by Hunter Alan
‘Stay here,’ Gently said to Dutt.
He went along to the crouching cameraman. He touched the man’s shoulder. The man jumped.
‘Move back,’ Gently said. ‘Let me look.’
From the corner of the outhouse he could see the two compounds and the paddock behind them and the thorn tree. It was a large thorn tree which had been browsed by cattle and presented a flat base of tangled boughs. In the top of the tree clung the woman. Her clothing was torn and she was bleeding. She was half-hanging, half-clinging, head drawn back, eyes fixed below. And underneath sat the panther, very still, staring up.
‘He’s had a go at the tree . . . it’s the thorns, they’ve got him puzzled.’
‘What do you do if he comes this way?’
‘Run like a bastard for that car.’
‘No pics?’
‘No pics. And no bloody camera. Just me.’
Gently patted his arm. ‘You’ve got the idea. You stay here and keep an eye on him.’
He moved back to the huddle of reporters. Almost immediately some shot whined over. It was aimed low and scythed through a hedge-top, leaving frayed twigs showing white.
Gently called: ‘Groton!’
Groton bellowed with laughter. He fired a second barrel, this time high.
‘He says he’ll open the cages,’ somebody muttered. ‘There’s a puma in there and a couple of wolves.’
‘Groton!’ Gently called. ‘What are you trying to prove? Come out and help us catch the panther!’
‘You take a jump at yourself!’ Groton bawled. ‘I didn’t ask you lot to come around.’
‘Groton, there’s a woman in danger back there.’
‘So what? I didn’t invite her either.’
‘If anything happens to her, you’ll be to blame.’
‘Like hell! She drew on me – haven’t you heard?’
‘Groton, I’m ordering you to come out.’
Groton laughed and fired in the air.
‘He sounds a bit loco, chief,’ Dutt said.
A reporter said: ‘He’s been loco all day.’
‘Who’s in there with him?’ Gently asked.
‘Nobody. His help knocked off at lunchtime.’
Then Perkins dashed up, his face drooping with wretchedness. He was so agitated that he could only mow and gasp for some seconds. Then he blurted:
‘Is it true . . . about the lion, I mean?’
‘It’s a panther.’
‘Oh . . . a panther.’
‘It’s in the paddock round the back.’
‘But it’s loose, is it . . . and the woman . . . ?’
The reporters were staring at him curiously. Nobody could take Perkins seriously! Yet you couldn’t doubt his sincerity.
‘Have you brought a rifle?’
‘Yes. They rushed it over from the barracks. Asked if we needed a marksman . . . but Bulley . . . you remember?’
‘He’s the one who shot the tiger.’
‘Yes . . . he’s very cool . . . a police medal . . .’
‘Bring him up here. Groton won’t help us. I’m afraid we’ll have to shoot the brute.’
Perkins turned and waved dramatically. Constable Bulley came up at the double. He was carrying the rifle rather gingerly and wore an expression of quiet tenseness. Gently nodded to the rifle.
‘You’ve checked that, Bulley – you’re ready to go?’
Bulley swallowed and nodded back.
‘Six in the breech, sir . . . one up the spout.’
‘Then for the love of God put the catch on!’
Bulley put on the catch.
‘Follow me. The rest keep back – if you’ve any sense, you’ll get in the cars.’
He led the way to the corner of the outbuilding, round which the cameraman had now poked his instrument. The scene, the woman in the tree, the panther below her, had changed only in one particular.
‘You’d better be quick – I think she’s all in. And that cunning bastard seems to know it . . .’
The woman had slid a little lower in the thorn tree and her head had drooped forward.
Gently glanced at Bulley.
‘Will you risk it from here . . . ?’
‘Well, I don’t know, sir . . .’
‘I think we’ll go forward. If we can crawl to that hedge you’ll get an easy shot. It’s a cross-wind – he shouldn’t smell us.’
‘What about me?’ the cameraman whispered.
‘If you move from here I’ll have your ticket!’
They set off crawling, first over pocked mud rolled iron-hard by the passage of vehicles, then across a rough concrete hard-standing, then on to coarse grass mixed with plantain and docks. Behind them they could hear Groton roaring and the reports of his shotgun. In front they could see only the hedge and, above it, the woman hung in the tree.
They reached the hedge. It was tall and spindly, composed of Marabella plum. At its foot was a tangle of grasses, nettles and the dead stems of hogweed.
‘Work along it!’ Gently whispered. ‘If we push into this stuff he’ll hear us. There’s a bit of a gap . . .’
Bulley followed him doggedly, with the rifle grasped across its breech.
‘Now . . . there he is!’
They’d come to a gap which had perhaps been opened by rabbits. Through it, at a distance of thirty yards, they could see the panther squatted by the tree. He was looking upwards very intently, and the twitch of his snowy whiskers was visible. The corner of his mouth was dragged open and had saliva descending from it.
As they watched, Groton fired his gun. The panther slicked its ears but didn’t turn.
‘Behind the shoulder . . . below the spine.’
There was a desperation about Bulley. He seemed unable to get his elbows planted and the butt was loose against his shoulder. Then he was forgetting that catch again! It was Gently who reached over and tipped it off.
‘Now – give it to him!’
Bulley yanked, and the muzzle rose above a foot.
‘Let me have it!’ Gently bawled.
The panther was snarling and leaping backwards. A wicket’s length beyond the tree it stopped in a crouch, its tail swishing.
Gently scrambled up, keeping his eye on the panther, working the bolt of the rifle by feel. Now it was a far more difficult shot – what did one aim at, from the front?
Perhaps through the mouth . . .
He froze round the rifle, jogging his feet firm apart. The panther had seen him through the screen of the fence and was stalking towards him, belly to the ground.
Between the eyes? Would that find the spine?
He centred the pip an inch lower. Then he pressed, felt the jar cushion in him, saw the silver belly of the beast rise in front of him.
‘By crikey . . . he’s bought it!’
The panther was thrashing on its side, trying to dig its head into the ground.
It was giving pathetic snarling yelps as though incredulous of its mortal agony.
Then, very suddenly, it jerked still.
Blood began to pool by its muzzle.
‘You got him!’
Bulley couldn’t believe it. He was trembling all over, his eyes were staring.
Gently shoved the rifle at him.
‘Here!’ he said. ‘You’re the man with the medal.’
* * *
The double crack of the rifle brought people running. Just then they seemed to have forgotten about Groton. The photographer who’d been scouting was first on the spot, and he took a fine picture of Bulley juggling with the rifle.
In fact, it was a problem what to photograph first! The panther had kindly died in a dramatic posture. In her tree, though out of danger, the woman persisted in hanging on, apparently determined to give the cameras a chance.
Then there was Gently, always a safe subject, striding over to the tree and talking up to her.
And if that wasn’t enough, it seemed likely she was going to faint . . .
‘Dutt, get up ther
e and bring her down.’
More fodder for the cameras!
Swearing under his breath about the thorns, Dutt eased her down in slow lifts.
She was a blonde of about thirty-five. When you saw her close her face looked mean. Her black dress was ripped in the skirt and her stockings were ripped and burst at the knees. Blood from the thorn wounds was congealing on her legs, arms, neck.
She said huskily: ‘Glad you made it, boys,’ keeping tight hold of Dutt’s arm.
Under the tree lay an automatic, a .22 Browning, a mere gimcrack.
‘Is that your gun?’ Gently asked.
She looked at him sideways. ‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘Are these your shoes?’
‘I kicked them off. Looks like he tried one for flavour.’
‘Is your name Shirley Banks?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. And fainted.
‘All right!’ Gently said. ‘Get back, everyone. This is police business, not a press stunt.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, feller,’ a voice said.
Behind them stood Groton, with a revolver.
The revolver was a Colt .45 but it didn’t look so big in Groton’s hand. He wasn’t pointing it at them particularly, it was just hanging in their direction.
‘Yes, you’re wrong, feller,’ Groton repeated. ‘As from now on, this is my business. And what I’m telling you, one and all, is to get to hell out of my kraal!’
Gently said: ‘Put that gun away, Groton.’
Groton chucked his massive head. ‘Not just for you telling me, copper,’ he said. ‘I don’t like coppers who shoot my cats.’
‘I’m arresting you, Groton.’
Groton laughed. ‘That’ll be the day, copper,’ he said. ‘But just now you’re marching out through that gate. You’re a bloody trespasser, and I don’t stand for them.’
‘You just set panthers on them,’ Gently said.
‘If they poke a gun at me,’ Groton said. ‘Or maybe I pick them up with one hand and toss them clear back to the road. It’s up to me, how I deal with trespassers. There’s boards warning them to keep out. All you need to know is what I’m telling you – collect your riff-raff and hop it!’
He made a waving motion with the Colt and some of the pressmen drew back involuntarily. Groton snorted his scorn, spun the Colt by its trigger-guard.
Would he really use the gun? They weren’t close enough to rush him . . .
Yet if they called his bluff and stayed put, how was that going to end?
Then, strangely, the moment found its man. Perkins went stalking out towards Grown. The move was so unexpected that even Groton’s eyes widened.
‘What do you want, Perky?’
‘Give me your gun. I’m arresting you, Groton.’
‘You’re doing what?’
‘Arresting you. Give me the gun and come quietly.’
It was absurd! Perkins stood nearly a head shorter than Groton – he was half the man; yet there he waited, hand out-stretched for the revolver. Groton stared for a moment, then bellowed with laughter.
‘You’re a comic, Perky!’ he roared. ‘You’d better go home and play with the kiddoes – us nasty big boys might make you cry.’
‘Are you giving it me?’
‘Go chase your tail, Perky.’
‘Groton, I want that gun.’
‘Don’t upset me, little man. I might sneeze and knock you down.’
What happened next was rather confused. Presumably Perkins tried to grab the gun. Groton roared and aimed a blow at Perkins which should have taken his head off his shoulders.
But . . . it didn’t! Instead, Perkins grabbed him and made a knee in a deft manner. And Groton flew. The whole colossal bulk of him up-ended and crashed headlong.
‘Go – get him!’ Gently shouted.
Bulley, Hargrave rushed to help Perkins.
But Groton was out. He’d gone down on his head. Perkins had floored him with one throw!
And, most amazing of all, now it was done Perkins seemed completely shamefaced. He picked up the revolver and brought it to Gently with the air of a dog who expects a whipping.
‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t want to use violence . . .’
Was there any limit to the man?
‘I mean, our reputation . . . that Sheffield business . . .’
‘Who taught you judo?’
‘Well . . . Sayers.’
Then he was being mobbed by the pressmen, who were climbing over each other with their cameras – who had a personal score against Groton, and had suddenly found themselves a hero . . .
Fantastic!
In the background, Groton was sitting up bemusedly. They’d forced some handcuffs on his mighty wrists and he was stupidly jangling them together. Then they heaved him to his feet, and he stood rubber-kneed, wavering.
‘The lady’s coming round, chief.’
The lady? She was old news already.
But all this while Dutt had tended her impassively, kneeling by her, chafing her hands. Now she moaned and her eyes came open.
‘Take it easy, miss!’ Dutt said.
She looked at him. ‘Gawd!’ she said. ‘I feel like death. What’s going on?’
‘You’re all right, miss.’
‘You kidding, man? I couldn’t unpop my suspenders.’
‘We’ll run you to the hospital in a minute, miss.’
‘I’d sooner you ran me to a boozer.’
Her eyes sharpened.
‘That bastard,’ she said. ‘Where is he – what have you done with him?’
‘Groton, miss? He’s under arrest.’
‘Help me up. Let me look at him!’
Dutt glanced at Gently. Gently nodded. Dutt slipped an arm under her and lifted. Hanging on his arm, she was able to take a few steps to where she could see the animal dealer. She stared her hate at him.
‘The murderous swine. He did for Peter – you know that?’
‘Peter Shimpling . . . ?’
‘You don’t know yet? You bloody coppers don’t know anything.’
‘Have you proof of this, Miss Banks?’
‘I saw the letter, I can swear to that. Of course he pinched it back again, but—’
Her eyes jumped wide. Groton had seen her. Dutt could feel her fingers hook into his arm. Groton’s deepset eyes were blazing animal-like, like the blind staring of one of his cats.
And suddenly he roared, heaved against his chest, sent the handcuffs flying from his wrists . . .
‘Pull him down!’
There wasn’t time! His right hand snatched, drew back, whirled. Something flew, landed with a thump, and Shirley Banks collapsed screaming.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE AMBULANCE ARRIVED.
Shirley Banks hadn’t been seriously wounded by Groton’s knife. It had struck her high up in the left shoulder and had glanced upwards over the bone.
But she had bled a lot and was in great pain, and went out like a light when she got a jab.
If Groton’s intention had been to stop her talking, for the moment he had succeeded.
After throwing the knife he’d tried to make a break for it, running in the direction of his vehicles. But about twenty of them, police and pressmen, had chased after him and brought him down. He’d been roughed-up in the melee and was now no advertisement for restrained handling. This time he was handcuffed behind his back and also pinioned with a length of lighting-flex.
Then he was hustled to a car, in another camera-festival, and driven off to the cells.
From the time he’d been disarmed and thrown by Perkins he hadn’t spoken one word.
When the car had left Perkins sought out Gently.
‘What can we do about the animals . . .?’
Poor fellow! He was quite thrown out of his stride by the lionizing of the pressmen. He hung about, looking a picture of guilt, trying hard to keep himself in the background. Evidently he couldn’t forget that terrible moment when he’d used violence to effect a
n arrest . . .
‘We’d better call in his hired help. They should know what to do.’
‘But Groton did the feeding, don’t you remember?’
‘All right. Try the RSPCA.’
‘But would they know . . .’
‘Just try them!’
Perkins began to look happier. Irritating people he understood, it put him on better terms with himself.
‘Also, you’d better get a search warrant. You might turn up something in the house.’
‘We only have the woman’s word for it . . .’
‘Come on. I want to see Groton’s car.’
He strode off towards the compound, with the menage hurrying after him. But somehow, now that Groton and Shirley Banks had gone, one could feel an atmosphere of anticlimax.
The stars were missing . . . Nobody quite knew what the drama they had played portended, but it had been an enthralling drama, proceeding with an inner logic of its own.
All that was left now was the set and a few of the props, like the dead panther.
‘Which of you is Slater?’
‘I’m Slater.’
He was the cameraman who’d lurked at the corner.
‘I want you to look at Groton’s estate car, to see if anything’s changed since you took your photograph.’
They examined the car. The off-side headlamp had no glass and was dented. The fairing below it was also dented and the glass of the sidelight cracked. Part of the grille was driven in and the horn and end of the bumper bent.
‘Anything altered?’
‘He’s cleared the glass out. A lot of it was there when I took the pic.’
‘Who else could have got at the car today?’
‘Well, his two men were here this morning.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘His housekeeper. He’s had no visitors – apart from the blonde.’
A pressman asked: ‘What do you make of it, chiefie?’
Gently shrugged. ‘You can see what I see. Groton took his car out last night and collided with something – or somebody.’
‘Can we print the “somebody”?’
‘After we’ve checked. Haven’t you enough stuff for one day?’
Aside to Perkins he said: ‘Have the car brought in. And when you’re searching here – find that glass!’
But the sense of anticlimax persisted . . . what was a hit-and-run case, after all? Every day people died on the roads, it was strictly commonplace, non-news.
