by Hunter Alan
‘Oh Mr John,’ the woman said.
‘I thought I could trust you,’ John French said. ‘I thought you were someone who knew me, Beattie. I thought I could trust you if nobody else.’
‘It’s been such a shock,’ the woman sobbed.
‘So what’s it been like to me?’ John French said. ‘It’s me who the police are trying to catch out, it was my old man who was hit over the head.’
The woman wept.
‘And now you,’ John French said. ‘The only one I had to depend on. And you’ve turned against me with the rest, you’re ready to leave me to face it alone.’
‘There’s your mother’s people,’ the woman sobbed.
‘I’ve told you I won’t have them here,’ John French said. ‘They’d love to come here pushing me around, but nobody’s going to push me around any more. Just get out if that’s what you want. I’d sooner you did. Then I’ll know where I stand.’
His face was working. The woman sobbed. The smell of heated linen filled the kitchen. John French was trembling and clenching his hands in his pockets. From the tilted iron came simmering noises.
‘Beattie,’ John French said. ‘I didn’t Beattie. I didn’t. I didn’t.’
The woman went on sobbing.
‘I didn’t. I didn’t.’ John French said, ‘Beattie. Don’t you believe me?’
‘Oh Mr John,’ the woman said.
‘It’s just . . . damnable,’ John French said. ‘But I didn’t, Beattie. That’s the truth. Remember it Beattie. It wasn’t me.’
He turned quickly, went out of the kitchen, turned down a hallway, entered the drawing room. This was the room between the bows and had the french windows looking down the lawn. It smelled of dust and faded flowers and was warm and airless from being closed up. Also it smelled of stale cigar smoke and an opened box of Coronas lay on a low coffee table. A big room. Contemporary furniture. Ash-grey timber with cream contrast. At one end the low flattened ebony case of the late Mrs French’s grand piano. John French closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock of the door. He crossed to the other side of the room where on the wall hung an Edmund Seago oil painting. He pulled on the frame of the painting. The painting swung on hinges. Behind the painting was apparently a baize backing-sheet but this was mounted on wood and also swung on hinges. John French pulled this open too. Behind it was a large Chubb wall safe with a combination lock. John French began to operate the combination lock, bending close to the safe, pausing after each dialling. He tried the handle. The handle wouldn’t turn. He wiped his face, dialled again. This time the handle turned smoothly and the heavy safe-door moved outwards. He searched in the safe. It was stuffed with paper, documents, letters, pass-books, envelopes. Harry French’s marriage certificate, two out-of-date passports, a mass of title-deeds secured with tape, a copy of Mrs French’s will. At last, from a drawer, a long thick envelope sealed with wax and Harry French’s seal. John French tore it open. It contained five-pound notes. They were in bundles of fifty and there were six bundles. John French laid the envelope on the floor while he repacked the safe and closed it, then he tried to cram the envelope into his inside jacket pocket, failed, stuck it underneath his arm beneath the jacket. He crossed to the door, unlocked it, went down the hallway into the kitchen. Eleven minutes had elapsed. The woman had gone back to her ironing.
‘Beattie,’ John French said.
The woman raised her head, looked at him.
‘I’ve to go out again, Beattie,’ John French said. ‘I’ll try not to be late, it’s some business I’ve got to see to.’
‘Very well Mr John,’ the woman said.
‘Beattie,’ John French said. ‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll be here when you come back if that’s what you mean,’ the woman said.
John French nodded. ‘Thanks Beattie,’ he said, ‘thanks.’ The woman kept on ironing. John French went out of the kitchen.
He crossed the tiled yard to the garden door, holding the envelope tightly, went through the garden door, collided with somebody outside it. The envelope fell. John French grabbed after it. Another hand was there first. John French made a second grab for it. Still he didn’t have the envelope.
Superintendent Gently had the envelope and John French attempted no third grab. He stood staring at the Superintendent, mouth thinned, lids expanded. The Superintendent glanced at the envelope, at the seal, at the contents; at John French. He tapped the envelope on the palm of his hand.
‘Your property?’ he said.
‘Just give it back to me,’ John French said.
‘But it is your property?’ Gently said.
‘You damn well know it’s my property,’ John French said.
‘I know you took it from your father’s safe,’ Gently said, ‘and that you needed two shots at the combination. And that the seal bears your father’s monogram. And that you were concealing your possession of it. What would that suggest to you?’
‘Never mind about that,’ John French said. ‘You give it back to me or there’ll be trouble. I’m not going to argue. Give it back.’
‘Perhaps your father was keeping it safe for you,’ Gently said. ‘In that case you’re entitled to do what you like with it.’
‘So give it back to me,’ John French said. ‘I told you it was mine. He was just keeping it safe.’
‘Then,’ Gently said, ‘how did you come by it? It’s a lot of cash for a young student to have around.’
John French stared very hard at Gently, at the envelope. His cheek was twitching.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘what the hell does it matter whether it was my father’s money or mine. It’s all the same now, he’s dead, there’s no difference, it comes to me. They told me I could draw what I needed. It’s got damn all to do with you at all.’
‘Not if it’s your money,’ Gently said.
‘It is my money,’ John French said.
‘But if it’s your father’s,’ Gently said, ‘It has to do with me, you’re committing an offence. The money is part of his estate, it doesn’t become yours till you get probate. So if you can’t show your title to it you’d better put it back in the safe.’
‘But I need it,’ John French said. ‘My lawyer said I could draw some money.’
‘From the business earnings,’ Gently said, ‘not from the estate. And why do you need fifteen hundred pounds?’
John French said nothing, bit his lips together. He looked sideways into the tiled yard. Like a pulse of blood, very far away, one heard the thumping of the Cakewalk. At last he said:
‘All right, I didn’t know. I thought it was all right to use the money. If it isn’t I’ll put it back. It was only a loan, anyway, till I can touch my own money. I’m not a pauper. I’ve got the money mother left me. I’m only waiting for the rotten lawyers to clear it.’
‘That would be sensible,’ Gently said. ‘When is your mother’s legacy due?’
‘I should have it now,’ John French said. ‘When I came of age. It was due on Tuesday.’
‘You were twenty-one on Tuesday,’ Gently said.
‘All right, I can’t help it,’ John French said. ‘I didn’t arrange when I was going to have my birthday. Do you think I’m happy about it or something?’
‘It didn’t seem to be panning out like a birthday,’ Gently said, ‘and a twenty-first birthday at that. Beginning with a quarrel with your father and ending with you going off on your own. And then some impediment about your legacy.’
‘Who says there’s an impediment?’ John French said.
‘You did,’ Gently said. ‘But I can talk to your lawyers.’
John French didn’t say anything.
‘Not much like a birthday,’ Gently said.
‘Can’t you ever stop prying?’ John French said. ‘Even following me about now, watching me through windows.’
‘Perhaps you needed that money on Tuesday,’ Gently said. ‘Perhaps you discovered your father was interfering. But what wou
ld you need a large sum of money for? What would you need it for tonight?’
‘Look,’ John French said, ‘just stop it. I won’t be pushed around like this. I’m not even safe from it in my own home, you’ve no right to come here like this. You just get out.’
‘I’d say that Sid asked for it,’ Gently said.
‘Nobody gave you permission to come here,’ John French said.
‘And that you couldn’t say no to him,’ Gently said.
‘Give it to me, give it to me,’ John French said. ‘I’ll ring my lawyer. Give it to me. Clear off.’
Gently didn’t give it to him. John French didn’t move towards a phone. They stood facing each other, staring. John French’s mouth was very small. It was getting dusk but not cooler. The beeches, the willows below were heavily dark. Moths bobbed in the flowerbeds, bats pipped, in the beeches were wood pigeons. John French’s eyes were glittering. Suddenly the kitchen door closed.
‘Do you know where your father was killed?’ Gently said.
John French didn’t say anything.
‘He was killed on that patch of rond above the bridge,’ Gently said. ‘Between the bungalows and Speltons’ sheds. He’d driven the launch to that rond. He went to visit someone and then returned. And then he was killed. As he untied the launch. But who could it have been he went there to visit?’
John French didn’t say anything.
‘It could have been the Speltons,’ Gently said.
John French said huskily: ‘They’ve been working late.’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘I see you know that.’
‘And why the hell shouldn’t I know that?’ John French said. ‘They’re friends of mine aren’t they. I know what they’re doing.’
‘You might also have seen a light in the sheds,’ Gently said, ‘if you were passing there late. You might have seen quite a lot. But why should your father visit the Speltons?’
‘Why am I supposed to know?’ John French said.
‘So late,’ Gently said, ‘not mooring at their quay. Going up without lights. Trying not to be seen.’
‘I tell you I don’t know,’ John French said.
‘Perhaps he was going somewhere else,’ Gently said.
‘All right then he was,’ John French said.
‘Where?’ Gently said. ‘And for what purpose?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ John French said.
‘Surely,’ Gently said, ‘it must have been to Sid’s place. All the other bungalows near the rond are hire bungalows. We’ve found nobody in the hire bungalows with any connection with your father. You say you don’t know why he should visit the Speltons. It only leaves Sid.’
‘Why are you asking me about it,’ John French said. ‘I just don’t know, I keep telling you, I don’t know.’
‘But of course, you were at Sid’s place,’ Gently said. ‘What other reason did your father have for going there so secretly?’
John French breathed hard. ‘I was out sailing,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t anywhere near Sid’s place except coming down the river going past it.’
‘Yes, you were there,’ Gently said. ‘Otherwise it doesn’t fit. And now he’s demanding a large sum of money and you are ready to pay it to him.’
‘No,’ John French said, ‘no.’
‘Then where was this money going?’ Gently said.
‘I’m putting it back aren’t I?’ John French said.
‘Yes,’ Gently said, ‘but where was it going?’
John French didn’t say anything. His nostrils were expanded by his heavy breathing. His eyes were below Gently’s now. The eyes were big and dark in the dim light. The throb of the Cakewalk and the tapping of moths underlined the sound of John French’s breathing. The warm air smelled of grass and mint and peat and river and night-scented stock.
‘How long had you been intimate with Rhoda Lidney?’ Gently said.
John French licked his lips, said: ‘It’s a lie, it’s all a lie.’
‘Weren’t you spending money on her?’ Gently said, ‘weren’t they after you for money? Threatening to tell your father perhaps. Using all the tricks of the trade.’
‘No,’ John French said, ‘lies.’
‘But they wanted money from you,’ Gently said. ‘They knew you were coming into some money, they had a plan for getting hold of it. And somehow your father got wind of this. That was how it was, wasn’t it? And the money wasn’t there on your birthday, your father had done some jiggerypokery.’
‘Lies, lies,’ John French said.
‘So you had a row about it,’ Gently said.
‘There wasn’t any row,’ John French said.
‘How loyal is your housekeeper?’ Gently said.
John French didn’t say anything.
‘You had a row about it,’ Gently said. ‘And you had to tell Sid that you didn’t have his money for him and in the evening you went down to his bungalow. And your father came looking for you at the bungalow and he found out everything. And he died.’
‘No,’ John French said, ‘not like that.’
‘Perhaps you can give me some details,’ Gently said.
‘I,’ John French said, ‘I was out sailing. It’s all lies, all lies.’
‘You weren’t out sailing,’ Gently said. ‘We’ve spoken to witnesses who must have seen you. They didn’t see you, you weren’t sailing. You were at the bungalow and nowhere else.’
‘You’re calling me a liar,’ John French said.
‘I may have to call you something worse,’ Gently said.
‘It’s you who’s the liar,’ John French said. ‘You’re lying, lying, lying, lying.’
‘This isn’t doing you any good,’ Gently said. ‘Can’t you see that only the truth will help you? You’re standing one step away from the dock. Tomorrow, the next day, we’ll have you in it. Tell me the truth.’
‘But I’m telling it,’ John French said. ‘I’ve told it all along and you won’t believe me. I didn’t kill my father, I didn’t, I didn’t, that’s the truth, I didn’t kill my father.’
‘Then you know who did,’ Gently said.
‘No I don’t know who did,’ John French said. ‘I wasn’t there, I didn’t see it. I don’t know who did it. I just don’t know.’
‘But who could have done it?’ Gently said.
‘Oh God oh God,’ John French said.
‘I don’t think you should be paying Sid money,’ Gently said. ‘I think perhaps he should be paying it to you.’
John French swayed, scraped his foot in the gravel. He closed his eyes, said: ‘I – just – don’t – know. Not anything about it. Nothing about it. Nothing, nothing about it. Nothing.’
‘Yet you were there,’ Gently said.
‘I was out sailing,’ John French said.
‘But of course, you weren’t out sailing,’ Gently said.
‘I was out sailing,’ John French said.
‘Now we’ve proved you weren’t out sailing,’ Gently said.
‘I,’ John French said, ‘was out sailing. In a half-decker. Up to Hickstead. Out sailing. Where I went.’
‘But you’re a liar,’ Gently said.
John French swayed, didn’t say anything.
‘Tell me the truth,’ Gently said.
John French said: ‘Out sailing.’
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Gently said. ‘Tell me about the row with your father.’
‘No there wasn’t a row,’ John French said. ‘Haven’t I told you? There wasn’t a row.’
‘Yes, about the legacy,’ Gently said. ‘What sort of game was he up to?’
‘Nothing,’ John French said. ‘Nothing. Nothing, nothing.’
‘But that’s a lie,’ Gently said.
‘It’s all lies,’ John French said.
‘Tell me the truth,’ Gently said.
‘Nothing,’ John French said. ‘Nothing.’
He kept repeating ‘Nothing’, swaying a little, his eyes shut. There was a moveme
nt in the tiled yard. The woman called Beattie appeared at the doorway. She looked at Gently. Her eyes moved quickly, sank again after meeting his. She fidgeted. Her age was about sixty, she had a plump face that was sagging.
‘Yes,’ Gently said.
‘It’s right,’ she said. ‘There wasn’t any row between Mr John and his father.’
‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘Are you the housekeeper?’
‘Beattie Playford,’ the woman said.
John French opened his eyes.
‘I got the breakfast,’ the woman said. ‘They were pleasant enough together. Mr John had a gold watch from his father.’
‘How interesting,’ Gently said.
‘Yes,’ the woman said, ‘a gold watch, one of them self-winders, you know. Got engraving on the back. He’ll show it to you if you ask him. Then they was talking, I don’t know, about all the boats being out for August. I don’t listen to what they say. But they weren’t having a row.’
‘Very interesting,’ Gently said. ‘What colour tie was Mr French wearing?’
‘It, it was blue,’ the woman said. ‘Yes, that’s it, a blue tie.’
John French said: ‘No. No tie.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the woman said. ‘No tie, I’m forgetting, that must have been some other day.’
‘Perhaps you’re forgetting about the row,’ Gently said.
‘No,’ the woman said, ‘I’m not forgetting.’
‘They did have rows, didn’t they?’ Gently said.
The woman kept her head down, didn’t say anything.
John French said: ‘If you want to see the watch—’
Gently shook his head. ‘I’ll believe the watch,’ he said.
‘I’ll fetch it, show it to you,’ John French said. ‘Then you won’t be able to say it’s a lie.’
Gently stood silent for several moments. He tapped the envelope on his knuckles. Then he shrugged, held it out to John French. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take the money.’
John French looked at him.
