Gently Sahib (10 page)

‘Unless an outsider got into the act, what happened afterwards doesn’t make sense.’

Gently yawned and look at Dutt.

‘Your pigeon, Inspector,’ he said.

Dutt riffled the pages of the marked Pickwick, made the wrinkles show round his eyes.

‘Sounds a bit circumstantial, chief,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of supposing goes with it.’

‘I’m glad you noticed that.’

‘But I reckon it could have worked out that way. All we need is a bit of routine, just to fill in the blank spaces.’

‘How’s it going to fill in what happened at the bungalow?’

‘Well . . . suppose chummie was scared of the tiger . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘I wouldn’t have liked to have gone back there . . . not knowing if the tiger was around or not. So suppose he didn’t go back till the next night. Then he gets the seconds and buries the body . . . then maybe the second time he comes on foot, and pinches the car to make his getaway.’

‘This case will make you or break you, Dutt.’

‘But couldn’t it have happened that way, chief . . . ?’

‘No it couldn’t. Shimpling had tradesmen delivering. The door was locked before they arrived.’

Yet who indeed would have had the courage to return to the bungalow that night, inviting, at every step, the terrible fate which had happened to Shimpling – and with the horrible spectacle of that fate fresh and uppermost in his mind?

It needed another ‘cat-man’, another Groton.

But Groton had a Bank of England alibi . . .

Was it possible that in the case was another skilled cat-handler?

‘Really, we don’t seem to have very much, chief.’

Gently sighed, nodded.

‘When it comes to facts . . . I mean what you can prove. We’re sort of just left holding the tiger.’

‘Better sleep on it, Dutt.’

‘Yes, chief. I will.’

‘Perhaps they’ll turn up Banks or Sayers.’

‘Yes, chief.’

Perhaps! But he felt vaguely aggrieved that he had nothing better to offer his assistant.

On the surface, he had given the case outline, but it was pretty thin stuff underneath. Unless he could get his teeth in tomorrow he wasn’t going to leave Dutt with much to make bricks from.

Somebody else had come into the lounge, Harry Barnes, the Smith’s PA man. He stood nursing a whisky glass at a discreet distance, but obviously waiting to catch Gently’s eye. Now he caught it and came over.

‘Any stop-press, chiefie . . . ?’

‘Are you a resident?’

Barnes grinned and nodded and waved his glass.

‘If Dickens could sleep here, why not me? I’ve got a shake-down in the billiards room. Thought I’d stick close to the fountain-head in case I came in for a special issue.’

‘I’ve nothing for you.’

Even his old friends of the Press he was letting down.

‘Oh well . . . it would miss the countries. And, anyway, I’ve something else to tell you.’

He sat down, a dumpy man who would never look anything but untidy, for whom factories turned out baggy brown suits and shoes with uppers that always cracked. But he had bright and friendly eyes.

‘The boys got a rush of blood this afternoon. They had a hunch that Groton’s the man and they all drove out there to give him the treatment.’

‘Did he offer them tea?’

‘Pull the other one. He let fly with a twelve-bore.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Both barrels, and he had another gun ready loaded.’

Gently grinned to himself. ‘What are you going to do – sue him?’

‘You know us better than that, chiefie. It’ll make every front page tomorrow morning. And it’ll be slanted, you know. The readers will guess what we’re guessing. Mind you, he fired the shot wide, but we could hear the pellets whistle over.’

‘Well, it’s too early for pheasants. Perhaps he took you for grouse.’

‘Come off it, chiefie! It’s serious, isn’t it? He could just as easily have peppered one of us.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Big reversings! No room to turn in that lane. We drew off out of range and held a committee meeting about it. Some of them wanted to creep up on him.’

‘But nobody did.’

‘Nobody did. Instead we collared his two farmhands when they knocked off at half-five.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Only background stuff. One of them told us how he wrestled a bear. He throttled the bear till it was senseless, then just dumped it in the truck.

‘Still, the boys weren’t satisfied, and they left a couple there to keep watch. But nothing happened except Groton took off and was last seen heading for London.’

‘. . . London?’

‘Well, the London Road. He drove through here and kept going.’

Gently hesitated. ‘When was this?’

‘Around seven p.m. . . . is there something in it?’

‘Would he know you fellows were watching him?’

‘Shouldn’t think so . . . what’s the score, chiefie?’

Gently shook his head. No score at all! Groton could drive to London if he wanted. He had connections there, like the Safari Club, and probably a number of business contacts. His animals, for instance, would be shipped there . . .

Why did Gently feel suddenly alerted?

‘What was he driving?’

‘Probably his estate car. The boys would have said if he was in the truck.’

‘Finish your drink.’

‘Do you think he’s skipping?’

‘I don’t think anything you can print.’

He got up, went into the hall. There was still a light in the office. He tapped. The manager answered the door. Over the manager’s shoulder peered the pretty face of the receptionist.

‘Sorry to interrupt! Have you a London directory?’

‘Oh . . . the directory! Yes, Superintendent.’

‘I’d like to use your phone.’

They came out, the girl smoothing her skirt. Gently went in and closed the door. He found the Safari Club Number and put through a call.

‘Chief Superintendent Gently, CID. I’m trying to contact one of your members.’

‘Which one, sir?’

‘Hugh Groton. Has he booked for tonight?’

‘Just a minute, sir.’

Two minutes passed, then:

‘No sir, he’s not here. I can give you his home number . . .’

‘Don’t bother,’ Gently grunted.

But then, to check, he did ring the farm, and listened to the ringing tone buzzing hollowly.

Groton wasn’t in . . . what then? He might be burying his troubles with a blonde in town!

Out in the hall the manager was all smiles, but the receptionist wore an indignant expression. In the lounge Harry Barnes was trying to pump Dutt, who could scarcely keep his eyes open, and was answering in monosyllables.

‘C
HARLES DICKENS SLEPT
here’: it was painted over the door of his room. In the morning, Gently was inclined to add: ‘And George Gently Didn’t’.

But it wasn’t the room’s fault. Though it resembled a corner of a well-kept folk museum, it was spacious and quiet, and the bed was comfortable, and the bedlinen smelled of hot irons.

To look about it, you would suppose Dickens had spent his working life there. Attributed to him were a davenport, a desk chair, a silver inkstand, a sheaf of pens, a backscratcher, a warming-pan and some embroidered slippers in a glass case.

Also the bed, a mahogany four-poster (though now supplied with a spring mattress), which had embroidered damask curtains and canopy, prudently protected with nylon net.

Over the marble mantelpiece hung a print of the author in a double-Hogarth frame, and on the walls Phiz illustrations depicting the history of Mr Pickwick.

A little overpowering, perhaps, to the casual bed-and-breakfast guest – but not the reason why Gently was sleepless, and woke from a nap with pounding temples.

Breakfast, too, was rather trying.

‘Fruit juice, black coffee and two aspirins.’

‘There’s a very nice mixed grill this morning, sir . . .’

‘Just what I said! . . . make it three aspirins.’

And he sipped and frowned and watched Dutt eating his mixed grill with absorbed relish. The devil take Abbotsham and its lionizing! After this, draught bitter.

He wanted to be out in the air, but when he got there things were no better. It was the same sort of sultry, light-overcast day which he had sweated through yesterday. Abbotsham weather! As though the district lay in an airless pocket of its own. As though the sea breezes, not far distant, were turned aside from these somnolent streets.

To make matters worse, it was Saturday market. You could hardly shove your way along the pavements. Cattle-floats, exuding farmyard odours, stood jammed in the traffic, their occupants lowing.

At the junction of the Buttermarket was wedged a horse-drawn lorry decorated in the colours of Abbotsham FC. Today was the opening match of the season, a local derby which was a crowd-puller. Already some morons with their rattles . . .

‘Wish I was at White Hart Lane today, chief.’

Then, as they were just turning into Headquarters, an oaf on the car park set off a cracker.

‘Don’t you bother with by-laws in these parts?’

A constable they met at the door was flabbergasted. He tried, and failed, to click his heels, then aimed a salute and hastily made off. Perkins, who’d opened his door at that moment, stared round-eyed dismay at the belligerent Yard man.

‘They’ve been on the phone . . .’

‘I should jolly well hope so!’

‘They’ve found Shimpling’s car . . .’

‘Don’t shout at me!’

He sat down at Perkins’s desk and ran a hand over his forehead. How many drinks had it been last night? At least he hadn’t kept pace with Cockfield.

Perkins wavered in front of him.

‘A man named Smalley has got it, Super . . .’

‘Got what?’

‘Shimpling’s car, Super.’

‘Oh. Where did he get it?’

‘He bought it from a dealer in Fulham. Peckthorne’s Garage, Craven Archways. Smalley lives in Fulham himself, he’s a rep for Bignall’s Potted Meats . . .’

‘I don’t want to know about potted meats!’

‘Pardon, Super?’

‘Where did this garage get hold of the car?’

‘Oh, the chummie who sold it pretended he was Shimpling. It was a legal sale as far as they know.’

‘Did he give an address?’

‘Only a false one . . .’

‘Do the garage remember him?’

‘No, Super.’

‘When did they buy the car?’

‘September seventh last year.’

‘And a fat lot of good all that’s going to do us!’

Perkins couldn’t make it out. His cod’s-eyes popped, he gaped at Gently. He glaced at Dutt. The placid Londoner was quietly rolling a cigarette.

‘Well, at least we know, Super . . .’

‘We don’t know anything. Who’s checking the banks for Sayers’s account?’

‘Sergeant Hargrave . . .’

‘Now tell me something. Wasn’t Alderman Cockfield pinched last year?’

Worse and worse! Perkins wobbled, found a chair, sat down. In this same office he’d made subordinates tremble, but now he’d have given his leave to be out of it. Twice he tried to begin to say something.

‘Well?’

‘It was only a small matter, Super . . .’

‘He killed a man?’

‘No . . . yes! It was an accident . . . he must have swerved . . . he hit a young fellow on a scooter.’

‘When was this?’

‘After Christmas – the year before last, that is! As a rule he’s a good driver. Never had his licence endorsed.’

‘Were there any witnesses?’

‘No . . . it was late. He reported the accident himself.’

‘So I should think. Was he loaded?’

Perkins squirmed. ‘No – of course!’

‘Otherwise it would have been manslaughter.’

Gently nodded to himself, winced, stopped.

‘Look here, Inspector, I want the truth of this! The official version isn’t good enough. I think Cockfield was being blackmailed, and this little affair could have been the occasion of it.

‘Frankly now – what are the facts?’

‘He was fined, Super . . .’

‘But he might have been jugged!’

Perkins wriggled about on his chair, his face the colour of stewed raspberries. Was it fair to ask him this? Surely Gently could have gone higher?

But there he sat, at Perkins’s own desk, his eyes biting into the local man. . .

Perkins gulped.

‘It was around eleven . . . he was driving home down Nelson Street . . . the youngster, his name was Cliff Amies, he’d been visiting his girl at Hartshill. Cockfield swerved on to his wrong side, hit Amies, killed him. He went on driving home, rang us up when he got there.’

‘How long afterwards?’

‘Well . . . an hour.’

‘Who took his statement?’

‘I went out.’

‘Was he canned?’

‘He was when I got there . . . slipping down whiskies, one after another.’

‘So like that you couldn’t give him a test.’

‘There wasn’t much point in it, was there?’

‘None at all. If he claimed he’d been sober you’d have to take his word . . . which, of course, you did.’

Perkins squirmed but said nothing.

‘Go on. What was the statement?’

‘He said the light on the scooter dazzled him . . . we checked the lamp, it was focused high.’

‘Where had Cockfield come from?’

‘He said from the cinema . . . we had to take his word there. After the accident he didn’t know what he was doing, that’s why he drove on without stopping.’

‘So – a wigging, a fine, a suspension – instead of maybe three years!’

‘We did check . . .’

‘But not too hard . . . not on a mayor during his term of office.’

Gently smoothed his throbbing head again. There it was, a Shimpling set-up. If Cockfield had been drinking before the accident, and Shimpling knew it, Shimpling was in. Even if he’d guessed that Cockfield was high he might have found ways to put the screw on . . .

‘Were there any postscripts to the business?’

Perkins, scowling at nothing, jerked his head.

‘Postscripts . . . ?’

‘You know. Perhaps a whisper that there were people who knew more than they’d said.’

‘Well yes . . . actually.’ Perkins said moistening his lips. ‘There was a letter, an anonymous letter – not to us, to the boy’s father. Said the writer had evidence that would have altered the verdict – made us a lot of trouble with Amies. He threatened to go to his MP.’