Not Hidden by the Fog

by John Creasey

  “Or a man,” Gideon said.

  “Oh, of course—or a man,” Sharp agreed with alacrity. “Or a man.”

  Gideon looked hard at the face of the victim.

  It was hardly marked; the blows had been struck from behind, and death must have been almost instantaneous. The body had not been moved, except to raise the head for identification purposes, and to enable photographers to take pictures full face. The last pictures were being taken as Gideon went into the big, cold garage.

  A plastic sheet had been spread over the back of the car, and two men were examining the bucket seats. They were being meticulously careful, but one thing was apparent at a glance.

  “No blood splashes,” Gideon remarked.

  “So he wasn’t killed here,” stated Sharp.

  “Doesn’t look like it, sir,” said one of the men cheerfully.

  “Any blood anywhere?” asked Gideon.

  “Only the head and neck, the shoulders and a few spots on the shirt, as far as we can judge,” the man replied.

  “Police surgeon been here yet?”

  “Yes, sir—and he’s coming back.”

  Gideon nodded, and looked about the garage. It had a cement floor, cracked in places where weeds struggled to grow. In one corner was what looked like a bed of soil filled with roots: probably dahlias, Gideon thought. The small windows had been boarded up for years; the nails fastening the boards to the window frames were rusty and bent.

  A tall, schoolboyish-looking man came hurrying in, and out of the corner of his mouth Sharp said: “Peel, the police surgeon.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was in the house.”

  “Is the water laid on there?” asked Gideon.

  “No, sir. The place looks as if it’s been empty for years.”

  “Two years,” Sharp intervened. “What opinions do you have about the cause of death?” Gideon asked Peel.

  “The man died from wounds inflicted by a flat, blunt instrument,” Peel stated without the slightest hesitation. “An autopsy might reveal poison but judging from appearances, the blows were the cause of death.”

  “Estimated time?” asked Gideon. “Between six and eight or nine o’clock, last night,” the young police surgeon answered. “Rigor was well in when I first saw him half an hour ago. He wasn’t killed there, that’s certain. Blood would have spattered. I’d say it had coagulated good and hard before he was put in here.”

  “Why?” Gideon was intrigued and impressed; and had a feeling that Sharp was mildly amused.

  “The depth of the coagulation helped to indicate the time of death,” the police surgeon said, “and I’d say he was stiff when he was put in that seat. There’s some evidence of force to bend the knees and hips. Also,” the man looked up at a cross strut which helped to support the roof, “his head was banged against that and some dried blood came off, but there was no evidence of fresh bleeding. I’d say he was carried into the garage, held upright until he was placed in the front seat and his head was banged as he was placed in position. Mind you, sir,” Peel gave a sudden flashing smile, “this isn’t conclusive, but I don’t think I’m far wrong.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Gideon said briefly. “He was brought here about the time when the fog was at its worst, then?”

  “It certainly looks like it,” agreed the police surgeon.

  “That doesn’t give us much chance of finding any witnesses,” Sharp remarked. “But I’d better get cracking. House to house?” he asked.

  “Yes,” agreed Gideon. “House to house, (a) Did anyone see the M.G.? (b) Did anyone see or hear the accident? (c) Did anyone see any other vehicle just before or just after the accident – say between four o’clock and five?” Gideon paused only for a moment before going on with the same positiveness: “Did anyone see this old lady and her Yorkshire terrier? That’s (d) and (e) is, who in this part of the world has a Yorkshire. Any women’s footprints in the road?” he added.

  “We’re rechecking,” Sharp told him. “Are you going to stay here for a bit, sir?”

  “Yes,” Gideon answered. “Come back, when you’ve put everything in hand, will you?” He walked with the local superintendent to the door of the garage.

  It was now pitch dark.

  A street lamp was shining, not far away. Several policemen had their torches on and one car was illuminating the drive of the house with its headlights. Gideon went on, with Sharp, silent now: there was a limit to how far he should go in telling a senior officer what to do. Sharp got into his car and was driven off, and Gideon turned back.

  A man who had been standing just inside the grounds of the house moved towards him, and said in a well-controlled, low-pitched voice: “It must be a very significant case to bring you out in person, Commander. Is it true that Alec Hobbs is missing?”

  On the instant of seeing him, Gideon knew who this was: one of Fleet Street’s most astute and knowledgeable newspapermen, Jefferson Jackson of the Echo.

  Quite suddenly Gideon found himself in the midst of a crisis of decision.

  Chapter Ten

  CRISIS

  There was no point at all in being evasive or in telling this man half-truths. The one thing which might gain time was a statement conditional upon it being off the record for a specified period. But Gideon was not yet sure whether he wanted it to be off the record. This might well be a case in which the newspapers as well as radio and television might help much more than hinder. He could be formal, of course, and promise a statement later, but that would not make much difference to Jefferson Jackson, who must have missed the evening editions of a companion paper, anyhow.

  The newspaperman waited patiently.

  “I don’t want to admit it, but yes,” Gideon answered at last. “If he doesn’t turn up soon I shall ask you chaps to meet me at the Yard later, and I shall ask radio and television channels to help.”

  “So it’s as bad as that,” Jefferson Jackson said, a little taken aback by Gideon’s straightforward admission of the facts. “Is that his M.G.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a body in it?”

  Gideon said: “Yes, of an unknown man apparently killed by blows on the head, by means of the usual blunt instrument. And no, I don’t know what it’s about—yet,” he added drily. Then he shot: “Do you?”

  “No,” Jackson answered as briskly. “Commander—can this mean that the Deputy Commander C.I.D. has been kidnapped?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Could it conceivably mean that he killed the dead man?”

  “To me, such a supposition is quite inconceivable.”

  “But it might not be, to others.” There was sharpness in Jackson’s voice; his face had taken on something of the keen look of a ferret about to attack.

  “I can’t help what idiot ideas other people might get,” Gideon said, with obvious impatience. “I hope you’ll have enough sense to know it’s not possible.”

  “Not even in the line of duty?”

  “Not without reporting it immediately – and in any case, not in this way,” Gideon said flatly. “There will be an official statement later tonight. Meanwhile you’re at liberty to use anything I’ve said.” He shifted his position, as if in dismissal.

  “Commander,” Jackson said quietly, “is Elsie involved?”

  Gideon went absolutely still.

  It did not matter if he allowed this man to see that the question shook him. Jackson could not know that “Elsie” was new to him, and the newspaperman might simply take it that he, Gideon, had suspicions that Elsie was involved. After a moment, he said: “What do you know about Elsie?”

  “The Ecology of London Committee,” Jackson answered. He, too, was absolutely still – as if he had sighted some small prey and did not intend to frighten it off. “Or—”

 
“The Enemies of Loving Couples,” Gideon said, drily.

  “Hobbs was working on that,” Jackson stated.

  “Did he tell you so?”

  “I don’t always have to be told,” the Echo man retorted.

  “You might be wise to have your guesses confirmed,” Gideon advised, forcing a lighter note into his voice. “I don’t particularly want E.L.C. to be mentioned yet.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Jackson.

  “Why?”

  “I propose to do a feature article about it for tomorrow. In fact the feature is done, all but the finishing touches. I’ve reason to believe your deputy in the C.I.D. was investigating the activities of E.L.C., and I’ve no reason to withhold the fact.”

  “You must please yourself,” Gideon said.

  “Or the fact that a lifelong friend of Alec Hobbs, a very attractive young woman named Hilda Jessop, is also involved in some way or other?” Jackson asked, in a very soft voice. “That is the kind of topic that our readers delight in, Commander. And they are always fascinated by the fact that your youngest daughter and the Deputy Commander are engaged.”

  From the beginning Gideon had determined not to rile this man, but it was now glaringly obvious that Jackson was deliberately goading him; that last remark could have no other interpretation. Could there be any reason beyond the fact that he hoped that by making Gideon lose his temper he would learn more? Gideon looked down on him without expression, and then turned away. There were questions he would like to ask this man, about Elsie and what he knew of Hobbs’s interest in it, and what part Hilda Jessop was playing; but to ask questions now would be to betray his ignorance; he wasn’t ready for that yet.

  There wasn’t much more he could do here, but it was difficult to leave before Sharp returned. He could try to get the Commissioner on the radio-telephone of one of the police cars; he decided to, on the instant he thought of it, and swung round.

  Jackson, apparently satisfied, was driving off in a Morris 1100, vivid scarlet in the street lamp. Before he squeezed into the police car, next to the driver, Gideon took a long, lingering look at the newspaperman’s car.

  He had no doubt what to do next. He made a thorough search of Hobbs’s office, but found no notes or reports that had not already been received officially. He then went on to Hobbs’s flat, taking a detective sergeant with him. Absolutely nothing was found here, except a “thank you” note from “Hilda” for taking her to dinner. If Hobbs knew more than he had put in his reports, it seemed that he kept it all in his head.

  What he did not know was that Hobbs had carried a brief-case with him.

  Gideon came back, and immediately went to see Scott-Marie.

  As Gideon was talking to Scott-Marie, Alec Hobbs was lying on his back on what he now knew was a camp bed in a small, barely-furnished room; a little light came in at the door to reveal a chair and a table.

  He still had no idea what the time was, but although his watch was on his wrist, it was not ticking. So he reasoned that he had been here for at least twenty-four hours; his watch was an automatic winder which never stopped provided he kept the normal use of his left arm.

  He had tested the tightness of the bonds at his wrists, and doubted whether there was any chance to free himself. Each wrist appeared to be fastened separately to the sides of the bed.

  There were quivers of cramp in his right leg, and he was acutely aware of the need for the bathroom.

  Inside the house, if it was a house, there was no sound; except occasionally a creak in wall or ceiling, window or door.

  He must have been kidnapped twenty-four hours ago, then; and drugged so that he had been unconscious for most of that time.

  He began to ask himself why: began to use his mind, which in itself told him he was back to full consciousness. The edge of fear had gone, but there was an ache of apprehension which spread from his chest throughout his whole body.

  There must be a reason: a very significant one. Even in these days of hi-jacking aeroplanes and kidnapping politicians and diplomats, there had to be a reason, and usually whoever committed the crime was desperate. It was just possible that he had been taken in mistake for someone else, but to dwell on that possibility would be useless. Much better to believe that he, Alec Vavasour Hobbs, had been kidnapped because he was a senior official of the police.

  Was it because of a case he was working on?

  Or was it for a general reason: that any senior policeman or for that matter any civil servant would have done just as well?

  He tried to ease his leg but only succeeded in making the cramp worse. He gritted his teeth against the pain as the muscles of his legs became like iron; he found himself gasping and knew that sweat was on his forehead and his lips.

  Slowly, the cramp eased, and its final cessation brought an enormous relief.

  Soon afterwards, he heard a sound.

  He lay almost without breathing, praying for it to be repeated; and yes, there was the unmistakable closing of a door, and he thought it was beneath him. Now he began to breathe faster but in shallow breaths, to make sure he heard every movement. There were footsteps on a passage; footsteps on stairs. Man’s or woman’s? Small man’s, he thought, or a woman with a very firm tread. They drew nearer, he had no doubt at all. The wall and the floor of this room creaked, it was a gim-crack place. She was coming nearer and nearer. He no longer doubted it was a woman.

  She was on the other side of the wall where he was lying.

  She was at the door.

  My God, if she didn’t stop—!

  She stopped, and for what seemed an age there was no sound at all; then he heard a click of metal, and thought: She’s taking out keys. Yes, yes, she was: he heard metal scratch on metal, followed by a sharp click of the lock going back. Almost on the instant the door opened and light flooded in, throwing a black shadow on the wall that he could just see. He turned his head to stare, but because the light was behind her he could make out only the shape of her head, the hair piled up in a bun, and squared, tailored shoulders.

  She drew nearer, and without a word bent over him and put both hands behind his neck; she was loosening the gag. As it loosened and the blood flowed back to his lips he was aware of agonising pain.

  Next, she unfastened one of his wrists; then the other.

  He tried to lift his arms, but there was no strength in them.

  Carefully she eased him off the bed on to his feet, but he staggered, and but for her out-thrust arm would have fallen. The uncanny thing was that she had not yet uttered a word; and still without a word, supporting him and making him put his weight on his legs, she headed out of the room along a passage to an open door; the door of a bathroom.

  Then she spoke.

  “If you want to live,” she said, “you won’t try to get away.”

  “Why—” he croaked, and then: “Who—”

  But she turned from him, back to the room from which she had freed him, while he lurched into the bathroom, hardly able to place one foot before the other. This wouldn’t last, ten or fifteen minutes should see the worst of the weakness over, but—

  “If you want to live,” she had said, “you won’t try to get away.”

  He had no doubt at all that she meant it.

  The bathroom window had been bricked up, a long time – months or years – ago. There was only a small ventilation hole with a fan. It was almost as if this place had been used as a prison before. He stayed long enough to be able to flex the muscles of his legs and arms; to wash, drying himself on paper towels which rasped over his stubble. If he had had any doubt before, he knew now that he had been kidnapped for at least twenty-four hours.

  There was nothing in the room he could use as a weapon.

  In any case, was this the time to attempt to escape? Wasn’t it the time to wait, and try to find out wh
y all this had happened?

  Nevertheless, he felt an almost overwhelming temptation to try to get away; to put this nightmare behind him. To get word to Penny and reassure her, to tell Gideon there was no need to worry. The woman here could simply have tried to scare him, and if she was alone in the house he might have a good chance. He went out of the bathroom, and looked along the passage to the head of the stairs. The door of his “cell” was open but there were no sounds and the woman was out of sight. He crept to the head of the stairs. This must be a trick, of course; a ruse to find out whether he would attempt to get away. He stared down the stairs, and a man said: “Don’t try it, mate.”

  Hobbs started, the voice was so unexpected. It came from the narrow passage at the side of the stairs, from a man who was leaning against the wall and grinning up at him.

  In the man’s right hand was a revolver.

  Hobbs moistened his lips, and then said: “You know you’ll get into serious trouble for this, don’t you?” His voice was stronger than he had expected, there was even some authority in it.

  “Been in trouble all me life, copper,” the man replied. “Wouldn’t feel natural if I wasn’t. Be a good boy now and go back to your bedroom. Clara will bring you something to eat in a few minutes, and she might even let you have a radio. You can never tell with Clara. But—” he moved to the foot of the stairs, changing the gun from one hand to the other. “Lemme give you a word of warning about her. Don’t try any tricks. She’s as strong as any man and she knows the tender spots. She’s got a very cruel streak, Clara has, so don’t upset her.”

  The impulse to jump; to close with the man; to get the gun from him, was almost irresistible. Hobbs stood at the top of the stairs gritting his teeth, while the man grinned up at him. As they stood, footsteps came clear and unmistakable. Clara appeared, carrying a laden tray.