by Hunter Alan
‘I can’t tell you . . . we’re all grateful . . . I . . .’
‘Here . . . watch my hand!’
‘. . . how much it means . . . us . . . Abbotsham . . .’
‘Turn it up! People are looking.’
The damned idiot! For over a minute he was shaking away and blubbering thanks, while half the guests and Barnes, the pressman, were peering curiously in their direction.
‘And if you’re ever this way again . . .’
At last Gently managed to rescue his hand.
‘Myself . . . my wife . . .’
‘Put a cork in, will you? I missed my dinner, I’m blasted hungry.’
Dutt, his sportsflash ended, looked round perplexedly, and Barnes was beginning to sidle over.
But still that idiot burbled away, trembling with gratitude, almost weeping.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GROTON CHARGED WITH
SHIMPLING MURDER
Bungalow Body Unidentified
Tiger: Attempt That Misfired
Hugh Groton, 52, an animal dealer from South Africa, was charged yesterday with the murder of Peter Shimpling.
But police failed to identify the tiger-victim at the resumed inquest at Abbotsham. They think now he was an accessory in a previous attempt on Shimpling.
Chief Superintendent Gently of the Yard, who has been assisting the local police, admitted to our reporter he thought identification unlikely . . .
A long way from Abbotsham, a long way from London. Two men sitting in a boat on a grey lake under slate mountains.
Superintendent Evans says: ‘That’s a bite, man! Why, you’ll never catch a gwyniad.’
Gently shrugs, makes a strike, reels in an unbelievable depth of line. The freshwater shrimp is gone from his hook. He feels about the bait-can, finds a replacement.
Evans says sternly: ‘You must be more alert, man. The gwyniad is a very delicate feeder. Catching the gwyniad is a great art. Very few are the anglers who catch a gwyniad.’
‘Have you ever caught one?’ Gently asks.
‘No, I can’t say I have,’ Evans says. ‘But I tell you, I know what I’m talking about. And there are surely gwyniad in Bala lake.’
Gently patiently rebaits his hook and lowers away many fathoms. At the other end of the boat Evans sits like a crouching griffin.
‘That was a peculiar case of yours, man,’ he says. ‘What with tigers and leopards and that sort of animal. I’m glad we haven’t the like in Wales. No, not even badgers we have.’ A little silence, then Gently said:
‘I don’t believe that about the badgers.’
‘No?’ Evans says. ‘Would you call me a liar – apart from being Welsh, and a liar by nature?’
A little more silence, where all is silence.
A long way from Abbotsham, a long way from London.
Two men sitting in a boat on a grey lake under slate mountains.
