police orders to turn a blind eye to what goes on in the parks?” she demanded; and her voice cut like a knife. “No,” Gideon replied.
“If you are lying to me—”
“That is more than enough,” Gideon interrupted icily. What on earth was the matter with Alec to allow himself to make any kind of agreement with this woman? He pressed a bell for a messenger, then dialled Information. “There was a teleprinter message last night about a man with a jam jar, send me a copy, will you?”
“Yes, Commander,” the man from Information replied.
Gideon grunted “Thanks.” At the same time there was a tap at the door and an elderly police constable appeared.
