John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

Hobbs, although he had been deputy for a comparatively short time, had made a great difference to Gideon. It was a change which had come gradually and ostensibly at his, Gideon’s, instruction, but occasionally he wondered how much Hobbs steered him. At one time, Gideon himself would have interviewed every senior officer in charge of an investigation, not content to allow Lemaitre to handle major cases. Now, Hobbs did much of the briefing, and Gideon had come to rely on his judgment completely. This was largely because if Hobbs had any doubt at all as to the right course of action, he invariably consulted Gideon before making a move.

Gideon studied the few details there were, in Lemaitre’s report.

The dead man’s name was Charles Blake — good lord, little Charlie Blake! Gideon had known him on and off for twenty years; a perky little man who lived more on the fringe of crime than on crime itself. He would have thought him harmless enough. He was less an informer than a man who simply could not help talking to someone if he had any inside information, and he could be called a ‘friend’ of Lemaitre. There was nothing here that Lemaitre hadn’t told him. He put the report aside and glanced through Outdoor Events — June, then telephoned the Superintendent of AB Division, a Charles Henry, fairly young and fairly new to the command of one of London’s most important divisions, which included the whole of Hampstead as well as St. John’s Wood.

“Good morning, Commander.”

“Morning, Chas,” Gideon greeted him. “I heard a rumour last night that there might be a major demonstration at Lords for the second Test. You heard anything?”

There was a momentary silence, as if they had been cut off.

.”You there?” Gideon asked, sharply.

“Yes,” Henry said, in a curiously flat voice. “Sorry, sir — I was a bit taken aback. I didn’t expect you to be in the picture already.”

“If there’s a picture, why haven’t you shown it to me?” demanded Gideon.

“I’d planned to call later today,” Henry answered defensively. “There is a plan to raid Lords. I haven’t all the details yet, but I’ve a report due this afternoon. I-er—” Henry broke off again. Obviously Gideon’s request had utterly disconcerted him. Gideon, very pleased that the Force had not been taken unawares, gave him time to recover, and soon Henry spoke with much more confidence: “I’ve had one of our young women on the look-out, sir. She was seconded from NE, so that she wouldn’t be recognised here, and she’s joined a group of hot-heads. Pretty girl, looks years younger than her age. I always felt there might be serious trouble over this second Test.”

“Go on,” urged Gideon.

“There’s a lot of hot air,” said Henry. “And this girl’s given us a few tips on which we’ve taken no action-she wanted to make sure no one suspected her. And she’s now on what they call the Action Committee.”

“Ah!” said Gideon, with real satisfaction tinged only vaguely with anxiety.

“Last night, apparently, they talked of this raid on Lords. She put in a report at four o’clock this morning, and isn’t due in again until two.”

“Bright girl,” Gideon approved. “No danger, is there?”

“Danger of what, sir?”

“For her?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Henry, perhaps a little too briskly.

“Call me when she’s reported,” ordered Gideon, and rang off.

That last ‘Oh, I don’t think so’, was one he didn’t much like. Either Henry was being too casual, or else he did think the girl could be in danger but didn’t want to say so. It was a big mistake to take too much on oneself, and Henry might be tempted to. Gideon made a mental note that it might be a good thing to go and see both the Superintendent and the girl, that afternoon. It would put Henry on his toes and yet shouldn’t alarm the girl. The more he thought, the more Gideon wondered at the startled silence which had followed his first enquiry — could Henry have been planning some kind of coup, to spring on Gideon with an ‘aren’t I the clever one’ attitude? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

Soon, the buzzer from the direct line to Hobbs sounded.

“Yes?”

“I’m ready, sir.”

“Come in,” Gideon said.

Almost at once, the door opened.

Alec Hobbs was a compact man; well dressed but without ostentation, well groomed, good-looking in a way which grew on one rather than made an impact. He was short for a policeman: barely five feet eight, the regulation minimum height, but Gideon no longer noticed this. He had very clear, very direct grey eyes, made brighter by his rather dark complexion and his black hair, which was thick and wiry. This morning he wore a suit of lighter colour and lighter weight than usual. About his eyes and mouth there were lines etched during the years when his wife had been an incurable invalid; lines which seemed to have become set since she had died. He did not smile often, but he was more relaxed these days.

“Good morning, Alec.”

For the first time today, Hobbs dropped formality.

“Good morning, George.” He hovered until Gideon made a slight gesture towards a chair, sat down and put some files on the desk in front of him. “Lemaitre will be here. He sounds badly shaken.”

Gideon nodded. “Anything new in about Blake’s body?”

“I’ve checked on the autopsy, and with luck we’ll have a preliminary report by the time Lem gets here.”

“Good.” Gideon pushed his file about Charlie Blake on one side, and picked up the Outdoor Events file, which was in a distinctive blue folder, having originated from the Uniformed Branch. “Seen this?”

“Yes.”

“I had the Commissioner in, last night. Apparently the Home Secretary’s worried about a demonstration at Lords.”

“He’s probably justified,” remarked Hobbs. “There’s been suspiciously little protest about the South Africans — almost as if something is brewing and being kept back. Lords would be the ideal place to stage a really big demonstration.” What he was saying, in effect, was that the British public might take a lot of stirring, but trouble at the headquarters of the game of cricket would shake it out of its indifference.

“It looks as if the Home Secretary could well be justified.” Gideon explained about Henry. “I think I’ll look in at AB around two o’clock.”

A faint smile hovered about Hobbs’ lips.

“That will shake him.”

“It could.” Gideon settled back in his chair, wiping his forehead again; the morning was hotting up and there was no sign of a real break in the heat-wave. “There’s the usual lot going on and if we get one sporting demonstration, we might get others. We need a man to keep his eye on everything. Might be a good idea to make it a permanent job,” he added. “Do you know of anyone who might fit the bill?”

After a long pause, Hobbs said: “There are three or four who might. May I think about it?”

“Until tomorrow,” Gideon told him. “Then we can see whether we come up with the same men.”

Again, the faint smile hovered at Hobbs’ lips, and he nodded. Gideon, without knowing why, was just a little nettled, but he showed no sign of it.

“Nothing else?”

Hobbs gave him a brief summary of the other cases which were going through: the usual survey of the crimes which had been reported during the night and first thing that morning. Gideon noted each one, and pondered, making a suggestion here, asking a question there. They were working together like a well-oiled machine, and Gideon’s momentary irritation faded. When Hobbs had finished, he said: “We’re getting more trouble by day than by night.”

“The long, hot summer,” suggested Hobbs, drily.