Not Hidden by the Fog

by John Creasey

  “Get out of my way, you clod,” she said to the man, and he obeyed. Hobbs turned and went back into “his” room. She followed him, putting the tray on the table. There was a plastic knife and fork, a bowl of what might be soup, two crusty hunks of bread, a slab of butter and a piece of cheese.

  “Any trouble from you and back you go to that bed,” she declared. She had a square face with a thin mouth, but was not bad-looking and her eyes were an attractive brown. She took a small transistor radio from a pocket of her jacket, and placed it next to the tray.

  Then she went out, locking the door behind her.

  It was senseless to sulk; to delay eating. Hobbs pulled up the only chair in the room, sat down, and took the lid off the bowl. The steam and the aroma which arose took him completely by surprise. This was a stew, with dumplings, chunks of meat and vegetables; and he knew before he tasted it that it was going to be full of flavour.

  “Well, they’re not going to starve me,” he said aloud. “Or keep me isolated.”

  He switched on the radio, then settled down to eat.

  While he ate, his mind clicked into the right channels. If this kidnapping was because of a case he was deeply involved in, then there could only be three.

  The jewel robberies were an obvious first, but Collier knew more than he about them. Yet, he knew a great deal, and if his kidnappers wanted to find out what the police were doing about them, he was a better man to question than Collier. Did they – could anybody – seriously believe that he would talk? They might think he would, under pressure; there was literally no telling what methods of persuasion they would use. In all, nearly half a million poundsworth of jewels had been stolen, and the thieves would probably take great risks and go to unprecedented lengths to get away with it.

  The Hale and Commyns case was another possibility but less likely; the company was obviously fraudulent and knew that the truth would be found out before long. The men involved might flee the country, but – no, he didn’t see that they would take this kind of action.

  It couldn’t – it couldn’t be the E.L.C. affair, could it?

  He felt a stab of uneasiness. Some of its members were fanatics and there was no way of being sure that they would not break the law if they thought it would serve their purpose. He had hoped only this morning to learn more about them from Hilda, but—

  He drew in a sharp breath as a possibility flashed into his mind.

  Was it conceivable that he had been kidnapped to prevent him from seeing her and so learn some particular clue she had come upon?

  Oh, nonsense!

  He finished eating, and pushed the chair back, disgruntled not only with the situation but with the limited range of his thinking. He stared at the radio – wasn’t it ever going to broadcast the news?

  There was a break in the music, six pips sounded the time signal, followed by the announcer saying in his brisk way: “This is Radio Four of the British Broadcasting Service with the nine o’clock news. Before the news, a statement is to be made by Commander George Gideon, chief of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, who has a request to make to all members of the general public, particularly those who were in or near Hampstead yesterday afternoon between four o’clock and five. This statement will be broadcast on all radio and all television channels. Please stand by.” There was another pause, before Gideon’s voice sounded, deep and clear.

  Hobbs no longer had any doubt why he had been allowed a radio.

  “If there was just someone I could talk to,” Lennie Sappo was saying to himself. He was bothered, even though this was his lucky night; he was crowded in with a dozen others, watching television in a radio and repair shop. If he could he would stay until the last programme; he did not mind what it was.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE APPEAL

  The television lights burned dazzling bright. The studio where Gideon sat was unbearably hot. There were three microphones in front of him, and he was alone but for the camera crew. He knew that a group of technicians were in another room, working their mighty miracles and sending pictures and sound out to millions of listeners and viewers. But he had been before television cameras often and was not nervous, even though he was more anxious than he could ever remember.

  “It is not often that the Metropolitan Police asks the British Broadcasting Corporation and the Independent Television authority for this privilege,” he began. “Because it is not often that a situation of such gravity arises. The law – the police – are often challenged by criminals, and you all know that there is a constant state of war between us.” He paused long enough for the significance of what he said to sink in, and then went on: “The Home Secretary and the Commissioner of Police both agree that a situation has arisen which could become extremely dangerous; could lead to a more dangerous open challenge to authority by some criminals than this country has ever known. And it is simply this: my deputy, Deputy Commander Hobbs, has been abducted. It is not yet known why, but it is known that at least one murder has been committed in connection with the abduction. It is also beyond all reasonable doubt that this is an effort to force the authorities to take a certain course of action, by pressure of their anxiety for the safety of a very fine police officer.”

  Gideon paused again …

  Hobbs sat, unmoving.

  Penelope, during the interval of the concert her orchestra was giving in Liverpool, watched with great tension, hands clenched.

  Kate Gideon, alone in the middle room of the house in Harrington Street, heard her husband’s words, her face white.

  Hilda Jessop, also alone, sat in an expensive flat in Knightsbridge watching this man with his strong face and deep, penetrating voice, and seeing what she had glimpsed at his office: a combination of power, of ruthlessness and authority. What this man had to do, he would do.

  In their various houses, the Gideon family watched.

  The mass of ordinary people, unknown, unknowing, were yet drawn by the compulsive power of the speaker, held as if by some great star; gripped as much by how he said what he had to say as by the burden of his message.

  A little woman in a small apartment in Hampstead sat watching; on her lap a Yorkshire terrier lay asleep.

  All the members, men and women, of the Ecology of London Committee watched.

  Many park-keepers watched, not knowing how they might be affected.

  Alfie, at the garage in New King’s Road, sat holding his breath as he watched his hero.

  P.C. Arthur Simpson and P.C. Best watched intently.

  Every criminal who was not out on a job watched Gideon’s face and listened to the voice of a man who was at once their arch enemy and at the same time a man whom they all respected, even those with cause to hate him.

  It seemed, indeed, as if all Britain saw and heard; which was what Gideon wanted above all.

  He did not realise it, but the intensity of his feeling was such that all who saw and heard were aware of it; and were gripped by a sense of the danger to society which could grow out of the abduction of a policeman.

  “It must be understood by everyone concerned that we shall not yield to pressure; that we are the upholders of the law, and that it is the law which upholds the rights of the people.” Gideon paused, straightened his great shoulders, and continued: “I want to ask everyone who might conceivably know anything which could help us to find Mr. Hobbs, to telephone the nearest police station or the nearest newspaper office at once. There are some who may, knowingly or unknowingly, have seen or heard something of vital importance that night at the corner of Hampstead Lane and Pleasance Street, when the fog was at its thickest …”

  A photograph of the corner appeared behind him and gradually filled the screen.

  “Here is the car …”

  A picture of the white M.G. showed next and was held for a few seconds, before graduall
y fading and being superseded by a photograph of Alec Hobbs. It was a good, studio portrait, taken for Penny, and in his dark-haired, even-featured way, Hobbs was very handsome.

  It was almost as if millions drew in their breath at sight of him.

  “The car, or the man, might have been seen in many parts of London yesterday,” Gideon went on. “But we are interested only in the time between four and five o’clock because we are almost sure that soon after five o’clock the car was in this garage.”

  A picture of the house known as The Towers was shown, with the FOR SALE notice, and shifted slowly to the open doors of the garage. Slowly, slowly, the camera seemed to draw the car towards it; lights were now on in the garage, focusing on the car, the number plate, the plastic sheet.

  “With a dead man, a murdered man, sitting where Mr. Hobbs had been a very short time before,” Gideon told his audience, and again it was as if the millions drew in a short, sharp breath of horror.

  The head and shoulders of the dead man showed for an agonising moment; then Gideon appeared again, as solid as if he would never change. For a second time he leaned forward, to give his point due emphasis.

  “There may be people among you who saw Alec Hobbs after the attack. You may have seen him prisoner in another car; or entering or leaving a car or a house. If you have any reason to think you did, tell the police or the Press at once. The slightest clue could give us the vital information we need.

  “And there are, almost certainly among you, some who took part in the abduction. The little old lady with the Yorkshire terrier, for instance …”

  A few miles away the little old lady clutched her dog so tightly that he awoke with a start.

  “There are the individuals who actually carried out this abduction,” Gideon went on. “There are those who ordered it. There are the leaders and those who work for the leaders. I promise any and every one of you who were involved in the crime the utmost consideration if you will telephone me – or any police station – or any newspaper office – telling me where to find Alec Hobbs. Or where we might find him. Or where we will find anyone who can give us the information we need.

  “This is not simply a matter of catching a criminal.

  “It is a matter of defending and protecting the whole fabric of our society.”

  The camera held him for a moment; for a much longer period than it usually held its subject, but gradually the picture faded, and the voice died away.

  It did not die in Hobbs’s ears. It echoed and re-echoed, and when he closed his eyes he could “see” Gideon as clearly as the millions had seen him. He heard the footsteps on the stairs, became aware of the sound of the key turning in the lock, and of the door opening.

  The woman Clara said: “He must be crazy, to think we’d grass.”

  Hobbs looked at her.

  “And you’d better hope he changes his mind,” Clara went on aggressively. “You are going to be part of a deal, Alec. No deal, no Alec Hobbs, just a body.” She took the tray and backed towards the door, showing some sign of nervousness for the first time. “And I don’t mean maybe.”

  She backed out, as Hobbs gripped the sides of the table.

  Before he could move, even before he had decided whether to move, the man with the gun appeared in the doorway.

  He gave a grin of derision, then pulled the door to; a moment later the key turned in the lock.

  Almost before Gideon had finished talking the telephone calls began to come in with reports of Hobbs, of white M.G.s, of old ladies with Yorkshire terriers, being seen in a dozen, a hundred, parts of London at the same time. The police checked every report thoroughly, but there were not enough men to keep on top of the job, even when hundreds were drafted in from neighbouring divisions. The newspapers were printing Gideon’s broadcast verbatim, emphasising the fight between crime and society, the fact that no principles could be sacrificed for any individual policeman.

  Even old lags telephoned, some with mock condolence but many with genuine goodwill.

  Meanwhile, every policeman on duty in the London area was on the lookout for an elderly woman with a Yorkshire terrier. She would probably be frightened. She might, Gideon knew, be so frightened that she would kill and bury the dog.

  There was one other possibility which preyed on Gideon’s mind.

  She, herself, might be killed to make sure she could not talk.

  Her name was Geraldine Tudor.

  She was very proud of this name and of her country and of London; she loved London.

  And she loved her dog.

  She was, like so many others of her generation, shocked by what was happening to young people. She did not understand the changes in attitudes and the new morality. To her, permissiveness was an ugly word. For years she had gone about her beloved Hampstead Heath, shocked by the shamelessness of young people. Where some, rightly or wrongly, kept to the beaten track and guessed without seeing the lovers in their arbours, she went wherever the little dog led her, and iron entered her soul.

  She longed to do something to prevent such promiscuity, and such an abuse of the public parks and commons, and when she saw in a shop window in Hampstead Village a handwritten poster announcing a meeting of all who wanted to clean up the parks and open spaces, she was almost the first in the church hall where the meeting was being held. Not the first; others who felt as strongly as she, were ahead of her.

  Quite a number of those who attended the meeting joined the E.L.C. and pledged themselves to take active steps to help to clean up London. Some were old enough to remember and talk about the days of Sylvia Pankhurst and the early suffragettes. All were prepared to chain themselves to railings, organise marches and meetings for the distribution of leaflets, undertake anything and everything that would contribute to the funds of E.L.C.

  Geraldine Tudor joined heartily in such endeavours, proud of everything she did. She had been asked by telephone, in the name of the Chairman of the local Committee to go and stand by near Ken Wood, and she had done so unhesitatingly in spite of the fog. When she had been instructed by a woman in a passing car to distract the policeman, she had done so happily, thrilled to be of use.

  Now, she knew what she had really done.

  Was this for the good of E.L.C.? If it was, she would take the consequences. But she had not been able to get any reply to a telephone call to the Chairman, and now she simply did not know what she should do.

  But the little dog must be exercised; she would decide what to do when she came back.

  Half an hour after watching Gideon, she had left her large bed-sitter in a big house on the other side of Hampstead Heath, the dog frisking eagerly, and a shawl over her arm. The Common was only a hundred yards away, and she picked him up as soon as she reached the garden and bundled him up in the shawl. Once on the Common she would meet no one, and the fact that she had a Yorkshire terrier with her wouldn’t be noticed.

  As she stepped out of the garden, a man moved out of the shadows.

  She did not notice that he followed her.

  When she reached the Heath, she loosened the shawl and bent down to let the dog wriggle clear of the wool. Almost at once, he started to bark furiously. She turned round, whispering urgently: “Quiet boy, quiet!” but suddenly saw the man with his arm upraised, and in his hand a weapon, clear against the light of a lamp on the other side of the road.

  She screamed.

  The dog yapped furiously, and as the man lunged forward, leapt at his ankles. The silence of the Heath was broken by a furious commotion, the dog now snarling, the woman screaming, the man swearing and trying to shake himself free. Then, without warning, a powerful torch shone out. The man turned to run, but the dog held him by the trouser end. The policeman took three masterful steps forward, handcuffs dangling from his left hand, and as the attacker’s weapon arm swung round he grabbed, twisted, and snapped on the o
ther handcuff.

  The headlights of a police car came swaying along the road which bordered the Common. Geraldine Tudor bent down and gripped the still furious dog, clutching him to her. The man handcuffed to the policeman stood gasping for breath and glaring, but his weapon – two feet of iron piping – was on the ground, and the policeman was young and powerful.

  The police car stopped and two men spilled out.

  “I think he was going to kill the woman,” stated the policeman, “but don’t worry about him, look out for that dog. He’s a spirited little basket.”

  “Who can I tell?” Lennie Sappo asked himself, in acute distress. “I shouldn’t have been there, if I tell the cops they’ll nab me!”

  Chapter Twelve

  MURDERER?

  “George,” Kate Gideon said, “it I really won’t do any good to worry so much.”

  “I know it,” Gideon growled. He was prowling about the middle room just after half-past ten that night. “All the same, I’m as worried as hell. I’m far from sure I should have mentioned the woman with the Yorkshire terrier, and—oh, I know, what’s done can’t be undone, but I simply don’t know what to do next. I feel as if I’m in a fog, and can’t see a damned thing clearly.”

  “You expect too much of yourself,” Kate reasoned.

  “I’m not getting enough done,” Gideon complained.

  “George, you were magnificent tonight,” Kate protested.

  “Kate,” he said, stopping and looking intently into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what kind of television presence I’ve got, what matters is whether I get results.”

  “You can’t possibly expect results until tomorrow,” Kate argued.

  He knew that she was right; knew, not only from his own awareness but also from what Scott-Marie had said to him after the broadcast, as well as other Yard men not prone to giving praise, that he had presented the situation clearly; probably as well as any man could have done. But inwardly he was more agitated than he had ever been. One reason, he knew, was that the kidnapping had forced him to put into words what he had long believed; had made him suddenly articulate; had enabled him to speak for all dedicated policemen, and despite the few misfits, most policemen were dedicated.