Gently Continental (9 page)

Too shrewd, I'd have thought, to enjoy a scene in front of the guests. Were you present, by the way?

TRUDI

I? – no, I slept through it.

GENTLY

(Raises his eyebrows.)

TRUDI

I can't help it! I just did, that's all.

GENTLY

So you're not a witness to how your mother reacted.

TRUDI

No, but I know how it would be, mother going off the deep end, Frieda being wildly efficient. But there's nothing in it, nothing at all. It's simply what you'd expect. He didn't mean anything to mother. You're quite wrong about that.

GENTLY

Then perhaps to Frieda he meant something.

TRUDI

Frieda? Oh, that's absurd!

GENTLY

Why so, Miss Trudi?

TRUDI

Can you imagine it, a man like that, and Frieda?

gently

(Shrugs.)

I'm afraid I can. It doesn't seem a bit improbable. A man of fifty, perhaps not a strong character, might easily become infatuated with your sister.

TRUDI

Oh, that's likely. You don't know Frieda, she doesn't invite infatuations. Besides . . .

GENTLY

You were saying?

TRUDI

It's completely impossible, absolutely. It couldn't be.

GENTLY

Completely impossible.

TRUDI

Yes, yes.

GENTLY

I wonder how you can be so certain.

TRUDI

(Is her colour fading again?)

I just know. I know it.

GENTLY

Yes, there's one way you could know it.

Trudi hugs her knees very tightly and stares over them at the fawn turf. If no blue ribbon were containing her hair it would be drooped forward about her face, but there is a blue ribbon, and her face is naked, and it is as pale as it has ever been.

STEPHEN

(Angrily.)

I think that stinks! I think that's a wicked thing to insinuate.

GENTLY

What, Mr Halliday?

STEPHEN

That he – that fellow – should have been carrying on with Trudi.

GENTLY

Carrying on?

STEPHEN

Yes, carrying on – that's what you had in mind, wasn't it? So then she'd know it wasn't with Frieda, that's the ‘one way' she could be certain. Oh, very clever!

GENTLY

You interest me.

STEPHEN

Yes, and I can see what it's leading up to. You're trying to put me in the middle, aren't you – finding a fat motive for me.

GENTLY

You seem to have found one for yourself.

STEPHEN

Go on, go on. Say I killed him.

GENTLY

Is this a confession?

STEPHEN

You'd like that, wouldn't you?

GENTLY

Psychology is part of my job, too.

STEPHEN

A
crime passionel
– how convenient. Clooney slain by jealous lover. Crazy medical student slices victim before hurling him over cliff. I fit the part, oh beautifully! A manic depressive, why not? You can tie that label on to anyone, they don't need any spots.

GENTLY

Where were you that evening, by the way?

STEPHEN

Oh here. Right here. I don't have an alibi worth tuppence, I'm your man on the spot.

GENTLY

Visiting Trudi?

STEPHEN

Spying on her. Creeping around in the bushes. My crazy jealousy on the boil, a case of lancets in my pocket. Then I saw – does it matter what? When a man's in that state it scarcely matters. But something snapped in my unbalanced mind, and I followed my victim to the cliffs. Just ask my uncle. He knows I was out, knows I came back at the critical time.

TRUDI

(Dully.)

There's another way.

STEPHEN

Oh, don't go spoiling it.

TRUDI

My room . . . it's next door to Frieda's. If she . . .

STEPHEN

The Superintendent will hate you.

TRUDI

Well, I'd know. That's all. Not the other . . . not that.

STEPHEN

For shame! You've made it completely commonplace.

TRUDI

Anything like that . . . it just isn't.

She tosses her head back, as though now willing to let her face be seen, but her eyes are still lidded low, her linked fingers dragging together.

GENTLY

Are you so certain you'd know, Miss Trudi.

TRUDI

Yes. Yes, I'm certain.

GENTLY

When you're such a sound sleeper.

TRUDI

(A faint flush.)

You must believe me.

GENTLY

(Shrugs.)

Not that it matters whether he slept with her or not. He may have tried and been repulsed. Or she may have visited his room.

TRUDI

No!

STEPHEN

You see? Frieda is snow-white, Superintendent.

GENTLY

(Nods.)

Yes, I see. Anything like that just isn't. And strangely enough, I'm inclined to believe it.

STEPHEN

Crazy. Now I shan't confess.

He glances at Trudi, but her eyes are closed, are hidden entirely by bluish lids.

T
HE AQUARIUM, WHICH
was never intended for long sittings, is getting unbearable to Inspector Shelton, who may not stand the door ajar and has only a twist ventilator to bring him air. There is a fan, a small fan, its boss as large as its blades, but its only function, other than an introverted hissing, is to redistribute a fixed humidity. Shelton has tried switching it off. Then the humidity seems to congeal. He has tried facing it in a variety of directions, but each seems less efficient than the last. Short of taking the roof off, Shelton feels, nothing will make the Aquarium tolerable, and the impossibility of this perfect solution hangs heavy on his soul. He sets fire to a limp cigarette, directs a puff of rank smoke over Sally Dicks's head. Sally Dicks ignores him. Shelton closes his eyes. If ever, he says, if ever, if ever. Talk about routine, Sergeant Walters says. I could weep, Shelton says, I bloody well could. Because what are we doing? We're doing sweet Fanny Adams. Not a blind bloody bit of this matters a puke. Just going through the motions, that's what we're doing, like checking a perm without any draws. He knows, we know, none of these sons of bitches are suspects, they're as pure as the driven slush, they just come in here to cheek us. I suppose someone has to do it, Sergeant Walters says, just our rotten bad luck it was you and me. If ever, Shelton says, there's another case of murder I'll resign and open a clip joint. This isn't police work, not the way I know it. It's bloody murder. It's death to policemen. Watch it, Sergeant Walters says, there's his royal highness coming over.

Gently comes in, glances round him. They could swear he knows what they've been saying. It seems printed on the air in a number of balloons which he is reading off in those glances. What's the tally, he says. Eighteen, Shelton says. You'd better have a break, Gently says. Miss Dicks, get them to send in a pot of coffee. Oh, and Miss Dicks, leave the door open. It's like a steam-bath in here. Miss Dicks smiles, or moves her face, and goes out, leaving Shelton staring after her wonderingly. Hah, Gently says, and sits down in the chair vacated by Sally Dicks. And suddenly, strangely, there does seem a meaning in the grinding statement-taking of Shelton and Walters. Gently's presence gives it a meaning, throws over it a glamour, a promise of fertility. Among those statements, it now seems almost certain, lie precious grains of the first significance. Tell me, Gently says, has anyone noticed if Clooney ever visited, say, Mrs Breske's parlour? – when immediately, standing out like an Epstein sculpture, an enormous fact takes substance amongst the rubbish. Yes, he did. Two people have mentioned it, a Mrs Piper and a Mr Wade: a Mrs Piper from Weston, near Bath, and a Mr Wade from Higham Ferrers. What day was that? On two separate days, Friday of last week, Monday of this, two visits, each in the afternoon, though of duration unknown. Mrs Piper saw him tap at the door, heard Mrs Breske's scolding Herein! Mr Wade saw him leaving by that door a short while before afternoon tea. That was the fact, ending there, exciting nobody's special curiosity, since guests often visited Mrs Breske's parlour to admire the bric-à-brac and furniture. Outside which, Gently says, nobody noticed any particular relations between Clooney and the Breskes? Wait, yes, Shelton says, afire with enthusiasm, several of them noticed he had an eye for Miss Trudi. Of course, she's a doll, all the men . . . but he often passed the time of day with her. She's the one he talked to most, more than to anyone else. More than to Frieda, Gently says. To Frieda or Mrs Breske, Shelton says, nobody has him talking to Frieda, you get the impression they weren't pally. Any other impression, Gently says. Shelton shrugs, says, mostly negative. But sure as Christmas he didn't talk much, which makes it stand out he talked to Trudi. Well, Gently says, well. Shelton squeezes his brain for more matter. Tell me, Gently says, you've checked the staff here, the male staff: there are seven, aren't there? Seven, Shelton affirms, or eight including the gardener. But seven live in? Six: the kitchen boy comes from the village. And they are the two chefs and the four waiters? Shelton opens his notebook, says, Yes: Lehrer and Kaufmann, the assistant chefs, the waiters Klapper, Gordini, Dorfmann and Friml. They are regular staff, Gently says. Yes, Shelton says modestly, I did check. They've all been here since Easter at least. Gordini and Friml were here last season. Hmn, Gently says, it was a man who killed Clooney, a man who wanted something from him, a man who knew Clooney had something to give, a man who knew more of Clooney than we do. Otherwise, I'd have said . . . Shelton drinks it in greedily. At last, a glimpse of the great man's thinking, after questions all the morning! That's why he was killed, Shelton says, because he had something the other man wanted. Hmn, Gently says, that's basic, it wasn't mere revenge, or to stop Clooney's mouth. But what did Clooney have? Money! Gently smiles at sweating Shelton. If money, how was it known he had it, except by knowing where it was? And if one knew where it was, one could steal it without murdering Clooney: then it was a question of, in his absence, simply collecting it from the hiding-place. But, Shelton says, inspiration firing, suppose it was someone from Clooney's past, knowing from past events that he had the money, but not where he had hidden it since he came here. Illegally obtained money, of course, Gently says. Of course, Shelton says, that follows. Hmn, Gently says, but then why kill him, either if he tells or if he doesn't? One way you commit a superfluous crime, the other you lose the secret for ever. If the money is illegal you can let him live, he can't come to us with a complaint. But are killers logical? Shelton urges. Gently smiles again, says, Perhaps, in this case. It may be that Clooney was doubly vulnerable, having both dangerous money and dangerous knowledge. Shelton grapples with this complex notion, asks, What sort of dangerous knowledge? Or, Gently says, just the dangerous knowledge which, admitted under torture, made his killing certain. As for example a knowledge of the identity of a person who dare not own to that identity. But what – who – ? Shelton gapes. The Breskes have Jewish blood, Gently says. They were refugees from Hitler's Austria. Mrs Breske had a Nazi, presumably Aryan, uncle, who seized her sister's estate after the annexation. All of which may mean nothing or everything, as far as our present knowledge goes. Shelton stares at this amazing man, who can produce, so casually, such a shaft of illumination. He opens his mouth, and closes his mouth, his mind reeling in turmoil. And Clooney, he gulps, Clooney was the uncle? It makes a certain sense, Gently says. Who knows – knew – something about someone, like Eichmann – that sort of thing? Shelton gabbles. Less inconsistencies, Gently says, as, why the Breskes harboured him in the first place. Shelton is silent. He is overwhelmed. He has never before met this level of intelligence. He feels like a child with a hideous algebraic problem, whose despair is resolved by the huge wisdom of an adult. He had no key, it was impossible; the key is provided, all is plain. At a single blow Gently has smashed the impasse, shown how the terms fall into place. All, that Shelton had stared at so hard, is suddenly, without violence, coherent and related. I looked over both his rooms, Gently says, the one he had first and the other. Shelton gazes at him uncomprehendingly, knows nothing about Clooney's rooms. No signs of tampering, Gently says, though of course, the searcher may have had a key. And no place, I'd say, to hide anything, no loose boards or panels. So either he was criminally careless (the smile is deep in Gently's eyes) or he hid the money elsewhere, where, conceivably, it still remains. Shelton finds Gently looking at him, as though expecting comment. Money, Shelton says hoarsely, what money? The suppositious money, Gently says. But there won't be any money, Shelton exclaims, they didn't kill the uncle for money! Gently's brows lift fractionally, the faintest sketch of elevation, but it is enough, it demolishes Shelton: he collapses in awareness of his crass density. We know nothing of that, Gently says, it's simply one of several hypotheses. I've asked for information about Mrs Breske's uncle and talked to U.S. Security about him. If he's Clooney we shall hear, but till then we let him ride. On the whole it is probably not too likely that Clooney was Mrs Breske's Nazi uncle. But . . . it's such a wonderful angle, poor Shelton says. The uncle, Gently says, was only a minor criminal. He served a sentence. We shall probably find him occupying a respectable government post in Vienna. Shelton shakes his head limply, his xs and ys dancing again, and is only saved from saying something truly stupid by the return of Sally Dicks with a pot of coffee.