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.
“I’d like to get a complete survey of shop-lifting, bag-snatching and pick-pocket activity,” Gideon told him. “Send out a teletype to all Divisions about that, will you? I have a feeling it’s getting much worse.”
“Knowing your ‘feelings’, it probably is,” said Hobbs. “I’ll do it this morning.”
“Good.”
“Do you want me here when Lem comes?”
“No,” Gideon decided. “He’ll probably let his hair down more, if we’re alone. Right, Alec.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, wiping his forehead and moving towards the fan. “Do I owe this little gesture to you?”
Hobbs looked surprised. “The fan? No.”
“Did you get one?”
“No.”
“Must be my gremlin,” Gideon said drily.
He was mildly surprised that Hobbs didn’t go but instead moved backwards slightly, as if he had something on his mind. Before he could speak, if he were going to, the telephone rang and Gideon moved across and picked it up. It was the front desk.
“Mr. Lemaitre is on his way up, sir.”
“Right, thanks.” Gideon put the instrument down. “Lem’s on his way. Anything on your mind, Alec?”
