by John Creasey
“Are you saying that the non-militants among them are likely to become strikingly militant if there isn’t some very quick action?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she agreed. “And—” She broke off.
“Don’t pull any punches,” Gideon said dryly.
“Have no fears, Commander! I think there already are far more militants among them than is healthy.” When Gideon didn’t comment, she went on: “I’m scared. I really am.”
“Of what might happen?”
“Of what will happen if there is any attempt to smooth this over,” she corrected.
Gideon leaned back in his chair as Big Ben began to chime. That meant that it was ten o’clock. There wasn’t time to keep Rollo waiting; this morning was going to be too crowded for any delays, but he wanted to make Sabrina realise that he both understood and was as anxious as she to act quickly. He also wanted to make her understand that there was nothing simple about the task.
“Sabrina,” he asked. “Do you really mean they want a scapegoat?”
“No,” she answered. “What I really mean is that they think the overcrowding is criminal and that what happened yesterday is murder, and even the nicest among them are bitterly angry.” She leaned forward, one hand outstretched; he noticed how beautifully the hand was kept. “Just a statement that the police are treating it as a murder inquiry, or even manslaughter, would help. They—they mustn’t be allowed to explode.”
Her cheeks had gone red in her vehemence, and Gideon was sure that she felt she had failed to make her point and was disappointed and frustrated. Perhaps to her surprise, certainly to his own, he leaned forward and covered her hand with his.
“If this business is mishandled,” he said clearly, “it could create one of the ugliest situations we’ve ever had in London. You’re seeing only the one side, you know. We have to see the situation as it is, not as we’d like it to be, not from one angle only. There is a very strong anti-immigrant movement. It is not simply political but it has its right-wing extremists. If we take the wrong course of action, we could provoke and infuriate them as much as the other side has already incited them, and our job – the job of the police – is to keep the peace.” He gave her hand a little squeeze, then withdrew his own. “Have no doubt at all, we are treating this as a matter of utmost gravity. There is to be a conference of VI Ps at three o’clock this afternoon. Our anxiety – like yours – is that other people won’t see the danger, particularly the government departments concerned. We can only act as policemen.”
As he finished, not sure how she was taking all this, there was a buzz from Hobbs’s office – the extension on the interoffice machine. He lifted it, and went on to Sabrina:
“This conference is at the highest level. Don’t have the slightest doubt that we are taking it very seriously indeed.”
She said huskily: “I should—I should have known. I’m sorry. May I—may I tell my friends that?”
“Of course,” Gideon said.
“Thank you very much.” Sabrina picked up the signed letters and the reports and turned away as Gideon lifted the receiver to his ear, still watching Sabrina. And again he could not help but notice her legs, a fact which somehow amused him.
“Yes, Alec?”
“Commander,” Hobbs said, “there has been what could prove a very ugly development about the immigration problem.”
“Yes?” Gideon’s voice sharpened as the door closed.
“Twenty-seven landlords, including Rataudi, and also including fourteen of those on his list, have received identical messages this morning, all posted from the same post office, the one behind the Strand, near Trafalgar Square, last evening. In each case the message is unsigned, typewritten, and the message is: ‘You shall hang by the neck until you are dead.’”
Hobbs’s voice, very precise and detached, seemed to give the phrase an extra touch of the macabre. It repeated itself in Gideon’s mind as he digested it: You shall hang by the neck until you are dead.
“What have you done about it so far?” asked Gideon.
“Arranged for each letter to be collected and brought here, and for each recipient to have a police guard, who—”
Behind Hobbs’s voice, yet very clear and resonant and undoubtedly uttered to make sure he heard, came Rollo’s, saying:
“—are going to give us a hell of a lot of trouble if we’re not careful.”
Hobbs did not stop, and showed no indication that he had heard the other man.
“—will be visited every half hour by a patrol car.”
“Don’t see what else you can do,” Gideon said. “But apparently Rollo has some thoughts on the matter. Send him in, will you? And listen in to us.” There was a small amplifier on Hobbs’s desk which could pick up anything said in Gideon’s office provided Gideon had switched on a microphone attached to his interoffice telephone.
“Thank you,” Hobbs said.
There was no way of telling whether he left the receiver off deliberately or simply put it back loosely by accident; whichever it was, Gideon heard him say: “The Commander wishes to see you at once.”
Gideon had a few seconds in which to decide on his attitude. Rollo was a good man with a first-class record of service covering nearly twenty years. He had a better-than-most record for physical courage, too. With both of these came an attitude which could at times be truculent and, occasionally, insubordinate. Handled well, he could be brilliant; handled badly he could be obstructive and over-aggressive. There was no doubt at all that he had meant his words to carry; little, that Hobbs’s icy manner had already served as a rebuke. But had it been effective? Or was Rollo making a play to get his own way?
15
The Rent Collector
Rollo came in, almost breasting the door open, but he grabbed and stopped it before it slammed. He was obviously aware that he had created an atmosphere and was prepared to be bellicose about it.
Gideon was sitting down, very square in his chair.
“Sit down, Hugh,” he said softly, and so set the pattern for his own mood and the next few moments. He contemplated the other’s attractive face and greeny-grey eyes. The features were full, the lips very well shaped. “I don’t know how much the Deputy Commander has told you,” Gideon went on, “but I want a man who will work day and night on the investigation into what happened at Long Street, and also find out the actual strength of these opposing groups in our brand of the racial problem. It has to be someone who will keep his head under what could become extreme provocation, and who will keep in the closest touch – hour by hour if necessary – with me or Mr. Hobbs. No lone-wolfing. No treading on corns. His success or failure could mean a great deal; could actually avoid some open conflicts between racial groups.” Gideon paused, and then he went on: “Until a few minutes ago I thought you were such a man.”
Rollo’s face dropped, almost ludicrously; and as he began to recover, slowly, Gideon went on:
“If you’ve anything to report, complain about, join issue with, I want it straight. I don’t want you or anyone implying that someone else’s handling of a job is lousy. I want it straight from you in the presence of the other man.” He paused again, and when Rollo began to relax slightly but didn’t speak, he demanded: “Is that understood?”
By now Rollo was breathing deeply; and by now there was no expression on his face except a curious kind of stubbornness.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good. What were you implying just now, about the watch on these landlords?”
In a voice quite free from emotion and yet deep and captivating, Rollo answered: “It looks to me as if we’ve swung too far in protecting these people. I know they’ve their rights and we have to do what we can, but even some of the most reasonable people will soon start saying we’re mollycoddling them, and yet we need public support.” When
Gideon didn’t answer, Rollo went on: “If one side or the other gets the idea that we’re prejudiced, then there’ll be a hell of a lot of trouble. But no one here seems— seemed to realise it.”
“We realise it,” Gideon said flatly. He gave that time to sink in, and then added: “Any strong feelings either way?”
“On what?”
“On race.”
“Not as far as I know,” Rollo answered. He gave a fierce grin, showing that side of him which was probably the one women found so captivating. “Give me looks or intelligence, I don’t care what they’re packed in.”
“Any anti-Semitism in you?”
“No more than in most people. Nearly every non-Jew has a tinge of it,” Rollo replied. “If you mean am I a Jew hater or a Jew baiter, no. I’d break the neck of anyone who started any bloody nonsense.”
“Could you work well with Piluski on this job?” asked Gideon.
Very quietly, most impressively, Rollo said: “There isn’t a better detective on the Force and I’d be glad to work with him on any assignment. But it would be asking for trouble on this.”
“Why?”
“The anti-colour fanatic is usually what Hitler called an Aryan, believes in the pure Aryan blood, and has a strong streak of anti-Semitism. Piluski would be first class if he could work on the job without running into prejudice from others – but he couldn’t avoid running into it.”
Gideon said: “I see.”
“Don’t you agree?” asked Rollo, and then in an almost defensive way, went on: “You did ask me for my opinion, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Gideon said. “But there’s another point of view.”
“What is it?”
“If Piluski worked with you and couldn’t get co-operation from some of the people concerned, whereas you could, it would look as if they were prejudiced against him,” said Gideon. “Then we’d know how to tackle them.”
“That’s a bit too devious,” Rollo objected. “Don’t you think so, sir?”
“I don’t like the idea, here in London, of having to select a senior officer for an assignment because of his race or colour,” Gideon said. After a pause, he went on: “Do you want to tackle this job?”
Rollo drew in a deep breath and then answered with great vehemence: “There is nothing I’d like more.”
“Sharing responsibility with Piluski?”
“I’d accept your judgment about that,” Rollo said.
“Right.” Gideon nodded, and then switched to another aspect. “Do you know Saxby of AB Division well?”
“Not really well,” answered Rollo. “But well enough, I think.”
“Chief Inspector Archer?”
Rollo’s face broke into the deep lines of another fierce grin.
“Now there’s a man I could work hand in glove with! I was a C.I. when he got his promotion from detective officer to sergeant,” Rollo went on. “We had about four years together out at NE Division before he was moved to AB and I was brought here and made a Superintendent.”
Gideon asked: “Were you quoting Archer just now?”
Rollo, a reply almost on the tip of his tongue before the question was framed, checked himself; and then he said with his crooked smile: “I think he would agree with me; we mustn’t show the slightest sign of being surprised at anything.”
“All right,” Gideon said dryly. “How much did you work with Tom Riddell?”
“Not much lately,” answered Rollo. “Would that matter?”
“I wondered if he’d talked to you about what he’s been doing, that’s all,” Gideon remarked, and placed a hand on the very thick file on his desk. “Here’s his file. There’ll be a lot more detail in his office. Go and look through it, will you? What we need most is information about potential terrorists on either side.”
Rollo stood up, with obvious alacrity.
“Right away, sir.”
“And when you think you’re fully briefed, come and see me again,” Gideon ordered.
He gave Rollo his choice of door, and Rollo chose to go out through Hobbs’s office. The communicating door closed before Gideon could hear a word of what either man said. He rose and for the first time this morning, stood looking out into the Thames. He knew of at least one outstanding detective who did most of his thinking in his bath, another when eating alone, a third when on top of a London bus. For his part, most of his constructive thinking, both the conscious and the subconscious, was done when standing at this window and looking out at this scene which was so much the heart of London – watching the flowing Thames, lifeblood of the city. The sky was still leaden grey; the river itself hardly seemed to be moving. A police launch passed with its usual crew of three, one of the men standing in the stern holding his hooked pole. The launch was going slowly and its wash was sluggish.
Had the lookout seen something?
Gideon stayed for perhaps five minutes, thinking over all that Rollo had said, and also thinking about Piluski. After a while he moved to the communicating door and opened it. Hobbs was in there alone, sitting at his desk. He began to get up.
“What was Rollo’s reaction?” Gideon asked.
“He can hardly believe his luck.”
“And I think I’m going to assign Piluski to work with him,” Gideon went on.
“The more I think about it the more I’m sure he’s the right man,” Hobbs conceded. “Rollo will drive ahead like a rocket, Piluski will make sure the ground’s clean after him.”
“What did you make of Rollo’s argument?”
“In spite of all he says, he’s nervous,” answered Hobbs. “Practically everyone is, where this race and immigration problem is involved. Somehow it forces them to play a kind of politics. Don’t tell the truth, don’t say what you think, for fear of offending someone or hurting their feelings or causing some kind of violent reaction. I think this is the job we can do that no one else can,” went on Hobbs. “We don’t have to show fear or favour. I don’t think Rollo will, and I’m sure Piluski won’t. But—” He hesitated as his exchange telephone bell rang; lifting it, he covered the mouthpiece with his left hand and went on: “I don’t think we’re going to be able to get quick results, Commander. We’re going to have to play for time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gideon said. “All right, bring Piluski in as soon as he arrives, will you?”
He closed the door on Hobbs speaking into the telephone, and went back to his window stance. To his surprise, the police launch was still in sight; it appeared to have turned a full circle, and was still circling while the man with the boat hook knelt on the edge, pole poised in front of him. There was now no doubt at all that he had seen something in the water and was set on dragging it close for a better look. Suddenly he leaned forward and a second member of the crew edged toward him. Gideon noticed a crowd gathered on the bridge and on the Embankment, spectators of a peep show which was almost as exciting as a television drama.
There was a tap at the communicating door, and Gideon turned around as it opened and Hobbs ushered Piluski in. Piluski came soft-footed. He was slight of build, small when standing against Hobbs, positively a pygmy by Gideon’s side.
Gideon told him exactly what was wanted. Now and again Piluski interjected a question, first raising his right hand; the thumb and forefinger were dark brown from incessant cigarette smoking; he held his cigarettes differently from most. Each question needed only a brief answer. The contrast between this man and Rollo was quite remarkable.
At last Gideon finished. “We want anything – anything at all – to give us a sound case to make a criminal charge, from disturbing the peace to fraud.”
“I understand perfectly.” Piluski’s voice was so deep that its guttural tone was like a background noise and words were sometimes difficult to distinguish from one another.
“And of course we want the man or men – women, for that matter – who sent these threats,” Gideon said.
Piluski nodded.
“Will you take Polly along to see Rollo?” asked Gideon, of Hobbs.
Both the others stood up immediately, and as they went out Gideon dialled Riddell’s office; Rollo answered abruptly, on what must have been the first ring of the telephone.
“Rollo here.”
“Mr. Hobbs is bringing Mr. Piluski along to your office,” Gideon said. “You will be working together.”
“Right, sir!” Rollo said briskly. “Thank you.”
That was about half-past eleven, the time when Carol Entwhistle got on a train at Paddington Station. She had checked very carefully at the announcements board and found that she had to catch the next train from here, get off at Exeter, and then take a bus which would get her to Two Bridges, the nearest village to Dartmoor, a fact she had read in a newspaper article. She might have to change at Princetown. She would walk from the bus station. She had no idea what to do once she reached the prison, except to ask for her father.
She had no idea that it would be dark by the time she arrived.
She had no idea that, in November, thick fog was almost inevitable on the moor.
She had no idea that Horace Welbeck, serving a life sentence for the murder of an old woman whose house he had burgled, was planning to escape that night.
And that was the time, just after half-past eleven, when Ellen Wells stood at the window of the living room and saw a policeman on the opposite side of the road; it was almost as if he were watching the house. She had thought last evening that his interest had been in the couple upstairs and their jewellery, but surely that was over and done with. She was puzzled, and she was also deeply troubled by David’s manner; but she had not yet connected the two. She went out into the garden to get in some washing which was already nearly dry. There was a spit of rain coming from skies which looked snow-laden. Then she saw tiny particles of powdered snow on the black wool of her jumper, bouncing off. Immediately her concern was for the two older children, who had not gone to school in their boots but would need them if it snowed heavily. With the washing bundled up in her arms, she hurried back to the house, but before she opened the back door one of David’s socks fell off, near the dustbin. Rather than risk dropping the lot, she went inside and dumped the clothes on the kitchen table, then returned for the sock. Bending down for it, she saw the newspaper screwed up and torn in the dustbin. She was puzzled; she hadn’t thrown the Morning Sun away, and she couldn’t believe that any of the children had.
