Gently with the Innocents

by Alan Hunter

  Gently paused.

  ‘Now consider a moment the situation Colkett is faced with. He’s just walked two miles through a blizzard, and he knows the roads outside are impassable. The trains may or may not be running, but it’s pretty certain we’ll be watching them. And in his pocket he’s got forty-odd quid – not very much for a man on the run! He’s stuck – and he needs two things: shelter for the night, and more cash. The first, if he’s lucky, he can get at the warehouse. But the second . . . what about that?’

  Brewer whistled softly. ‘Reckon you’ve got it, sir.’

  Gently nodded. ‘It’s a fair bet.’

  ‘But,’ Gissing said, ‘what was he after? There’s nothing in the house – I’m ready to swear to it.’

  Gently gestured impatiently. ‘That didn’t matter! The point is that Colkett believed there was something. The kids had sold him the notion that Peachment had a hoard, and his finding the coin there had made it gospel. In the morning, he’d gone there to have a scout round, perhaps only to see if he could spot the hiding-place. But by the evening he was in deadly earnest – somehow, he had to get his hands on those coins.

  ‘Which of course tells us something interesting. Colkett knew the murderer didn’t get the coins. If they’d ever existed, they were still in the house . . . Colkett, the murderer, both knew it.’

  ‘Jesus – and Colkett walked into him!’ Brewer exclaimed.

  ‘The other way round,’ Gently said. ‘Colkett broke in, we know that, so the murderer must have walked into Colkett.’ He hesitated. ‘It calls for a coincidence,’ he said.

  ‘But hell – it happened, sir!’ Brewer said eagerly.

  Gently shrugged. ‘Colkett chased those kids . . . he may have shown himself in Thingoe Road.’

  He was silent for a little, sitting drooped, staring at the oddments on the desk.

  ‘The murderer isn’t very tall,’ he said. ‘It could be a woman, but I think it’s a man. Not very tall, not very powerful, does his work with furious hitting. Peachment caught him and got in his way. The murderer kept hitting Peachment, driving him backwards. Then Peachment fell, which may have been accidental, but with Colkett it was deliberate: Colkett had come for the gold.’

  Gissing gave a little groan. ‘And you think . . . Thingoe Road?’

  ‘A short man,’ Gently said. ‘Perhaps one who nobody would think to fear.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Brewer said. ‘We’ll find him, sir.’

  Gently nodded, got to his feet. ‘Thingoe Road . . . house by house. Whoever was out in the snow that night.’

  Reporters were waiting in reception and Gently gave them a brief, tight statement. They had their teeth in this one now and showed it by insistent and ingenious questioning. Gently had fobbed them off before – he wouldn’t get away with it twice! Unless he wanted a bad press he’d better play ball, come across with the hard stuff . . .

  He got shot of them at last and escaped into the twilit streets. A slow thaw had begun: it was like a cattleyard underfoot. Filthy cars went sloshing by, swidging snow-mud onto the pavements, and a few wretched pedestrains slunk along close to the walls. Gently slithered his way across the market place and down into the funnel of Water Street. It suited his mood, this . . . the darkening wilderness of foul ways. It was the right setting for the crime at Harrisons, inhuman, corrosive, anti-life: rotting snow, rotting life. And the dark coming down again.

  He came to Bressingham’s little courtyard and drew off the street into it. Hard edges of cartwheels and the head of a statue broke through the snow that choked most of the enclosure. Bressingham had shovelled a broad path from the shop door to the pavement, and cleared the area before the window. But no customer was peering at his rings.

  Gently pushed open the chiming door. Bressingham was sitting at the counter, an evening paper spread before him. He was leaning on his elbows, shoulders round, pince-nez low on his button nose. He looked up quickly.

  ‘Hullo, Superintendent . . . oh, my gosh! This terrible business.’

  Gently nodded and closed the door. He came up slowly to the counter.

  ‘I’m just reading here . . . of course, I’d heard about it. They took my fingerprints, you know that? . . . but, oh, goodness. I’d got the idea that Colkett was the man you fancied.’

  ‘I didn’t say so,’ Gently said.

  ‘No – you wouldn’t, would you?’ Bressingham said. ‘But reading between the lines – and I’m a professional! – that was the impression you gave me. And now . . . ugh – the poor devil. I wish I hadn’t told you about him. He was a worthless sort of creature, perhaps, but . . . gosh, he didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘Nor did Peachment,’ Gently said.

  ‘Well, no – nor Peachment neither. But somehow, Peachment . . . he was older, I suppose. It seemed to make it a little less ghastly.’

  Bressingham leaned back, staring up at Gently, grey eyes questioning behind their lenses. His plump hands lay together on the counter, the sensitive fingers stirring slightly.

  ‘You here on business?’

  Gently shrugged. ‘I have to put my man in a cell.’

  Bressingham shivered. ‘That sounds so . . . inexorable. I don’t think I could ever do your job. How can I help?’

  Gently looked away from him. ‘We want information about Thursday evening. We’re asking everyone, trying to build a picture. Between the hours of seven and nine.’

  ‘Seven and nine.’ Bressingham paused. ‘Curious,’ he said. ‘They were both killed around then. But I’m no good, I didn’t go out. Ursy and I were in all evening.’

  ‘You didn’t go for a drink?’

  ‘Have a heart! It was snowing fit to break the bank. As a matter of fact I was delving in Blomefield, trying to find that Latin for you.’

  ‘Yes . . . I’d forgotten.’

  Bressingham chuckled. ‘Ursy won’t have forgotten,’ he said. ‘I was really sore with myself that night. She had to drive me off to bed.’

  ‘You were on it all the evening?’

  ‘More or less. After Phil was packed off.’

  ‘When does he go to bed?’

  ‘Oh, sevenish. But the young devil sits up there reading.’ Bressingham’s eyes twinkled. ‘He’s a chip of the old ’un,’ he said. ‘Ursy, I mean – not me. He’ll be a sharp one when he grows up.’

  ‘Does he fuss about bedtime?’

  ‘He’s pretty good. Ursy puts him through his drill.’

  ‘His bath and that?’

  Bressingham nodded, his eyes smiling to themselves.

  Gently said nothing. He leaned on the counter, his eyes wandering over its furniture: a coin-cabinet, a mirror, a day-book, a little stack of printed pamphlets. He paused at the latter. The pamphlets were headed: WANTED – GOLD! – and listed items that Bressingham wished to purchase. Gently picked one up. He could sense the dealer watching him closely.

  ‘Just a bit of nonsense to stick in parcels. It ties in with my press adverts.’

  ‘Neat,’ Gently said. ‘Printed locally?’

  ‘Better still. I do them myself.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked! I have an old flatbed I bought at an auction. Are you interested in printing?’

  Gently’s stare was hard. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘May I take one of these?’

  Bressingham waved the request aside. Gently put the pamphlet in his wallet. Bressingham glanced fondly for a moment at the stack on the counter, then looked up at Gently, eyes serious.

  ‘But this isn’t helping you very much . . . do you think I might ask a naughty question?’

  ‘I may not answer it.’

  ‘A nod, you old fox! Do you know who it is?’

  Their eyes held. Slowly, Gently nodded.

  ‘Aha,’ Bressingham said. ‘And you’re nearly home.’

  ‘Nearly,’ Gently said. He turned away. ‘One more step.’

  Bressingham was silent.

  From outside came the muted slushing of the cars in W
ater Street. Down the shop a clock tocked hollowly, measuring rotund, unhurried seconds.

  ‘Tonight,’ Gently said, ‘I think I’ll go ghost-watching. It’s time I met the spectre of Harrisons.’

  ‘Oh, glory!’ Bressingham exclaimed. ‘Would you like me to come along?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘Just me. It mightn’t walk if there were a crowd. About eight seems to be the witching hour. I’ll be on the lookout soon after seven.’

  ‘But . . . will it be safe?’ Bressingham queried.

  Gently shrugged. ‘I’ve got strong nerves! And I’ll spend the waiting-time probing that storeroom . . . just in case the gold is still there.’

  ‘Oh Lord, it’s mad!’ Bressingham wailed. ‘At least you’ll have men on call somewhere?’

  Gently shook his head again. ‘Fair play,’ he said. ‘Even for ghosts.’

  He went back to the George for a bite to eat – somehow lunch had got missed out – and had them send it to his room, where he was safe from the reporters. He had small appetite. He sat eating by his window, which looked down on the morass of Water Street. A droning monster was crawling in the street, creaming the snow-slush towards the pavements. All it needed now was a frost . . . He lit his pipe, still watching. No appetite! Just a sick emptiness deep down in his guts . . .

  He rang the desk. There was no message – but what message was he expecting? Even when he’d sent the others to Thingoe Road he’d known he was getting them out of the way. Suddenly, the affair had become personal, a matter between himself and the murderer . . . as perhaps it had been all along, though he’d only just realized it. Well, Thingoe Road had to be combed: that was justifiable routine!

  And yet, wasn’t he hoping for some message, waiting idly as the minutes sped by . . . hoping still that the dogged Gissing would turn up a fresh, decisive lead? He knew he was. Like a condemned man, he was holding on for a reprieve, giving the chances these few last moments to turn up the miracle that sometimes happened . . .

  But the phone stayed silent. His watch showed seven. He rose, and knocked out his pipe. Going down the stairs, he noticed reporters standing gossiping in the hall lounge. He slipped into the dining-room, which was empty, and gained the courtyard through the kitchen. Nobody saw him climb in the Sceptre and glide softly on his way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE PANDA CAR had been withdrawn and Harrisons stood without a guardian. Only a little light from the lamp in the passage spread thinly into the yard. Gently drove round the yard in a tight circle, with crisping snow crumbling under his wheels, parked, cut his lights, sat for a short while looking and listening. Nothing stirring, here or in Frenze Street, nor in the pale waste of the sale-ground. The snows, the night had already closed in, shutting life away from the spot. He got out, deliberately slamming his door. The bang might have acted as a cue. At the end of the passage, plain in the lamplight, appeared Dinno, Moosh, and two of the kids. Gently waited. They stared interestedly, then advanced a few yards up the passage. Gently went down towards them. He met them under the lamp.

  ‘Hullo, mister . . . found him yet?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘Who, Dinno?’

  ‘Him what done it – murdered old Cokey. Don’t reckon he just fell down them stairs.’

  He looked steadily at Gently, man to man, his face wan in the lamplight. Moosh, less bold, was punting snow, and the other two gazed with their witless gaze.

  ‘Do you know who it is, Dinno?’ Gently said.

  ‘Me – how should I know?’ Dinno said. ‘Reckon it was Cokey who murdered old Peachey. Reckon it was him what had the gold.’

  ‘No,’ Gently said. ‘He didn’t have the gold.’

  ‘That’s what we reckon,’ Dinno asserted obstinately.

  ‘Nobody had the gold, did they?’ Gently said.

  Dinno stared at him with resentful eyes.

  ‘Nobody had the gold,’ Gently said. ‘But you kidded someone, and they tried to get it. And I think you know who that someone is. And I think you could tell me if you wanted to.’

  Dinno shook his head. ‘Don’t know, mister.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘Yes, you know.’

  ‘Cut my throat, mister . . . ask anyone.’

  ‘Tha’s right,’ Moosh said. ‘We don’t know, mister.’

  Gently shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now . . . perhaps we know who he is anyway. And the gold, we’ll soon find out about that. It’s just a pity you won’t come clean.’

  Dinno’s eyes wavered, then sank. ‘We don’t know nothing, mister,’ he mumbled.

  Gently nodded. ‘All right. Run along. It’s time you fellows were home by the fire.’

  They turned and trooped away silently, heads hanging, feet slouching. At the end of the passage Dinno looked back. Then they vanished into Thingoe Road.

  The lock-assembly had been renewed on the back door of Harrisons, and after letting himself in, Gently slipped the padlock in his pocket. He’d brought a hand-lamp from the Sceptre. It lit up the seedy rooms with a flitting garishness. The house was colder than it had ever been and still with a listening house-stillness. He went through the kitchen to the back corridor. There was no longer snow-water on the bare boards. A lighter patch, opposite the foot of the stairs, marked the spot where Colkett’s blood had been expunged. Going up the stairs, he tested each one to discover if it had a warning creak, but though they were old they were damp and tight, and it was only a board on the landing that responded. Not much of a warning there! The door with its letters had been left closed. Stooping, Gently put his hand through the aperture and felt for the bolt – yes; it checked.

  He went in. Was there any real point in examining that tiresome room again? At the bottom of him, he knew he had ceased to believe in the Harrison hoard and its hiding-place. A hiding-place was fundamentally a nuisance, a place to secure things you didn’t much handle; for things you did handle, perhaps daily, you used a strong-room – and this was a strong-room. No: the collection had sat on the shelves in the days of its eccentric owner, and had vanished away at his death, leaving only the tale behind.

  He set the hand-lamp on the deal table, where its light would be visible from the yard, then lit his pipe and tried to settle to the business of waiting and listening. But still his eyes kept wandering round the room, probing, sifting its barren features. Just because it was so bare and simple . . . could there be a trick to it . . . somewhere?

  In effect it had only two features, the door and the shelves in the toe of the L. They were both on the one side, with about a yard of blank wall between them. The shelves were as plain as shelves could be, supported by bearers attached to the wainscot. The door, on the other hand, was redundantly elaborate, a massive framework of many panels. If there was a trick where would it be? Certainly, it couldn’t be in the door. That left the shelves as the single possibility, the shelves which Bressingham had tested so thoroughly.

  Frowning, Gently caught up the lamp and played its beam along the shelves. There was a spot on the wainscot, he remembered, where Bressingham’s raps had produced a resonance. He began tapping softly with his knuckles. The spot was between the two centre shelves. It was barely detectable, but quite extensive, sounding over most of the area bounded by the shelves. Defective brickwork? Dry rot? The wainscot looked solid and healthy. Gently tested the shelves as Bressingham had done, with the same result: they were quite firm. He proceeded to the remaining shelves and wainscot, but could find nothing else suggestive. He shrugged. If there was a trick, you would need a hammer and chisel to work it.

  He relit his pipe, and listened some moments to the close, still, silence. It was seven-thirty. If the ghost were walking, it ought to be putting its chains on now. But he heard no sound. The house, the street might have been in the depths of the country. He flashed the lamp down the stairs. Nothing. He was alone in the silence, the frosty night.

  Softly, he closed the heavy door and let the light fall on its many panels. Was it just credible that the trick was
here, in this Portal of Olympus? No doubt old Harrison had designed that door, and had it hung there on its smith-made hinges – where, for around three hundred years, it had faithfully and cleanly opened and closed. The frame was thick . . . Gently fingered the panels. Possible to have inserted compartments in those? To have made the door itself a safe, of which the brass plate had formed a key? There’d been twenty-six letters on the brass plate, but the panels numbered only eighteen . . . and their joints were sealed with some ancient varnish, had not been disturbed in this century. He fondled the bolt, sliding it gently into its socket in the jamb. At the end of its travel it resisted slightly, then went home with a faint click. The result of wear? He tried it again. This time he felt no resistance, but on releasing the knob he heard the click again, and the knob jerked back about half an inch. For a second he stared at it, then he pulled open the door and shone his lamp into the socket. At the end of the socket he could see protruding a thick tongue of metal. He took out a nail-file and pushed the tongue with it: the tongue clicked back and stayed put. He pushed again: the tongue depressed slightly, clicked, and sprang out. A trick indeed! But what sort of trick? What was the mechanism supposed to operate? He pushed in the tongue very, very slowly, scrutinizing the door-frame as the click occurred. But nothing happened, nothing moved: he just heard that tantalizing sound.

  One more of Harrisons’ inexplicable mysteries?

  He drew back from the door with a grunt of irritation. Yet it had to work something, that obscure little gimmick . . . if not around the door, then some place . . . somewhere . . .

  And in a sudden surge, he knew he had it. The door, the shelves – they formed one unit! Only three feet distance intervened between the socket in the jamb and the central shelves . . .

  Leaving the tongue pushed in, he moved to the shelves, grasped one in each hand and gave a jerk. Shelves, wainscot, drew out in a rigid box, sliding freely on the bearers of the lower shelf.

  And there it stood in the grimy cavity: a small, nail-studded, leather-covered coffer, with silver initials on the rounded lid . . . and fresh chew-marks above the lock.