by John Creasey
“It isn’t a someone, it’s a code name,” Gideon said rather grimly.
Penny looked at her father with great intentness before she spoke.
“How odd. But that could explain why Alec often talked about her with exasperation, couldn’t it—or frustration. He always said he could be sure when she would turn up – it was whenever he needed to concentrate on another, more important job.”
Slowly, Gideon said: “What job?”
“He didn’t say what it was.”
“Penny, try to remember,” Gideon said urgently. “Try to remember exactly what he said about Elsie and another job – or jobs.”
“Job,” Penny insisted.
“Always the same one?”
Penny’s eyes were beginning to blaze, and she answered eagerly, excitedly: “Yes, I’m sure of that. Alec said there was just one major case he wanted to crack, and just as he was on the point of doing it, Elsie distracted him. I thought he was really talking about a woman. Daddy! Have I helped? Have I?”
“You might have helped more than you’ll ever realise,” Gideon told her. “Kate, get me some breakfast, will you – I’ll have a quick bath and be on my way. Penny, call the Yard and have them send a car for me, there’s a pet.”
“In half an hour?”
He nodded.
Penny turned and hurried down the stairs. Kate, re-tying her dressing-gown said: “George, I’m—” and he crossed to her with a startlingly swift movement, slid his arm round her and kissed her.
“Think Penny will be all right now?”
“Yes, I think she will,” Kate said smiling. “We both know you’ll do whatever you can.”
He thought: but what will Penny, what will Kate do and feel if I have to sacrifice Alec?
Alec Hobbs was sleeping fitfully in the bed in which he had first come round. His wrists were again strapped to the framework.
In the next room Clara was in a double bed with the man who had menaced Hobbs with a gun; she was snoring faintly.
Downstairs, the man who had talked to Gideon was sitting by the telephone, an electric fire drawn up close to his feet. His teeth chattered as he spoke, from the cold not from any kind of nervousness.
“I want to know whether we’re being watched, that’s all. If we are, we’ve had it. I’ll cut Hobbs’s throat and get away … If we haven’t been spotted then we still have a chance … I’ll let you know,” he finished with a note of exasperation in his voice, and banged down the receiver.
The ting! sounded loud in the silent house. It woke Hobbs, but he did not know what had disturbed him. He began again to try to loosen the straps; but it was impossible. They had him absolutely at their mercy.
What did they want?
Gideon turned into his office at half-past eight feeling much less tired than he had any right to expect. He looked into Hobbs’s room and found a different man there, taking messages. He grunted good-morning, as the man stood up.
“Mr. Sharp says, will you call him, sir?”
“Get him for me and put him through.”
“Very good, sir. I’ve made a list of everything that’s come in during the night, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Gideon went back into his own office, and looked through the files; there was nothing significant yet, as far as he could judge. His telephone bell rang and he thought it would be Sharp, picked up the receiver and said: “Don’t you need sleep?”
“Who, me?”
It was Lemaitre, in a bright and lively voice.
“Slept like a top, George. I’ve gotta bitta news for you.”
“Lem, unless it has to do with Alec Hobbs—”
“Well, it could be,” drawled Lemaitre, tantalisingly. “It has to do with a dame who ran a little caff in my manor. Know what everyone called it? The Dump, how about that? Add a ‘ling’ and Bob’s your uncle. Got it? Lived with a man – common law husband as a matter of fact – who did odd jobs with a van, mostly furniture removals.”
“A black van?” Gideon broke in. “That’s the one he was running last time I saw him. We had him inside once – had a habit of moving furniture that didn’t belong to him. Name of Barrow – Syd and Clara Barrow.”
“Do you know where they are now?” asked Gideon.
“No I don’t. But they’re Londoners, wouldn’t go far from the big smoke. Want me to put out some feelers?”
“Yes,” Gideon said, “but very cautious ones, Lem.” He slackened his grip on the telephone, his hand numbed from the tension. “We think they’re holding Alec Hobbs, and I’m afraid they might kill him and try to get away themselves if we get too close.”
“I’ll be cautious all right,” Lemaitre promised. “As a matter of fact there was a load of furniture taken out of a shop on the Mile End Road last week. We’ll say we’re looking for Syd because of that.”
“Keep in close touch,” Gideon said. “Thanks, Lem.”
He rang off, his heart thumping. “A little caff, in my manor … The Dump, how about that?” There was a beading of sweat on his neck and forehead. It wasn’t certain, he was doing a Lemaitre, jumping to conclusions, but—
The bell rang again; this would be Sharp.
“Gideon.”
“Good-morning,” Sharp said, in his most incisive manner. “I don’t think there’s much doubt that place in Cricklewood is the one we want, sir. We’ve found a lad who saw a black van go up to the front door. If Mr. Hobbs was there last night he’s certainly there now.”
Chapter Eighteen
DEMAND
“Quite sure?” asked Gideon.
“Certain. It’s an easy place to watch – to get away from it you have to pass one of two corners. I’ve got men inside houses on those corners, and I’ve men on the roof, too.”
“For God’s sake don’t let them suspect for one moment that they’re being watched,” said Gideon earnestly. “It could be fatal.”
“I’ll see to it. Anything happened I don’t know about, sir?”
“Lemaitre thinks he might have identified the woman who makes dumplings. Her husband runs a furniture delivery business, using a black van. That’s about the lot.”
He rang off, wiping his damp forehead with the back of his hand, then looked with great deliberation through the folders which covered the major cases under investigation. He had to make himself realise that the Hobbs affair wasn’t the only one. He telephoned five superintendents and two chief inspectors, men whom Hobbs would usually see before he, Gideon, briefed them. Two had made arrests, the others had nothing new to report. Probably nothing they wanted to disturb him with now, he thought.
Then he called Bruce’s office.
Bruce might not be in yet, of course, he hadn’t finished until the small hours. But he answered the call on the first ring, and was as brisk as ever.
“Superintendent Bruce.”
“Come along and see me, will you?” Gideon said.
“I’m on my way!”
It was almost possible to believe that Bruce was actually springing from the desk as he put the receiver down. Gideon pushed all the other files to one side and took out the Jewel robberies file, which was fatter than most, thumbed through it with one hand as he dialled Scott-Marie’s office on the inter-office telephone. The Commissioner answered almost as quickly as Spruce Bruce had.
“Good morning, sir,” Gideon said. “This is—”
“Good-morning, George. What is the situation now?”
“We think we know where he is,” Gideon said quietly. “In fact, we’re pretty sure. At the moment I’ve kept it very quiet. The place is watched but the occupants don’t know that.”
Gideon paused long enough for Scott-Marie to say: “Go on.”
“I think we may be close to finding out what it’s all about,
sir. I—”
“Will an hour make any difference?” the Commissioner interrupted. “I’ve a conference I really should attend.”
“An hour might help me, sir.”
“Very well. And George—”
“Sir?”
“I rely on your judgement absolutely,” Scott-Marie said. “If you have to take any action, take it.” He did not add, but he meant: I shall back you to the hilt.
“Thank you.” Gideon replaced the receiver as there was a sharp tap at the door. “Come in,” he called almost in the same breath, and Spruce Bruce came in as if he were being pushed by some uncontrollable force. He had a file beneath his arm, but at first Gideon saw only the man, the slicked hair, the waxed moustaches, the small but regular features, the bright eyes, the beautifully tailored suit and the many-hued tie. Once or twice before he had been aware of what he saw behind this front: a tremendous eagerness to please … or to succeed ?
“Good-morning, Commander!” Gideon waved to a chair and said: “Good-morning, Spruce.”
He had never used this man’s nickname before, and did not quite know why he did then. He saw the flash of surprise in the other’s eyes and wondered whether he had been wise, whether Bruce would begin to be over-familiar.
“Get anything more out of Miss Jessop?” he asked.
“No, she didn’t say a word,” Bruce replied. “But I’ve the conversation between you typed out in the form of a statement. Shall I have a copy sent to her for signing?”
“Yes,” Gideon said. “Have you done any thinking about it?”
“Take it from me I have,” the other man declared. “Commander—” He broke off; behind his eagerness he was as nervous as a man could be. “Commander, my job has been the jewel robberies, Mr. Hobbs wished me to concentrate on those, and very rightly, but—I can’t help thinking the jewel robberies and the park troubles overlap.”
“What makes you think so?” asked Gideon quietly.
“Well, Commander – we’ve never found where the jewels are taken after the robberies. Never. None of them has ever turned up in England, not as far as I know, anyhow, and I’d know if they’d been officially reported. But twenty-seven have turned up overseas – in the United States, Australia, South Africa, New Zealand, Canada – in the English-speaking countries, mostly. But you know that, sir – it’s all in your file.”
“But I may not have realised the significance of it,” Gideon said.
“How do they get there, sir? By post? That is the most unlikely. By air cargo? Surely improbable, sir, some of these jewels have been of fabulous value. I don’t believe they would have been sent out of the country by either of those methods. I think they would be sent by special messenger, and by people who might reasonably be expected to have valuable jewellery with them. Do you see what I’m driving at, sir?”
“People like Miss Jessop,” Gideon said.
“Exactly! I am not for a moment accusing Miss Jessop. There is no evidence. But she does travel to and from South Africa by air frequently. And she is a member of an organisation many of whose members travel widely and frequently. As I begin to see the situation, Commander—” Bruce hitched himself even farther forward in his chair and peered into Gideon’s eyes as if willing him to accept this theory—”the jewels are taken to prearranged places in the parks. The nearest park to the scene of the crime. The thieves leave them—buried, I imagine. This park then becomes the scene of a protest march. Acts of vandalism are then carried out under cover of which the jewels are removed. That is why we never find any trace of them through the usual underworld channels.”
Spruce Bruce began to pace the room; he was just a little too graceful for a man, his suede shoes a little too elegant.
“The more intently I look at this situation the more convinced I am that Elsie, a collective name as it were, works with the thieves. Some knowingly, some unknowingly. Who would dream of suspecting them?”
“You,” Gideon said. “And the Deputy Commander.”
“But only after a great deal of thought and many false theories,” said Bruce. “Commander!” He placed both hands, small and beautifully manicured, on the desk and thrust his face close to Gideon’s. “I have come to the conclusion that the two are associated. My mind has been working very fast since Mr. Hobbs was abducted, it was a rare stimulation. Against this I am faced with a terrible dilemma. How can one seriously suspect a woman of Lady Carradine’s background and reputation?”
Gideon said thoughtfully: “What inquiries have you made about Lady Carradine?”
“A very few, sir. The Deputy Commander was quite insistent that I should concentrate on the burglaries. And since Superintendent Norton went off duty the Divisions have been in charge of the park troubles – I believe Mr. Hobbs has been correlating all the reports himself.”
“Yes, he has,” Gideon said. “I take it you have all details of the robberies listed up to date.”
“Every robbery, every piece of jewellery, everything in chronological order, sir, and I’ve brought a copy in case you would find it useful.”
Bruce drew back from the desk and picked up his file, opened it and took out a sheaf of foolscap papers, pinned together. He placed these before Gideon with a flourish. “There, sir.”
“Thank you. Take three or four men, and telephone each division to get the dates of troubles in local parks and open spaces,” Gideon ordered. “We must eliminate the possibility of mere coincidence.”
“That’s been done already,” Spruce Bruce insisted with abounding confidence. “I’ve checked on enough to be sure of it, Commander.”
“Check again.”
“I will.” The Superintendent gathered up his file and darted towards the door, leaving his list in Gideon’s hand.
“Hobbs,” said his captor, “is there a copy of these two lists in your office?”
Hobbs did not speak.
“I don’t want to hurt you for the sake of it,” the man said, “but I’ll break every bone in your body to make you talk.”
Hobbs, in a chair in the bedroom, the remains of a fairly adequate breakfast on a tray by his side, made no comment at all. He looked pale beneath his stubble and his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed; there was a bruise on his forehead.
The man took a step nearer and raised his clenched fist.
“Answer me!”
“I have nothing to say,” Hobbs replied.
He tried not to flinch as the blow came, but drew in an involuntary breath. Then the blow landed on the side of his jaw, so powerful it sent him sideways; the chair toppled and he went flying, banging his head on the floor and scraping one hand painfully along the bare boards.
“Is there a copy of this marked list?” The man bent down and struck him again, but not so savagely. “Answer me!”
Hobbs eased himself up to a position on one knee. There was a graze on his cheek where the blood was beginning to seep through, but he did not touch or seem to notice it.
The man kicked at his face.
He dodged, and flung out his right hand, caught the other’s ankle, and jerked. The man fell back helplessly, landing on the bed. Hobbs stood up unsteadily, while the man struggled furiously to get off. Hobbs picked up the chair and raised it, then moved towards the door, ready to use the chair as a weapon if his captor attacked again. He reached the door and stretched out one hand for it, but it opened before he touched the handle. The man with the gun stood there.
“Back you go,” he ordered. “Don’t fight with a bullet.”
The other scrambled off the bed and rushed forward, livid; now he had a piece of iron in his right hand. Hobbs made a sweeping blow at him with the chair, but it was thrust aside. To Hobbs, death seemed inevitable; this man would crack his skull, the other shoot him. He spun towards the doorway.
“Stow it, Syd,” the gunman said
. “The Boss wants to talk to him again. Stow it, I said!” He waited until the iron bar was slowly lowered, and then went on: “You don’t use the right methods for a gent like the Deputy Commander, that’s your trouble. He needs to be softened up a bit, he’ll find the answers soon enough.”
“You bloody fool – you’ve fed him and molly-coddled him, the only talk he’ll understand is a kick in the guts and a cracked skull.”
“Stow it!” the gunman repeated. “Out!” The other obeyed, looking back venomously at Hobbs. “Okay, Hobbs,” the man went on. “On the bed like a good boy.”
Hobbs said: “There is no point in tying me to the bed again.”
“Yes there is,” said the man with the gun. “You’re more helpless that way, and after getting rough with Syd, you might start trying to get rough with me or Clara – or the Boss, when he comes. On the bed.”
He was two yards away from Hobbs, and the gun was just out of reach. Was it worth a try? Hobbs asked himself. If he could once grab the gun he would have a good chance of getting out; an odds on chance. He was tensing himself for a spring when the other moved forward and kicked him savagely in the groin. The pain was so awful that he collapsed on the instant, so great, that he was aware of nothing else, just a desire to bend and bend until he could squeeze the pain away.
He felt a sharp blow on the head.
Even in unconsciousness, the waves of pain came through.
He did not know what time it was when he came round. He was on the bed again, shivering. He had been stripped to his short-sleeved undervest and underpants. Propped up on the chair by the side of the bed was a photograph – of a man’s head: a battered head.
On the seat of the chair was the length of iron.
And pinned beneath it was a sheet of paper with a single question printed on it in red ink.
“Is there a copy of that list in your office? Does anybody else know?”
He shivered more violently, and it was not only with the cold.
Chapter Nineteen
