by John Creasey
One of the men on the ground muttered: “Give us a break, we—we won’t do it again.”
“You never said a truer word,” growled Gideon. “Your next stop will be the police station, even if I have to drag you there by the scruff of your neck.”
But that was more bravado than anything else. He needed help to carry out his threat, and even if he could put out a call it might take a patrol car an hour to get here, if it arrived at all. His own car was much handier. If he could get them home he could lock them in the garage until a patrol car came for them. And the bank of fog was lifting; he could even see the garage across the road.
“Now get up,” he ordered the men. “One at a time, back to me.”
He waited for the first man to rise, took his right wrist and held it behind him; if he tried to run, a slight upward thrust would cause enough pain to stop him.
“You next,” he said to the other.
This man sprang to his feet and darted off, but Gideon, ready, shot out a leg and tripped him. He went sprawling again, as the first man gasped: “You’re breaking my arm!”
“I won’t break anything if you do what I say. Take two steps to the right.”
The man took two shuffling steps, the other had obviously jarred himself in his second fall and was sitting up, looking dazed. A little group of people turned the corner. Before Gideon could call out, a man approached from the narrow stretch of Common between the main road and the garage. Seldom had Gideon been so glad to see a policeman’s helmet. It bore down on Gideon purposefully.
“Do you need help, sir?”
“Yes,” Gideon said. “I want to get these two on a charge as soon as I can.”
“There should be a patrol car across by the garage soon, sir.”
“Good,” grunted Gideon. “Get that chap to his feet, and we’ll go to the garage. Did you see what was going on?” he asked, hardly able to believe that possible.
“Oh, no, sir.” The constable, small-boned but strong, was dragging the second captive to his feet. “The boy at the garage told me he thought you might have spotted something. I just came to check. What did happen, sir?”
“We need a third man who was offering to guide people home in the fog, leading them round the corner,” Gideon said, “and robbing them with the help of this pair.”
“Did they try that on you, sir?” The constable smothered a laugh.
“They tried it on me,” Gideon asserted drily. They were halfway across the narrow strip of grass now, his hold on his prisoner was firm, and he was about to ask questions when he kicked against something which gave off a faint ring of sound. The policeman shone his flashlight downwards.
It revealed a jam jar with a piece of string tied round it, and a candle loose inside.
“That could be our third man’s,” Gideon said. “Pick it up by the string,” he told his prisoner, “and don’t drop it. How many people did you attack?”
“About—about six. But we didn’t hurt them, I swear it!”
Six, eight, ten, it didn’t greatly matter to begin with; there must be an immediate search for all of them; the prisoners must be more closely questioned, to help make sure all their victims were found. By the time they reached the garage, Gideon knew exactly what to do. The boy attendant was coming out of the storage area at the back, oilier and more bright-eyed than ever.
“So there was something up!”
“There was something up,” Gideon agreed. “Thanks for your help.”
Swelling with gratification the boy started talking.
He was still talking when the police car arrived. At sight of Gideon the two plainclothes men in it scrambled out and stood almost to attention, the boy and the two captives looking on. Gideon spent no more than three minutes telling them what to do, and before he left they were busy at the walkie-talkie radio. Organising a search was not going to be easy, but if a dozen policemen covered the streets beyond the Eelbrook Common it should not be long before any men wandering, lost and frightened, were found. Once he was satisfied everything was in hand, Gideon moved to his own car, carrying the jam jar by the string.
“Who the hell is he?” demanded one of the prisoners.
“You don’t know him?” cried the lad who had tried to move Gideon on. “Why, everybody knows him. That’s Gideon of the Yard. You know – Gee-gee.”
“Gawd,” groaned the second prisoner.
“And we thought it was our lucky night!”
Police Constable Arthur Simpson was at the extreme end of the Metropolitan Police scale from Gideon, who was the senior executive, subordinate only to the Commissioner.
Arthur Simpson had been on duty, alone, for only a week; in actual fact he was the youngest man in the Force in terms of service. He had, of course, an extensive period of training behind him; he had been out with other constables, older men used to the job. He was fully trained and lacked only experience.
Unlike Gideon, he was not a native Londoner; but his parents had brought him to London when he had been very young, and had moved to Fulham. They now lived out at Wembley, and he was still at home with them, although he had a married sister who lived in Fulham where he could spend a night if he were too late to catch the last bus or underground train. Tonight, his sister would expect him.
He was already off duty, and had been when the boy at the garage, young Alfie Tate, had told him about Gideon. No one would have guessed at the turmoil in his mind as he had crossed the road, or the wild beating of his heart when he had actually set eyes on Gideon. It had been an astonishing sight, one man held in a powerful grip, the other dazed and on the ground. He, Arthur Simpson, would never know how he had managed to keep his voice calm.
“Do you need help, sir?”
Instead of glaring, or uttering some instant command, Gideon had said calmly: “Yes. I want to get these two on a charge as soon as I can.”
It had been the tone of voice; the complete acceptance of him, Arthur Simpson, as competent to help which had steadied Simpson; and there was the heaven-sent knowledge about the patrol car. After that it had just been a job of work, he had accepted Gideon as completely as Gideon had accepted him. Not until the Commander had driven off had a reaction set in, and now, all he wanted to do was sit down. And laugh. He could see the great Gideon getting into the car and holding the jam jar as if it were full of tadpoles or something as precious.
“What’s funny?” asked one of the patrol men, coming from his car.
“Er—nothing.”
“Well, I’ll give you something to laugh at. The Super wants you at the station to tell him what the prisoners were up to, and after that he wants volunteers to go looking for the poor old grand-daddies lost in the fog.”
“I’ll volunteer!” Simpson said eagerly.
So he reported exactly what he had seen and done, promised a full report in writing in the morning, saw the two prisoners locked in the cell at the Fulham sub-divisional station and, fortified with cocoa, sausages and mash, he had joined another man and set out on his rounds. He would have liked the Eelbrook Common area; instead, he was sent to North End Road. The fog, although not so impenetrable as it had been, was still thick and smelly, but far less traffic was about. Most of the public houses, the clubs, a picture palace and some discotheques were quiet; even the young people, once home, stayed indoors. The two policemen found one drunk and one elderly woman who was at the front door of her house just behind North End road, peering in each direction.
“Can we help you, ma’am?” the older policeman asked.
“I don’t know what to do,” the woman said. “My daughter’s husband hasn’t got home, and she’s frightened of staying by herself, and the buses don’t seem to be running.”
“Where’s your daughter live?” asked the policeman.
“In Putney, it isn’t far from the bus stop
once I’m there, I’m sure I could find my way, but—”She broke off.
“There are some buses still running,” the older man remarked. “We’ll walk with you up as far as Fulham Road, you can catch the next one that comes along.”
“Oh, if only you would!”
Walking with an old woman whose daughter was scared, helping Commander Gideon, what a night! Arthur Simpson thought. All his training had told him how varied his job would be, but – what a night! He heard the woman talking in a monologue which needed no responses. A cat appeared out of the mist, miaowing; could it be lost? A dog barked, another howled. They reached a bus stop and had not been waiting more than a minute before a bus came up, its red paint partly discernible in the lifting fog.
“Putney Station and then the garage,” the conductor called, hanging half off the bus.
“The station is just right for me,” the woman said, eagerly. “Oh, thank you, constables, thank you ever so much!”
“We made her happy, anyhow,” the older officer said, and as he spoke his transistor radio beeped. “P.C. Coleman answering … What…? Oh, bloody good … I’m with P.C. Simpson, okay for him, too…? Right, I’ll tell him.” He switched off, taking his time, obviously testing Simpson’s patience before he divulged: “We’re finished for the night. No need to report to the station. But don’t expect that every night, Simmy, usually they make you report back even if the heavens are falling.”
“Sure I shouldn’t have spoken to them myself?” asked Simpson.
“Don’t you come it, sonny. I’ll tell you what you have to do. Going to try to get to Wembley?”
“No. My sister’s place,” Simpson replied.
“Where’s that?”
“Near the Chelsea Football Ground.”
“You go your way, I’ll go mine,” said P.C. Coleman. “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” Simpson echoed.
The fog was better but it certainly hadn’t gone. The street lamps, the car headlights as they came forward, the torches, all had a halo about them, giving the night a kind of beauty. Simpson felt strange on his own, but soon became used to it.
He could not explain why, but he wanted to go back to Eelbrook Common; to the spot where he had seen Gideon. It would take him another half-hour, although if the fog kept on thinning he might pick up a bus. He took a number of side streets until he was at Fulham Broadway, deserted even at the entrance to the underground station, then approached the Common from the northern, broader end. Before long he was on the path Gideon had taken; and the chaps who had been victimised. The crafty, cold-blooded devils, promising to lead them home, then robbing them!
He went to the very spot where he had seen Gideon, and stood quite still. In the distance the growl of a bus engine sounded. A moment later, almost at his side, there was a moan. He stiffened, and looked towards the long terrace of houses. The moan was repeated, coming from one of the small gardens in front of each house. He opened a gate and flashed his torch. The beam fell on the pale face of a grey-haired man who lay on his side, knees bent beneath his chin. As the gate squeaked and Simpson went towards him, the old man moaned again.
Chapter Three
ONE MAJOR CRIME
Gideon put his car, a large, black Rover, into the garage round the corner from Harrington Street, Fulham, where he lived, and walked briskly to his house, less than a hundred yards. He carried the jam jar carefully. Each old-fashioned street lamp had its own ring of mist; most of the front door fanlights of the houses, which held the street numbers painted on them, glowed with light. He was no exception – 43. It was too misty to see the small neat front garden; the red, white and blue tiles of the path, laid by some patriotic builder about the time of the Boer War; but there was a faint reflection from the front door, which was painted white.
Kate had wanted that, and although he would have preferred a darker colour, he did not greatly mind; tonight, he was glad. He unlocked the front door, but before he had it open, Kate approached from the kitchen.
“Is that you, George?”
“It’s a very hungry copper,” called Gideon.
“I was afraid you’d be late,” Kate said as she came along the passage at the side of the stairs.
It was difficult to say why there were some moments when her impact on Gideon was much greater than at others. She always moved well, a tall and well-formed woman whom some called statuesque; she always dressed well, if conservatively; she made up a little, never too much; and her dark hair invariably seemed as lovely as it was luxuriant, cut well by a good hairdresser, and clustered about her head. Perhaps her anxiety put fresh radiance into her grey eyes; perhaps a little of the fog had crept into the old house, misting and softening her features. Certainly there was something.
“Hallo, love!” Warmth resounded in his voice. “Am I very late?” “Late” he meant compared with the half-past-six he had promised when he had telephoned from the office, not late as such; in periods of intense activity at the Yard he was lucky to be home before midnight.
“Not very,” she said. “What on earth are you carrying in your hand?”
He held it to one side, kissed her lightly, then held the jam jar up.
“A jam jar,” he stated unnecessarily.
“Even I could see that.”
“A very special jam jar,” he assured her. “Shall I tell you now or wash and tell you while we have dinner?”
“Tell me at dinner,” she decided. “You won’t be long, will you?”
“Ten minutes.”
“That’ll be just right. We’ll eat in the middle room, dear,” she told him, and hurried away.
He carried the jam jar carefully into the room they called “middle”. This was now a combination of living-room and dining-room when the family were at home, and television room. He went upstairs, washed in the big old-fashioned bathroom, with its colourful patterned tiles, and changed to slippers and a comfortable jacket.
It was a particularly quiet night.
Was that only because of the fog and the fact that few people were moving about in the street? And few cars? Or was it the house, which seemed so empty up here? He had a sudden and unwelcome change of mood, almost one of depression. It was empty these days, with all the children gone, or so nearly gone it made little difference to the household.
And once there had been six children!
Once there had almost been seven—
“This won’t do!” he said aloud, and started downstairs. Yet he stopped and looked back at the room from which he had just come. There, twenty years before, Kate had lain in childbirth, begging him not to leave her; but there had been an urgent call from the Yard and he had left, with a neighbour in attendance and a doctor on the way.
The child had died, and she had blamed him.
For a long time afterwards there had been great tension between them and he had thought the marriage would break; but for the other children it would have, for she had so hated and resisted his dedication to his work.
He reached the foot of the stairs, and an aroma of roast beef – or could it be mutton – came along the passage. It was beef!
“Can I help?” he asked.
“If you’ll bring the sprouts in, and the gravy, I’ll bring the Yorkshire,” Kate said. “You can carve right away.”
He sharpened the carving knife on the steel that had been in use for thirty years – it had outlived two sets of knives and forks – and cut into the meat. He carved generously in thick slices.
“Perfect!” he praised and she lowered the Yorkshire pudding to a heat-resistant mat.
The Yorkshire was just as he liked it, tempting enough to warrant a second helping. Gideon ate with single-minded attention, tackling the following apple pie with almost as much zest. Presently he sat back with the air and look of utter repletion.
&n
bsp; “My, that was good!”
“It must have been,” Kate said, pleased. “You haven’t said a word about the jam jar.”
“And I’m not going to until you tell me what occasion I’ve forgotten.”
“You haven’t forgotten anything as far as I know.”
“No anniversary?” Gideon mused, marvelling. “No child’s birthday? No grandchild’s? It seemed a rather special effort.”
“You’re right, darling, it was a very special effort. Priscilla and Peter were coming for dinner but didn’t, because of the fog!” Priscilla was their second daughter.
“What a shame,” Gideon said. “Were they in town?”
“Yes, this morning, but as the fog closed in they decided to go back early. I was in the mood for cooking, anyhow. Now I won’t wait a moment longer – what is the story of the jam jar?”
He told her …
It led, of course, to some sense of dismay that criminals did behave so; they lived with the knowledge and yet there was always a sense of shock in being faced with some of the meaner crimes. And it led to reminiscing; of the days when he had guided people home and the fact that she had had a brother, long since dead, who had earned his coppers in the same way. Even Malcolm, their eldest son, now thirty and with three children, had followed in his father’s footsteps, but by the time his sons had been old enough, the really bad pea-soupers had gone.
It was an evening of “I remember, I remember”.
As he sat and talked, Gideon forgot almost everything to do with work; but when he switched on the television for the ten o’clock news, he was jolted back to the crimes on Eelbrook Common, fascinated by the story of the fog which was now spread over three-quarters of the country. Shipping, air and train services were at a standstill, very little traffic moved on any roads. After a fifty-two car pile-up on the M1 all motorways in the area were closed.