Gently in the Sun

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Where is what they call the reading room?’

  ‘This way – I shan’t forget it in a hurry.’

  ‘Suppose we get a drink?’

  ‘Blimey, I could stand a dozen.’

  In the bar the girl with her recorder was playing a treacly love song. Maurice was leaning across the counter and they were gazing into each other’s eyes. The rest of the teenagers it seemed, had gone off somewhere.

  ‘So I’ve been inside! Does it make me a crook?’

  Mixer had a whining note in his voice which grated with Gently. The reading room was a gloomy place but not unsuited for interrogation. An architectural accident, it was remote from the rest of the ground-floor rooms; one reached it by a passage leading off near the main entrance.

  ‘I made my mistake and I paid for it, didn’t I? Since then I’ve gone straight, and nobody can say different.’

  There were two mahogany bookcases and a varnished one with glass doors. The single window faced north and the atmosphere, strangely, had a schoolroom smell.

  ‘All the same, you know how it is – once you’ve got a record you might as well hang yourself! That’s why I kept quiet about it when big teeth was asking questions. Just let him get on to that, I thought, and I’ll be inside before you can say “knife”.’

  ‘You must have realized.’

  ‘That he’d get on to you blokes? That’s just why I kept my trap shut – you and me talk the same language!’

  Mixer pulled out his handkerchief and patted himself down with it. Gently had never seen a man in such a muckwash before. The fellow’s skin was coarse and granular and he had tattoo marks on both wrists; his eyes, besides being small, were set so close that they gave a malformed appearance.

  Yet this was the man whom Rachel Campion …

  ‘Are you sticking to your story that she was just your secretary?’

  ‘How do you mean – story? I’d like to see you prove different!’

  ‘She was living at your flat, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t care if she was. I’m in business, see? I need a secretary. If they’re not around all the time what good are they to you?’

  ‘Even when you’re on holiday?’

  ‘That’s just when things crop up.’

  ‘What sort of things crop up?’

  ‘Never mind – I wanted her around!’

  Was it possible that he wasn’t lying? Gently took a long pull at his clouded glass. When they had come in the window had been closed and still the air seemed completely stationary. Beyond the window was a view which included some of the council houses.

  ‘Tell me something about her.’

  ‘Eh? What do you want to know?’

  ‘You’ve been living with her for a couple of years. You ought to know what she was like.’

  Mixer looked puzzled.

  ‘You’ve had a peek, haven’t you? She was a classy bit of stuff, a proper lush girlie. She had all the charlies falling over their feet – not that they ever got anything out of her! And if you ask me—’

  ‘Didn’t she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘She wasn’t exactly a virgin.’

  Mixer began dabbing again with his unfortunate handkerchief. As fast as he mopped it away the sweat came beading out afresh.

  ‘How should I know? Perhaps she did – I didn’t follow her about the whole time.’

  ‘You were living in the same flat.’

  ‘That’s not to say I kept an eye on her.’

  ‘You would know if anyone slept there with her, or if she stayed out at night.’

  ‘She had her own key, that’s all I can say. You can think what you like about the rest.’

  ‘I think that she was your mistress.’

  ‘And I say she wasn’t! Can’t a man have a pretty secretary without going to bed with her?’

  Mixer seized his glass and gulped down about half the contents. He had a voracious way of drinking which made his small eyes bulge at each swallow. When at last he lowered the glass he exhaled his breath in a panting gasp.

  Had Rachel Campion noticed it, or didn’t she pay attention to such things?

  ‘Where did you pick up with her?’

  ‘She came through an agency.’

  ‘We shall check up on that.’

  ‘All right then – I met her at The Feathers in Oxford Street!’

  ‘What do you know about her background?’

  ‘I never knew she had any. She was living in rooms in Camden Town, and if she had any people she never mentioned them to me.’

  ‘Hadn’t she got some friends?’

  ‘Only blokes running after her.’

  ‘What about women?’

  ‘She didn’t get on with them.’

  ‘Didn’t she have any letters?’

  ‘From blokes – she showed me some of them.’

  ‘Can’t you remember any names?’

  ‘No – and she used to burn the letters.’

  ‘Would you say she was an educated woman?’

  ‘She was a Londoner like me. There wasn’t nothing upshus about her, just one of the girls.’

  A Londoner … Gently savoured the phrase, adding it to the picture he was striving to build. A Londoner like Mixer, a child of the grey streets. With a twang in her voice, a savoir-faire, a naïve gaiety: a native-born Londoner. And a proper lush girlie.

  He moved over to the varnished bookcase and stared in at the unlikely contents. In the glass panel he could see Mixer clutching at his drink and throwing odd glances towards him. It was the bookcase, no doubt, which contributed that peculiar smell to the room.

  ‘Was she hard up when you took her on?’

  ‘Bits of stuff like that aren’t never hard up.’

  ‘How much did you pay her?’

  ‘As much as she was worth.’

  ‘Enough to give you the right to be jealous?’

  ‘Who says I was jealous?’

  ‘Everyone in the place – and also that you had a quarrel with her.’

  This time Mixer didn’t jump in with an immediate denial. Quite clearly, reflected by a set of Harmsworth Encyclopedias, a frown was making lines on his sloping forehead.

  An ugly man! What in the world had she seen in him? With her attractions she might have had a handsome as well as a moneyed lover.

  ‘Well then, suppose I did?’

  He wasn’t even clever. It had taken him thirty seconds to decide that this was his best answer, that it would give a little colour to his subsequent behaviour. Obviously, something had to explain his going off to Starmouth alone.

  ‘What did you quarrel about?’

  Again he was stumped for the quick answer.

  ‘Which of them had gone to bed with her?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that! It was some letters.’

  ‘Letters? What letters?’

  ‘Some I wanted her to type.’

  ‘How did that bring a quarrel about?’

  ‘She – she wanted to go to that film show in Hamby.’

  ‘But she didn’t, did she?’

  ‘How should I know what she did?’

  ‘And she didn’t type the letters – nor did you stay to dictate them to her.’

  ‘It led to words, I tell you. I just got the car out and scarpered.’

  Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad story, considering the heat. Worse ones, told with conviction, had been known to influence juries. The fact it was a string of lies wasn’t terribly important.

  ‘So you took the car into Starmouth.’

  Of this he had tended proof. It had consisted of a half ticket to a show running at the Albion Pier.

  ‘That’s right. I drove straight there. You can do any check-up you like. Got in there about half-six, I did, and went and had a drink at the Majestic on the front.’

  ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘I booked my seat for Frankie Howerd. The girl there will remember me – tell her the saucy bloke what gave he
r a tip. Then I strolled up the front and looked at the girls. There was a blonde bit I took into the Bodega for a drink. After the show I had a snack in one of those caffs up Regent Road, then I picked up another bint and we did some snogging in the car.

  ‘I got back here after twelve – ask Maurice, he saw me come in. I went straight up to bed and slept through till nine o’clock. I didn’t know nothing about this lark until the maid brought in my breakfast. There isn’t nothing against me – except the fact that I once did a stretch!’

  It all came out with a rush, using practically the same words as appeared in his statement. The impression was that here Mixer was sure of his ground, that these were hard facts which would bear investigation. But why, in that case, was he frowning and sweating so much?

  Did he know that Rachel might have been alive at one a.m.?

  ‘These two women you mention – did they tell you their names?’

  ‘The blondie did. It was Marilyn Lane. She was staying at the Gwalia in Dickson Road.’

  ‘How about the other one?’

  ‘I don’t know about her. She was lit up – we both were – but not so as I couldn’t drive!’

  ‘And the name of the café?’

  ‘I don’t know that neither. There’s a score of them at least up Regent Road.’

  ‘Where did you park your car?’

  ‘For the snogging? … I drove a bit. It might have been Church Plain or somewhere round there. I was going to drive her home but she said she’d rather walk … got something else in mind, I dare say!’

  Yes, it was quite a good story as far as it went. Gently finished his shandy and set the glass on the reading-table. Mixer was watching him anxiously, handkerchief in hand. For a wide boy with a good tale shouldn’t he be worrying a little less?

  ‘So we can’t check your movements after eight-thirty that evening?’

  ‘Eh?’

  One could nearly see the sweat begin to break out in fresh rivulets.

  ‘That was the time when the second house started at the Albion. After that we’ve got nothing but your word for it, have we?’

  ‘But haven’t I just said—!’

  ‘You’ve said nothing that can be proved.’

  ‘That woman – you can find her up.’

  ‘In Starmouth? Without a name?’

  The sweat was running down into Mixer’s eyes. He had to keep dashing at it with the back of a hairy hand. His beach shirt, fresh on half-an-hour ago, was streaky and patched with dark areas of moisture.

  ‘You can’t prove it’s not the truth.’

  He made it sound like a question.

  ‘You’re picking on me, too – I’ve been inside, and that’s all that matters!’

  Gently shrugged his shoulders massively and found a seat on the table.

  ‘Just listen to what I say, and don’t bother to interrupt. This is the way Inspector Dyson sees it, and personally I don’t blame him!

  ‘Rachel Campion was your mistress and you were as jealous as sin of her. She only stuck you for your money and she was unfaithful behind your back.

  ‘At Hiverton she picked up with someone – never mind who it was. She was clever at concealing such things, and his identity doesn’t matter. But the knowledge that she had a lover was eating into you like poison: you followed her, watched her, kept an eye on everyone, and on Tuesday you had a row about it and pretended to go off in a pique.

  ‘In reality you were following a plan, and the first part of it was an alibi. For this you went into Starmouth and built up the story you’ve since told. Then you returned to spy on Rachel. You intended to catch her in the act. You had made up your mind to murder her if you found her with her lover.

  ‘You did catch her and you strangled her. You were going to put the body in the sea. But then, when you got it to the beach, you found the fishermen there with their boats, and later on, when you returned, the tide was flooding and you couldn’t put her in. So you left her on the beach. It was the only thing you could do. And you crept back to your bedroom, ready to be surprised at nine.

  ‘Only – and this is the curious point – your Starmouth alibi doesn’t cover you. She may have been dead when you say you got back, but on the other hand you still had time in which to do the job. Either way it’s a fair case, and we might make it stick.

  ‘Do you still think we’re being unreasonable in viewing you as a suspect?’

  Gently had rarely seen a human being reduced to such a mess. Mixer’s streaming face was grey, his eyes staring like a sick dog’s. His whole aspect, in fact, suggested that of a distempered animal. He breathed quickly and fiercely through dilated nostrils.

  ‘On the other hand there’s this in your favour.’

  It was a toss-up whether Mixer was listening or not.

  ‘You’ve given this alibi in apparent good faith, which suggests that you didn’t know when Rachel Campion was killed. That doesn’t let you out – it might simply mean that you’re being clever! But on the whole, it would have been easier for you to have squared it than not. Only another things hangs to it. For what, then, was the alibi? There’s an odd smell about that, and I should like to know what it is.’

  Mixer tried to wet his lips but they and his tongue seemed equally parched. His eyes had an unhinged expression as though he were losing touch with his surroundings.

  ‘When did you say?’

  He had to swallow several times.

  ‘When did you say it happened?’

  ‘I didn’t, but it was some time between eleven and one.’

  ‘Then!’

  Colour rushed back. The eyes appeared to switch on.

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Nothing – only it wasn’t me!’

  A bell rang somewhere, perhaps the tea bell in the lounge. It was followed by a voice calling from one of the upper windows. Two youngsters ran up the path and disappeared into the hall: one heard the double clang of feet as they bounded over the door grille.

  ‘I think you’d better listen to this.’

  Gently was stung by the mistake he’d made. Mixer was dabbing his face again and flapping his shirt-front to cool himself. A moment ago he’d been putty, but now, inexplicably …

  ‘You did two years for embezzlement – that’s on the official record. But just in case you think we’re asleep, here’s the other part of the story.

  ‘We know what your business is – you’re a promoter of fake companies. Up till now you’ve been lucky with it, but don’t let it kid you. And there’s something else that interests us. A little matter of warehouse robberies! There’ve been six of them in the last two years from which connections have been traced to a certain Alfie Mixer.

  ‘To be blunt, your career is just about to catch up with you, and this time it won’t stop at a paltry couple of years. So if you know anything about this business you’d better spit it out – it might be worth a few summers spent in Pentonville or Wands-worth.’

  He had struck the right note. Mixer’s craven look returned. Twice he had tried to get a word in and now, when he did, his voice came in a sorry croak:

  ‘You can’t prove nothing about that!’

  But the words lacked conviction – you could read his mind at a glance; as though his thoughts were being written across that sloping, sweating forehead.

  ‘Have you nothing else to say?’

  ‘I’m going to ring up my solicitor.’

  ‘You’d do better to come clean.’

  ‘I ain’t done nothing. I’m going to ring him!’

  People were coming in to tea and one could hear their muffled voices. A man laughed, a woman responded, perhaps with a touch of reproof in her tone. In the background a chink of cups had a cooling, relaxing sound.

  ‘Get out then – I’ve finished with you!’

  He felt a sudden surge of disgust with Mixer. A sweating, fearful lump of humanity – a criminal type, if such a thing existed! – and ugly: he was abominably ugly. What could it have
been … with a woman like Rachel?

  When the man had gone he sat a long time musing, then, for no reason, went over to the window. The reading room faced north and the building’s shadow lay that way. A deckchair was placed in it and in the deckchair sat Maurice. He turned to grin at Gently from a racing paper he was reading.

  ‘After tea I’ve got a job for you.’

  Dutt, as always, never obtruded himself. Now he was sitting on the verandah and patiently awaiting his senior’s direction. After a dozen cases with Gently he knew roughly what was required of him.

  ‘You’re to take the car into Starmouth and to check on Mixer’s alibi. Get in touch with Inspector Copping and show him a copy of the statement. While you’re having tea I’ll make a note or two in the margin.’

  Dutt jerked his chin impassively; he, too, was down to his braces and shirtsleeves.

  ‘Think there might be something there, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Dutt. And I’d like to be.’

  ‘I’ve been having a word with the kids, sir, and it all seems to hang together. It was a joke with them how jealous he was, and once or twice they saw him come out of her room. Trust youngsters to notice a thing like that.’

  On the phone he talked to Pagram, his colleague at the Yard.

  ‘What’s it been like today?’

  ‘Bloody awful! You’re well out of it.’

  ‘It couldn’t be hotter.’

  ‘You listen to this. We fried some eggs and bacon on a paving stone in the courtyard. Johnson had them for lunch and his picture’s in all the evening papers.’

  ‘I want some digging done.’

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘It’s this woman who was strangled. I want to know who she was. Her last address before she went to West Hampstead was a furnished room in Camden Town.’

  ‘Have you got the address?’

  Gently thumbed open a sheet of notepaper. It was scribbled across in Mixer’s primitive handwriting.

  ‘Eighty-two Dalhousie Gardens. She left in June a couple of years ago. No next of kin and no known acquaintances. Lower middle-class cockney – could be a native there.’

  ‘What exactly are you after?’

  ‘Every single thing you can get.’

  Against the instrument Gently had propped his photograph. Its eyes, which had faced the camera, followed him about as he talked to Pagram.