by Alan Hunter
‘When did you first meet Miss Campion?’
Dutt would excise the superfluous verbiage.
‘Where did you say she posed for this picture?’
‘Which were the days on which she posed?’
Incoherent at the beginning, Simmonds gradually staged a revival. The even flow of the questions soothed him, coaxed him into a readier response. He paused to drink long draughts of the fruit drink which Mrs Mears had brought in. From where he sat he could see nothing outside except the pink and yellow heads of the hollyhocks.
‘On the Tuesday afternoon.’
They were getting towards the end; the end, at least, of what Simmonds had told him.
‘She left you where, you say?’
‘On the beach near my tent.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I went up and got my tea.’
Gently paused, listening to Dutt’s slow pencil go over the paper. When it came to a stop he swivelled round in his chair. Simmonds was sitting, glass in hand, looking much more collected: he even contrived to smirk at Gently with that ingratiating undertone.
‘Where did you get that bruise from?’
‘Bruise?’
‘The one on your cheekbone.’
‘Oh that … on the tent pole. I hit it as I was coming out.’
‘So it wasn’t caused by a fist?’
‘Fist? I …!’
Simmonds looked at him pitifully.
‘Mr Mixer’s fist on Tuesday afternoon – after he pulled you and Miss Campion out of your tent?’
The young man shivered and set his glass down on a cabinet near him. The blood was beginning to drain from his feverish cheeks. He made a fluttering movement with his hand, a sort of gesture that didn’t materialize. He looked very much as though he wanted to be sick.
‘I would have told you … I didn’t think …’
‘You didn’t think that I’d get to hear about it?’
‘No … not that! It didn’t seem important.’
‘What was so trivial about it – when she was murdered a few hours later?’
Again that silly fluttering movement, this time with both hands. Really it was embarrassing to witness the artist’s mauvaise honte.
‘I wanted to tell you about it! Can’t you see that? I want to tell you everything. I hate having to lie. But what would you think?’
‘I think you can lie when it suits you.’
‘But that’s just the point! If you’re going to take that attitude.’
The puzzle was that he sounded sincere in a naïve and curious way. One felt that he honestly did want to make a confidant out of Gently. The memory of another case flashed across the detective’s mind, one in which, at his request, there had been a psychiatric examination. The subject there, a convicted sex-criminal, had shown much the same response. Only in his case they had known for a fact that the ‘revelations’ were crude romancing.
‘You see, you can’t help being a policeman, can you? By that I don’t mean … but there has to be a difference!’
‘Never mind about that.’
‘But I want you to understand …’
‘What I want to understand is what happened on Tuesday afternoon.’
Here was another little surprise: Simmonds could talk about it freely. He needed only the slightest prompting to give them a fully-rounded account. It was as though the whole thing had been waiting on the tip of his tongue – sometimes Gently had to slow him for the benefit of the toiling Dutt.
‘It was she who suggested it, going into the tent. She knew I wouldn’t have dared ask her – it hadn’t been like that, you know! There wasn’t anybody about, except some cars on the track. I don’t know why she did it unless it was to pay me for the painting.
‘And in fact, I hardly had time to do up the ties.’
It all checked neatly with what Gently had been told, allowing for some softening of the facts about the beating. In Simmonds’s account this wasn’t quite so one-sided: he had exchanged a few blows before Mixer knocked him down.
‘What was Miss Campion doing?’
‘Naturally she tried to stop us. She kept calling Mixer a brute and telling him not to be a fool. But in spite of his size, if my foot hadn’t slipped …’
‘She went off with him, did she?’
‘Yes, he ordered her to go with him.’
‘And that was the last time you saw her?’
‘The last time … until …’
Now it was difficult to stop him from elaborating the details. His awkwardness had gone and he was even picking his words. A great load, you would have thought, had been lifted from his mind: at last he could tell it all, he could spill it out freely.
Why then was Gently’s face growing glummer and glummer … why did he return to the window and stare unseeingly at the hollyhocks?
‘There … I think that’s everything. If you’ve got it down I’ll sign it. I don’t want you to think … but you know I would have told you! Honestly, I’m not one to tell lies as a rule.’
‘Just one more question.’
Gently’s shoulders were hunched. There was a deadness in his voice which made Dutt look up quickly.
‘Amongst all the rest of it you seem to have forgotten something. We know when Miss Campion left you … but what time did she come back?’
Simmonds was wretchedly sick and had to be taken to the bathroom, a proceeding which greatly concerned Mrs Mears. She fetched a flask of brandy from a chest in her bedroom, and seemed half in a mind to give Gently a lecture.
‘Why don’t you let him be for a bit?’
Gently thanked her but made no comment. He sat at the desk, ruffling through the leaves of Kelly’s; he seemed quite unperturbed by the artist’s latest calamity.
‘Feeling better, are you?’
The inquiry was academic. Simmonds’s face wore a greenish tint and he shivered now and again. He sat half doubled-up, his arms folded across his knees: his attitude was one of the completest dejection.
Gently relinquished the desk and returned to his previous seat. Under the tree the reporters were still busy at their cards. They had been joined by a straggle of the curious from the beach, and occasionally one or another of them threw a quick glance at the Police House.
‘You couldn’t know about that!’
The artist’s voice was a mumble, and after he’d said it he was stricken by a fit of the shivering.
‘It was dark … there was nobody … nobody could have told you! You’re guessing about it, that’s all you’re doing.’
‘But it’s true all the same.’
‘Not unless I say so!’
‘Whether you say so or not. I know too much about her.’
‘But you couldn’t know that!’
‘It’s simple enough, isn’t it? Being Rachel, she came back: she wasn’t the sort to let you down. Especially after Mixer had thrashed you, right underneath her eyes.’
‘But you’ve got to have proof!’
‘That’s what you can give me.’
‘I won’t … ever …’
‘Hadn’t you better think it over?’
Simmonds covered his face and began to sob. It was the only sound in the overhot room. Dutt succeeded Gently in his researches into Kelly’s; his senior sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the group of card-players.
At the door, in all probability, Mrs Mears was indignantly eavesdropping.
‘You’ll think it’s all lies.’
Gently smiled grimly to himself.
‘I’d tell you … but now … and everyone’s against me. Whatever I say.’
He choked himself with sobbing.
‘Suppose I confess … are they certain to hang me?’
But it was less than a confession when it came to the point, though, if it were true, one could understand the hesitation. Slowly it came out, interrupted by sobbing: Simmonds ran true to form and didn’t need to be led.
‘It’s true … she came back.
It was about ten o’clock.’
When, of course, it was dark enough to conceal where she was going. She had got rid of Maurice – did she guess he’d been set to spy on her? – and let herself unobtrusively out of the Bel-Air. Then she had hastened along the beach, which one could depend on to be deserted, and climbed up the sandhill to where Simmonds was nursing his bruises.
There she had remained about an hour, if Simmonds was to be believed. She left just after eleven, returning by the way she had come. Simmonds had gone directly to bed. He admitted that he hadn’t slept well. At some time in the morning, not long after he had heard the boats come in, he had risen with the intention of having a swim before breakfast.
‘You’ll never believe me … what’s the use of going on?’
‘You saw her, then, did you, lying between the boats?’
‘No! That’s why it’s impossible … she wasn’t near the boats.’
‘Where was she then?’
‘Right there … in front of the tent.’
He wasn’t far wrong in anticipating disbelief – Gently stared at him for a long time without opening his mouth. It was an odd sort of tale to tell if Simmonds were guilty, on the other hand, murderers sometimes told an odd tale.
‘In that case, how did she get down to the boats?’
‘I took her there.’
‘You did!’
‘What else could I do? If someone else found her …’
‘Why did you leave her by the boats?’
‘I couldn’t get her any further. She was too stiff and heavy … it was making me sick.’
Gently let him stumble on through the rest of his narrative. There wasn’t much to add to it which was to the artist’s credit. He had slunk back to his tent and tied the flaps to behind him; he’d lain trembling and fearful, even getting back again into his blankets. In an ecstasy of terror he had heard Nockolds approaching. The terrible barking of the dog had warned him that the body was discovered.
‘I’ve always hated dogs … always … always!’
It was a long time before he dared to join the crowd on the beach.
‘Exactly where was that body?’
‘In front of the tent. I could show you.’
‘How far away?’
‘It was’ – Simmonds trembled – ‘it was just where that man was standing, the fisherman … his feet.’
‘In which direction was it pointing?’
‘The head was pointing towards my tent.’
Dutt read over the statement and Simmonds scrawled a signature to it. The whole business had taken them little over an hour. In her kitchen Mrs Mears had brewed an urn-like pot of tea; it was strong and made so sweet that one could nearly stand up a spoon in it. The greens, providentially, had been removed from the stove, though their odour yet clung to the sweltering atmosphere.
‘Where – where are you going to take me?’
Simmonds had an air of docility, a meekness that suggested a well-spanked child.
‘Nowhere. You’re free to go. Just stay around Hiverton.’
‘But I thought …’
‘Well you were wrong! Only don’t try anything foolish. If you take my advice you’ll find some digs in the village. Your stuff can stay here until you’re ready to collect it.’
‘Then you really believe?’
‘Don’t be too sure of that.’
Simmonds shook his head bewilderedly and gulped down the syrupy tea.
At the door there was another crisis – for the first time he saw the reporters. They had risen to their feet and were shuffling together cards and money. Simmonds went a few steps and then came to a standstill, a spasm of violent trembling overcoming his slight body.
‘I can’t go – you mustn’t make me!’
He turned in a panic to where Gently stood.
‘I’d rather be arrested … please! I’d rather …’
‘Unfortunately I haven’t given you the option.’
‘If you like I’ll confess … please, don’t make me go!’
In the end Dutt went off with him, as an alternative to tailing. Mrs Mears had supplied him with the address of a likely lodging. To the last he kept looking back hopefully towards Gently, but the figure which blocked the doorway steadily refused to catch his eye.
CHAPTER NINE
WAS THERE A tempest brewing out of all that heat? Gently had several times glanced at the innocent-seeming sky. The air had a hectic feel and the sun was brassy; a lot of ugly black flies had appeared and were fluttering about everywhere. Thunder-flies, were they? They had the appearance of evil. Their legs were long and shining and their antennae flickered ceaselessly. But as yet there was no sign of thunder, not a scratch on the dusty heavens. Today was like yesterday and probably tomorrow – another scorcher. What could improve on that description?
He dropped in at the Beach Store to buy himself an ice cream. On his way through the village he had encountered a group of fishermen. They were lounging under a wall and smoking their short clay pipes: they watched him in a heavy silence as he drew level with and passed them. Then one of them had spat – had the timing been coincidental? Bob Hawks was one of their number, but like the rest he’d held his peace.
Mrs Neal, too, seemed unfriendly, or at least indisposed for a chat. She had gone straight back to her other customers after she had made his ice cream, though they, like Gently, were served and merely passing the time. He went out feeling that she had let him down in some way. It was possible that she thought he had inspired the article in the Echo.
He followed the example of the fishermen and found a wall under which to sit. He wanted time to think the business over, to try the pieces in their varying patterns. He had a case against the artist, of that there wasn’t a shadow of doubt. If it went before the public prosecutor then a suitable indictment would have to follow.
Only – and here he was back at the beginning – the case against Simmonds didn’t satisfy Gently. Somewhere, somehow, it was failing to click: it was jarring against deep-seated, deeply felt intuition. But what was that intuition and how had he come by it? Alas, that was the very thing which Gently didn’t know. All that he could do was to worry over the facts and to try, once more, to evolve something fresh from them.
He pulled out the notebook which he kept for unofficial musings. Finding a clean page with difficulty he began to scribble down the situation. There were four of them in it, beginning with Mixer, though the connection of the fourth suspect was tenuous indeed:
(1) A. J. Mixer. Motive: jealousy. Opportunity: possible.
(2) J. P. Simmonds. Motive: psychopathic. Opportunity: considerable.
(3) M. Cutbush. Motive: psychopathic. Opportunity: good.
(4) R. Hawks. Motive:? Opportunity:?
Note: if Simmonds tells the truth somebody may be trying to frame him.
Note: Hawks’s behaviour towards Simmonds.
Having got that down he lit his pipe and stared at the scribbling. Then he added, as an afterthought:
Does Dawes know something about Hawks?
Over this he brooded for some time, making little marks with his pencil, but finally he drew two lines under it with a sort of conclusive emphasis. Whether Dawes knew something or not, nothing would ever draw it out of him. He might inform on a stranger like Simmonds but he would never shop one of his own ‘subjects’.
And then, what was there to be known about the evil-tempered fisherman? Gently couldn’t begin to guess, it was the thinnest part of his summation. On rational grounds alone Hawks could scarcely be said to come into it. There wasn’t the merest suggestion that he had any connection with Rachel.
And yet …
Gently hovered again over the pencilled name with the (4) beside it. Wasn’t that the direction in which he found himself being drawn? If any single thing was making him hesitate about Simmonds, then it was the look which Hawks gave the artist that morning on the sandhill. A look … against a comfortable fileful of evidence!
He grunted and shoved the book back in his pocket. It was time he put the fisherman out of his mind. There was a more logical outsider to be had in Maurice – and Mixer, he still wasn’t exactly in the clear!
Suppose he had come back and caught Rachel leaving the tent – was it too much to suppose that he’d gone there looking for her?
Gently got to his feet and brushed himself irritably. With a clear case to present he felt more in the dark than ever. The trouble was that he wasn’t content to be a simple chief inspector: he wanted to be the jury too, and probably the appeal court on top. But it wasn’t his business to say whether Simmonds was telling the truth.
Why couldn’t he let it rest there, and leave the artist to take his chance?
The heat made it a penance to be on the beach, and it may have been as a penance that Gently plodded down there. He had no hopes of a sea breeze – Hiverton despised meteorology – and the lapping of the waves was not an invitation for him.
At the net store he passed Dawes, armed today with a telescope. The owner of the Keep Going didn’t acknowledge Gently’s stare. His blue eyes gazed ceaselessly towards the haze-misty horizon, and he seemed quite untroubled by the stark beating of the sun.
Nor were the visitors much troubled by it, judging by their activity. Only a few of them, the elderly ones, sat in the shade of the boats. The usual crowd of youngsters were swimming and playing on the beach, others lay tanning, a few were amusing their children. Near the gap stood an ice cream stall which was doing a steady business. A portable radio was playing under a sunshade lower down.
Had they forgotten about it, then, that earlier scene on the sandhill? One would almost have thought so, strolling among them now. Separated into units they were reasonable people, ashamed, very probably, of their madness of that moment. Nevertheless they had made a mob, these reasonable people. With a scapegoat set before them they had been ready enough for violence. Had they seen in Simmonds something a little too germane, something too much like themselves to be viewed with strict sanity?
But they were reasonable people … now, at all events! They were basking in the sun and congratulating themselves on the weather. If they glanced uneasily at Gently that was only to be expected: they didn’t really want a policeman cluttering up their pleasant beach.
