Gently with the Ladies (14 page)

She smiled beautifully at Gently, lifting her face towards his. Her knee lifted and sagged, then lifted again and sagged again.

‘And,’ she said, ‘you believe me, don’t you?’

Gently gave a shake of his head.

‘Yes, say you do,’ she said. ‘Flatter me.’

He looked at her, said nothing.

‘At least,’ she said, ‘you don’t know, can’t be certain, whether I’m telling the truth or not. All the truth. Some of it. Most of it, bridged by intelligent guessing. You don’t know, and you don’t have to. That’s for the jury to decide.’

‘Your account doesn’t square with Mrs Bannister’s.’

She pouted. ‘It can’t be very different! Not if La Bannister told you the truth, though I daresay that isn’t a blank certainty. But I’m not greedy. If it makes it easier, I’ll square my details with hers.’

‘And you think I’m going to accept that?’

‘Of course. What do you have to lose?’

‘By offering a perjured witness?’

‘You don’t know I’m perjured. And it will put Siggy where he belongs. I suppose you’re not going to tell me he didn’t do it?’

‘I’m going to tell you you didn’t go back into the flat. And there was no struggle and no screaming. All the frills are imaginary.’

Brenda Merryn sighed. ‘You’re hard,’ she said. ‘And you’re not being very intelligent, George. This isn’t slipping halfbricks into somebody’s pocket, it’s really assisting the course of justice. You’ll get the murderer, I’ll get the money. Even Siggy can’t grumble. And when it’s all over George, wouldn’t you rather have a rich mistress in Kensington than a poor one? Or since you’re a bachelor, let’s go further – say a rich Mrs George?’

‘You’d go to that length?’ Gently said.

She looked at him intently. ‘Not for the money. But yes, I’d certainly go to that length. Because you don’t quite hate me, do you?’

‘In fact . . . you’re offering me a cut?’

‘Perhaps I am. Money is important.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Merryn. It isn’t on.’

‘You’re still not calling me Brenda,’ she said.

She lay back on the settle, her face gaunt in the dimmed light, one arm hanging over the settle-back, a hand trailing on the floor.

‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘I’m levelling with you. You’re not a kid for me to fool. You’re not a hypocrite with froth on you. You’re a realist, like me. And what I’m offering is real enough though it doesn’t add up to soap-powder ethics.’

Gently rose. She looked up at him.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Are you tossing me out?’

‘Have you transport?’

‘I’d like to say I haven’t. But that’s my 1100 by the gate.’

‘I suppose you can guess the advice I’ll give you.’

She smiled ruefully at her lofted knee. ‘I’m to go to Inspector Reynolds and give him a statement, and this time keep the screams and bodies out of it. Do you think I’ll do that?’

‘I think you’d better. It isn’t just a question of the money, you know. You’re placing yourself squarely at the scene of the killing at the right time. And with motive.’

Now she laughed. ‘But you don’t suspect me.’

‘Also you’ve offered bribes to a police officer.’

‘Not bribes and not to a police officer. Just myself. To you.’

They were silent a moment, then she said quietly:

‘This is the queerest sort of thing, George. But I’m sincere, and you ought to believe it. Try to believe it. Even though I’m a liar. And now to surprise you I’ll go quietly. Only help me on with my coat.’

She got up from the settle and he held the coat for her. When it was on she turned to face him. But all she did was give a little shrug and a long look. Then she went.

He heard the drone of the 1100 and its gears pass away down Elphinstone Road, then he took up the phone and dialled a number with raking strokes.

‘Chief Superintendent Gently.’

‘Hullo Chiefie. What can we do for you tonight?’

‘I want information about Fletcher Bannister. Was a big man in plastics.’

‘You name it, we have it. What do you want to know about him?’

‘How he died.’

‘Put your feet up. I’ll have the details in half a minute.’

In half a minute exactly the man in the
Express
morgue was picking up his phone again.

‘Fletcher Bannister, Chiefie. Killed in a car smash, October ten, fifty-nine. Was driving alone on the A4 at two-thirty a.m. Came off the road at Cherhill and hit a tree head-on. Estimated speed eighty-ninety. Bannister killed instantly.’

‘Have you the inquest report?’

‘This is it. Accident was witnessed by a truck-driver. Gave his opinion the crash was deliberate. No evidence of any contributory factor. Wife Sybil Bannister testified her husband’s state of mind was normal, did not know he had taken the car out, knew of no business he might be attending to. Bannister wearing pyjamas, dressing-gown, slippers when found. Verdict, took own life while balance of mind was disturbed. Is it what you want, Chiefie?’

Gently grunted. ‘Any mention of house-guests?’

‘Not down here. Is there something we can print?’

‘Not if you don’t want a libel suit wrapped round you.’

He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was after eleven-thirty. He went down to the kitchen. There, as he’d expected, Mrs Jarvis was still sitting. As he entered she came out of a doze.

‘Oh, Mr Gently! You’ll be after your nightcap.’

Immediately she was bustling with milk in a saucepan and spooning rum into a beaker.

But she was giving him one or two sharp glances.

‘Mr Gently,’ she said. ‘Was that – person – a client?’

And Gently lied slyly: ‘She’s one of our officers. She’s doing decoy work round the Gardens.’

I
N THE MORNING
, resolving he might as well be hung for a sheep, he rang the office and left a message with Dutt and then drove direct to Chelsea H.Q. Reynolds had not yet come in, but Buttifant sat heavy-eyed in the C.I.D. room. He had a cigarette stuck to his lip and a piled ashtray at his elbow. He ducked his head and rose wearily. Gently motioned him to sit again. On the table in front of him was a scribbling pad and some pencilled-over sheets.

‘Is that about the Rogers woman?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes sir. As far as we’ve got with her.’

‘How far is that?’

‘Well, we’ve traced her back here, sir. But nothing after she stepped off the boat.’

‘But she is back here?’

‘Yes sir. Landed in May of last year. I’m waiting to make some inquiries at the magazine offices, but their staffs don’t seem to get in very early.’

‘
Compact
influence,’ Gently said. ‘Where did you pick up with the Rogers?’

‘At United Press sir, when she was working for them. They remembered about her and why she was sacked. Then we’ve traced her sailing on the
Rangitane
and coming back last May on the
Orontes.
But Worcester haven’t found her family for us, and nobody we’ve talked to yet has seen her.’

‘You wouldn’t have a photograph of her, of course.’

Buttifant shook his head. ‘We may have one coming. United Press run a staff magazine, and they’re going to search their files for us.’

So Beryl Rogers was in the running; in the flesh, not merely as a ghost. Unless she had taken herself off again to some other distant part of the Commonwealth. She had returned, the necklace had been stolen and Clytie Fazakerly had died: if it were coincidence it was coincidence that needed a meticulous examination. And until then, in any event, Johnny Fazakerly was safe from a charge.

‘Keep with it, Sergeant.’

Buttifant nodded dully and began rolling a fresh cigarette. Gently went out again, flicking a rubber plant, and sending a dry tab-end rattling to the parquet.

He drove to Vincent Street and parked the Sceptre as near as he could get to the Coq d’Or. The Coq d’Or was an opulent hotel with a ‘family’ tag and was popular with a certain class of visiting American. A commissionaire smiled at him in the foyer and a young waiter smiled at him in the reception hall and behind the desk were two other young men who smiled attentively when he approached.

‘You have a John Fazakerly staying here?’

Yes; they didn’t need to consult the register.

‘Is he expecting you, sir?’

‘I should think it likely.’

They smiled at Gently and at each other.

‘If you’ll follow me sir, please.’

One of them came out, beating the other to it by a head, and led Gently into a large, plush but empty lounge and set a leather-upholstered chair for him.

‘What was the name sir? I’ll find Mr Fazakerly for you.’

He darted out again, still smiling. Five minutes later he returned beaming to usher Fazakerly across the carpet. Fazakerly himself was not beaming. He stood looking at Gently till the young man left. Then he shrugged, threw himself into a chair and slowly held out his wrists.

‘So it’s a fair cop,’ he said. ‘I should have put Smith in the register.’

‘Did you think we wouldn’t keep tabs on you?’ Gently said.

‘I didn’t think. That’s my trouble. You wanted to see what I’d do, was that it?’

‘No. Your being released was quite genuine.’

‘Then why are you pinching me again the next moment?’

‘This isn’t a pinch. Just a morning visit.’

Fazakerly let his wrists fall again. He was perhaps still a little behind on his sleep. Some shadow remained about his eyes and his face was drained and colourless.

‘Just a morning visit,’ he said. ‘Like that you still don’t have me fixed up. I’m nearly inside but not quite, I’m dangling around on a piece of string. Oh, it’s great to be alive. I love a visit from the Chief Inquisitor.’

‘This is better than a cell,’ Gently said.

‘You mean the smiling faces,’ Fazakerly said. ‘And how would you know about a cell anyway, when you’re always on the outside looking in? No, it isn’t better than a cell. I slept in that cell. I really slept. I didn’t have to worry, I could relax, it was all over, I could sleep. Then you let me out and it started again, everything crowding in on me. You didn’t free me. You set me adrift. I’m not even the bum I started out as.’

‘Perhaps you never were that bum,’ Gently said.

‘Maybe I was, maybe not. But one thing’s certain. In that cell I knew who I was, where I was. And since I came out my mind’s been spinning. It’s like a crazy machine I can’t stop. It thinks and thinks, and I have to go with it. And I hate it. I hate what it keeps turning over.’

‘What does it keep turning over?’

‘It keeps turning over who killed her. Who must have killed her, if I didn’t. And I’m pretty certain it wasn’t me.’

‘Only pretty certain?’

‘That’s my state. Facts aren’t facts with me any more. It’s like the world has gone back into the melting pot and facts are just what people believe. Maybe that’s always the way with facts and we’re kidding ourselves when we think they’re different. I don’t know. I don’t think I killed her. I was certain yesterday. Not today.’

‘Then who must have killed her?’

‘It’ll sound too silly. You have to start out knowing it wasn’t me. That’s to say you have to believe it, you have to worship it, make a fact of it, inspire the world to believe it with you. So that it’s true for five minutes.’

‘And when you’ve settled the metaphysic?’

‘Then it all turns ugly. You’ve got a vacuum that sucks in belief and creates a fact you don’t want.’

‘Connected with your sister-in-law?’

Fazakerly nodded. ‘Brenda told her. I’m sure of that. And I’m sure she was there when we were rowing.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’m sure of too much.’

‘You went to see her last night. Why was that?’

‘Ask yourself, where would you expect me to go? She’s the only relative I have in London, and I had to talk it over with someone.’

‘What was her attitude?’

‘That’s the rub. She was sore as hell that I’d got out. Sore, shocked. It wasn’t to plan. I could see it. She just wanted me back inside.’

‘Did you row?’

‘No. She’s too intelligent to start rowing. But she was just like an east wind, and they blow through you and not round you. To make it natural she should have been happy for me, but she was too needled to bother with that. She believes like hell that you’re going to get me. Not that I did it, that you’re going to get me. She wants the money too darned much. She lets it show.’

‘That’s human enough. If she thinks you did it.’

‘But I know I didn’t, and I know she knows.’

‘How?’

‘She was there. Nobody else could have told Clytie. And Clytie wouldn’t have given it to me so raw unless she had an audience round the corner.’

Gently’s head slanted. ‘You’re positive of that – it was the only reason for your wife’s anger?’

‘The more positive the more I think of it. In fact, I’d swear she was putting it on. It was out of character. She just didn’t care. I was the fool to take her seriously. She had me spinning around like a blue-arsed fly and she didn’t mean a bloody word of it.’

‘Miss Johnson meant nothing special to her.’

‘Sarah? Sarah was just a name.’

‘That was the impression your wife gave you.’

‘Of course. What could Clytie know about her?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

‘And I’m telling you. Clytie had never set eyes on Sarah. And if she had it would have made no difference, she was chums with half the women I slept around with.’

‘So doesn’t that indicate something special about Sarah?’

Fazakerly hesitated, his flecked eyes searching.

‘Are you trying to tell me there is?’ he said. ‘Something you know about and I don’t?’

Gently shrugged. ‘How long have you known her?’

‘Since last October. October the tenth.’

‘Never before then?’

‘No, never. Well, I may have seen her around once or twice.’

‘You didn’t see her around when she lived in Chelsea.’

‘In Chelsea?’ Fazakerly went still. ‘She’s never lived this way, she belongs to Rochester. If she’d ever lived here she’d have told me.’

‘What makes you so sure she belongs to Rochester?’

‘Well . . . everything. Her parents live there.’

‘You’ve met them?’

‘No, but she talks about them.’