by Alan Hunter
The baker was lucky to have such a wife in his shop.
‘Is the door on the latch?’
‘Yes, my dear. And all the regulars have been.’
‘This is the man from London. No doubt he’s got something to ask you.’
With husbands and wives it was difficult to tell; they had an act to be put on for strangers, and the act was usually expert. Yet here, as with Fuller and his foreman, Gently had the impression of friction. He could scarcely have put his finger on any one spot, but the impression was none the less established.
‘I went to bed soon after tea, Inspector. It’s a long day in the shop – hard on the feet, too! As a rule I sleep like a log till my husband wakes me with a cup of tea. It was the same on Thursday night. I didn’t remember anything after my head touched the pillow.’
Here again one had to believe it – difficult, even, to suggest the stock questions.
‘No, I never get up during the night … the bathroom is next door, on the same floor.
‘Naturally I go out by myself sometimes, but never away from Lynton. The only horse racing I’ve seen is on the newsreel … I entirely agree with what my husband says about it.
‘I didn’t see the – the man, but I’m quite certain that he was a stranger to me. The only Taylors we know are some people who keep a chemist’s shop …’
Two worthy people who had been pursuing their lawful occupations. They had the truth to tell and they were comfortable in the knowledge of it.
‘You sublet these premises from Mr Fuller, I believe?’
‘That’s right – and old Burge before him. I’ve been here twenty-seven years.’
‘You’re on good terms, I suppose?’
‘What do you mean by that exactly?’
‘Just a general enquiry.’
‘We’ve never had a quarrel yet.’
Gently hesitated, catching it again, that subtle essence of something between the lines. Blythely was staring unwinkingly at the street, what was almost a frown had appeared on the face of his wife.
‘By your standards, I suppose, Mr Fuller has rather lax principles?’
‘Nobody has ever heard me criticize my landlord.’
‘He drinks, doesn’t he, and gambles sometimes?’
‘I don’t prescribe rules for him, and I’ll let him know when he interferes with me.’
Oracular utterances, both of them, and pronounced with a degree of inflexible emphasis. Was it a warning to Mrs Blythely that this was the official line? She was compressing her lips as though keeping back an impatient comment.
‘You’re all local people, are you?’
‘We are. Fuller comes from Starmouth.’
‘Well, it’s the same county!’
‘Lynton’s sixty miles from Starmouth.’
‘And you’ve always got on well together?’
‘He’s a straight man of business.’
‘But personally, I mean.’
‘We aren’t close friends, but we’ve never come to blows.’
Gently turned to Mrs Blythely.
‘And you, you’re on good terms, too?’
‘But of course I am, Inspector!’
Yes, she was toeing the official line …
Gently suddenly felt tired of flogging a horse so patently dead. What did their little secrets matter, or even their skeletons, if they had any? Griffin was right, all along the line. He had cleared the way with commendable and faultless efficiency. Taylor was nothing to Lynton or Lynton to Taylor – one might as well face it, and stop annoying innocent people!
Wasn’t the mill on the main through road, and open for every kid to wander around?
‘You knew about the hopper of spoiled flour, didn’t you?’
It was his parting shot, and he could hear its irritability.
‘Ted told me about that. He heard some of the men talking. If Fuller had had his wits about him he would have spotted the diseased grain.’
‘What about the foreman?’
‘They were without one at the time.’
‘Do you think Blacker is a good appointment?’
Blythely’s face twisted into the only attempt at expression that Gently had witnessed.
‘He is a Godless loafer, and conversant with the ways of the Devil.’
‘Thank you, Mr Blythely, and forgive me for having detained you.’
He was not to get off so lightly, however. The fates seemed in a conspiracy to surfeit him with advocates of Lynton’s innocency.
As he stood pondering in the mill yard a green Bentley drew up and out of it stepped a person with an air of considerable self-importance. He came straight across to Gently, his gloved hand outstretched.
‘Chief Inspector Gently?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘My name is Geoffrey Pershore. I’ve just been talking to Superintendent Press. He told me that you were likely to be here, and I thought I should have a few words with you. I own this property, you understand, and can probably put you right about the characters of my tenants …’
Gently groaned in spirit, but was obliged to stand his ground. Pershore was a bigwig in Lynton, and the super wouldn’t thank Gently for hurting the gentleman’s self-esteem.
‘I expect you’ve come to the same conclusion as our men. This fellow was obviously murdered by his friends, who then hid the body in the mill. Fuller, I dare say, you are prepared to exonerate. Blythely I have known personally for twenty-five years …’
He was the true figure of a provincial ‘great man’, flanked by his Bentley and wearing expensive clothes which just missed being in taste. He would be in his middle fifties, perhaps, with a straight nose and a fleshy face flushed with good living. His blue eyes were watery and a little bloodshot. They had a habit of staring at you with sudden aggression, and then as suddenly swinging away again.
‘Fuller is an excellent judge of character – I wouldn’t seriously question a man he saw fit to employ. In addition to that, you must remember that I take an – ah – patriarchal interest in my investments. I would not allow anything to go on which had the merest breath of scandal attached to it. I have a reputation, Inspector … in confidence, I am expecting to be the mayor of Lynton next year.’
So that was the trouble, was it! Gently had to struggle to stop himself smiling. With the mayoralty in his grasp, Geoffrey Pershore had had the corpse of a racetrack crook planted in his moral mill …
‘You can see the delicacy of my position, Inspector. I am not asking you to scamp your duty – I am a better citizen than that, I hope! But in making statements to the press … that sort of thing. If you could make it clear that the business was purely fortuitous, I would be extremely grateful.
‘Any police charity in which you are interested, for example …’
It was little short of bribery. Gently really had to turn his head. In a moment, no doubt, he would be being promised letters of recommendation to his assistant commissioner and other such blameless favours …
‘You can throw no light on the affair yourself, sir?’
It was a wicked thrust, and the popping eyes of the mayor-presumptive showed that he felt the sting.
‘I … I – Good Lord, I wasn’t even in Lynton at the time!’
‘You have an alibi, have you?’
‘A – a – yes, I suppose I have – if that’s what you choose to call it! Thursday is my theatre night, and I was in Norchester. I arrived back at my house at about half past twelve – it is six miles out, on the Norchester Road. But honestly, Inspector—’
‘I wouldn’t want to scamp my duty.’
‘I was never at any time suggesting—!’
‘We like to clear up all the minor points, sir.’
Pershore goggled at him, his small mouth hanging half-open. He was obviously unused to being snubbed, even by the police; Gently felt almost sorry for the man’s fish-like helplessness.
The situation was saved by the emergence of Fuller from the side door of his office
.
‘You’re wanted on the phone … somebody called Dutt is asking for you.’
Gently hastened into the office and picked up the receiver. He seemed not to notice that Fuller and his landlord were closely attending him, and exchanging glances.
‘Hullo, Dutt … what have you found?’
‘Everythink, sir!’ The cockney sergeant’s voice had the childlike ring of excitement it took on when he had made a good killing.
‘I found the place, sir – third flipping time of asking. It’s The Roebuck – that posh place opposite the Abbey Gardens. Been there twelve days they had, spending money like water, then they checked out in a hurry on the Friday after lunch. And this is the cream of it, sir. Taylor’s things are still in his room. They paid his bill in advance till the end of this week, which is the reason why nobody hasn’t posted him as missing.’
Gently laid the receiver back softly on its rest. A faraway look had stolen into his eyes.
‘You – you have had news, Inspector?’ Pershore ventured, curiosity getting the better of affronted pride.
‘Mmn.’ Gently nodded. ‘News I didn’t expect … Lynton being the spotless town it is!’
‘I beg your pardon, Inspector?’
Gently hunched his shoulders. ‘Who knows? We may tie Lynton into it yet …’
When he was gone, he was certain, Pershore would ease his damaged feelings by taking it out on Fuller.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ROEBUCK, LIKE the St George, had a large central courtyard in which stagecoaches had once changed horses, but in this instance it had been roofed with glass and now formed an extensive lounge. Tubs of palms flanked a central promenade carpeted in red and gold. From the roof depended wire baskets of ferns and geraniums. A cool, leisured, conservatory atmosphere penetrated the whole, and at this hour it had very few occupants.
Dutt was standing by the reception desk talking to the manager. Seeing Gently enter the sergeant clicked his heels and came across to meet his senior.
‘What a bit of luck, eh, sir?’
‘Good man, Dutt – you’ve beaten me to a lead!’
‘Couldn’t believe me ears, sir, when they says they recognized them. It just goes to show you mustn’t overlook nothink …’
The manager came up, a worried-looking man with the appearance of an ex-army officer. He was very deferential and spoke in a low, conciliatory voice. From time to time he glanced at the one or two patrons who sat in the lounge conversing or reading the papers.
‘I didn’t much like these men, but what could I do? They had plenty of money, and there was nothing in their behaviour to which I could take a positive exception. They drank, of course, but so do a lot of guests, and you would soon lose your custom if you started being too precious about it.’
One got the picture at once. Another section of Lynton propriety had been injured by the impact of Taylor, Ames and Roscoe. They had been in funds and they had thrown their money about. They had drunk a lot of the best Scotch and at times had been noisy. Smutty tales had been told in the alien accent of Stepney …
‘When they went I assure you I was relieved. I left orders that they were not to be readmitted, at least the two of them who had booked-out. It goes without saying that the names entered in the register bear no resemblance to those your sergeant mentioned.’
Biggs, Hawkshaw and Spenylove was the somewhat curious selection of aliases used. In each case the address given was that of a road in Finchley. Gently, who had rooms in that district, needed no convincing of the road’s fictitious character.
‘Did they have a car, these people?’
‘They came and went in a taxi.’
‘What about luggage?’
‘According to the porter they arrived here with nothing but a couple of Gladstones. They had suitcases when they left, expensive ones in solid leather.’
‘What sort of money did they use?’
‘I’m told they paid their bills in one-pound notes.’
‘Did they drop any hint about where they were going?’
‘They left no forwarding address. I have ascertained that the taxi took them to the station.’
‘I’d like to see everyone who might have overheard some of their conversation.’
The manager’s office at the side of the desk was impressed for this purpose. It was a small and accidental room with no windows and mechanical ventilation, the hissing whirr of the fan reminding one of below-deck cabins in ships.
The manager stood by unhappily as though to ensure that his staff gave the fullest satisfaction.
‘This is Hayward who tends the bar … he will have seen a lot of them.’
‘You remember these men, Hayward? Take a good look at the photographs.’
Slowly the picture began to take colour, the picture of three small-time rogues splashing about in a wonderful Pactolusean flood. Money they’d had, money to burn, money to throw away on food, drink, clothes, anything at all that took their fancy. They hadn’t known what to do with it, so unused were they to such fabulous sums.
‘They never tipped me less than a quid, and sometimes it was twice in an evening. “Don’t bring me no change,” says one of them. “It spoils the set of my nice new trousies!”
‘Another time they’d each of them bought a portable radio. They brought them into the bar and tuned them into three different stations at once.
‘Then there were the electric razors – a lot of fun they got out of them. And one night they had a flashlight camera which must have cost them a hundred quid.’
Like children they had been, children who had been given the run of a toyshop. They had rushed to each new object with feverish delight, only to throw it away when something fresh caught their eye.
‘The darkish bloke with the hard eyes bought a pair of binoculars made in Paris. The next day he’d got a better pair and he gave me the others.
‘The little fellow couldn’t get on with his razor and tossed with Harry, the night-porter, for it. He lost and handed it over. Bob, the waiter in the bar, came in for a wristwatch because it didn’t happen to be a self-winder.’
Money … a bottomless well of it! And apparently they only been nibbling the outside edge. When Hayward had ventured a remark on it he was answered with broad winks. They were on to a good thing, they said, they had got their money on a winner-and-a-half this time …
‘You never formed an impression of where that money came from?’
‘I thought they’d got a system. They were always talking about horses. The dark bloke gave me one or two tips, and all but one of them paid off all right. He knew his stuff when it came to the gee-gees.’
‘They used to make bets, did they?’
‘They never stopped making them. As often as not they’d be on the blower to someone at the course, and some flaming language got used when a nag let them down.’
‘Did they mention a system?’
‘No, not within my hearing.’
‘What gave you the idea, then?’
‘They used to have a conference over the papers every morning, and the dark bloke was working out something in his notebook. After that they got on the blower and placed their bets. Along with the lolly they chucked around, I reckoned it was a cert that they were working a system.’
There were no records of those calls; The Roebuck was equipped with pay-boxes for its patrons. Some mail had certainly arrived for one of the three men, but nobody could remember anything useful connected with it.
‘Who did you see in their company?’
‘Nobody that I can remember. They didn’t try to be pally with the regulars.’
‘How about women?’
The manager intervened.
‘We don’t permit that sort of person to be brought into The Roebuck …’
A porter was called, then a waiter and the chambermaid. Stroke by stroke they added detail to the empty spaces.
‘Were they ever away for the day?’
‘They didn’
t miss a meal.’
‘Would one of them have spent a night on the tiles?’
‘They spent the evenings drinking and playing cards.’
‘What about Thursday night?’
‘It was just the same. The little bloke got up and went out at about half past eleven. The dark one said something to him and they all laughed like mad. The bar was closed, but they stopped there with a bottle of whisky between them.’
And he hadn’t come back, the little bloke, he hadn’t returned to pick up the jest and his glass again.
For a while the other two had taken no notice. They went on drinking and playing and smoking the Russian cigarettes which were temporarily in vogue with them. At one o’clock, however, they had sought out the night-porter.
‘A bit anxious they seemed, wanted to know if their pal hadn’t got back. No, I tells them, nobody hadn’t come in since midnight. They went into a huddle, talking low so’s I couldn’t hear them, then the rough-looking one went up in the lift. When he came back they both of them went out. I reckon it was near on two before I saw them again.’
‘Which way did they go when they left here?’
The porter sucked in his lips.
‘Towards Fenway Road, I think it was.’
‘And they returned from that direction?’
‘I couldn’t be sure. I’d got the kettle on, making myself a cup of tea.’
On returning they had put their question to him again. Now they were more than anxious, they were angry and apparently baffled. They remained another half-hour in the hall, conferring and casting black looks towards the door. Eventually they had given the porter a pound note and asked him to ring them if their friend turned up.
‘Only that’s what he didn’t do, nor I haven’t seen him since. The next day his mates booked out after lunch.’
In the morning they were having what sounded like a row in one of the bedrooms. The chambermaid had heard them at it and had caught a few phrases.
‘They was calling somebody a little rat and saying that wringing his neck was too good for him. “What are you going to do about the stuff in the bank?” says one. “—something leave it there!” says the other. “What else can we do?”’
‘That phrase … “wringing his neck” … you’re sure about that?’
