The Gimmel Flask

by Douglas Clark

  Lamont saw him and nodded.

  “Four twenty-five . . . four fifty.”

  The twenty-five bid was Benson’s. Where had the four fifty come from? Again Lamont’s pencil was raised. None of the usual encouraging chat from the dais. Benson again held his catalogue aloft.

  “Four seventy-five . . . five pounds.”

  Benson had kept his eye on Lamont: had seen the almost imperceptible nod and quick glance that passed between Lamont and Bert, the head porter.

  Benson again.

  “Five fifty . . . six pounds.”

  Bert was standing quite still, his hand on top of a tallboy. He was neglecting his duties to enter the bidding. But who was he acting for?

  “Six fifty . . . seven pounds.”

  That opening bid of four pounds—if it had been made—was suspiciously, ridiculously low. It appeared as if the figure had been agreed earlier between Bert and Lamont. But would Lamont have agreed so low a figure just to please Bert? Benson thought not. The figure had been agreed to please Lamont.

  “Seven fifty . . . eight pounds.”

  So, Benson figured, Bert was bidding on behalf of Lamont. Lamont out to make a killing! Lamont who had squared the ring? “Lay off lot 131 and I’ll see you’re all right on lots X, Y and Z.” Benson thought it possible.

  “Eight fifty . . . nine pounds.”

  Bert was still nonchalant, but Lamont was getting edgy. He was becoming too ready to slam that pencil down.

  “Nine fifty . . . ten pounds.”

  “Eleven pounds . . . twelve pounds.”

  On it went. At twenty pounds Bert turned in disgust and walked towards the chest of drawers next on the list. Benson got lot 131 for twenty-one pounds. Well satisfied, he waited to hear Lamont repeat: “Benson. Twenty-one pounds.” Then he edged his way towards the clerk’s table. When asked by the clerk to bring over lot 131, Bert did so with bad grace. The clerk seemed oblivious of anything out of the ordinary. Benson paid and collected his property. It was rather large and heavy. He needed both hands. To free them, he hung his stick, by the handle, in his breast pocket. Slowly he wormed his way through the screen to the door. As far as he was concerned, the sale was over. It wasn’t yet three o’clock and he’d be a bit early for his meringues, but Bessie wouldn’t mind making them up for him while he waited.

  He looked forward to the ham sandwich he’d promised himself when he got home. After all, he had missed lunch in his determination to secure lot 131.

  Chapter Two

  It was exactly nine weeks later, on the first Tuesday in May, that Detective Inspector Green walked into the office of Superintendent George Masters at the Yard and uttered the one word: “Thanks.”

  “What for?” Masters pretended he was unaware of any reason why Green should thank him. It was difficult—or had been until the previous summer—for Green to be civil to Masters for any reason. Masters had felt an equal antipathy towards Green, but the trauma of breaking up the team that had been so successful for a number of years had caused them each to regard the other in a somewhat different light. Masters had offered to keep Green on out of sympathy. Green had agreed to stay because finding a suitable posting in his last years of service had been not only difficult but belittling. Hence Masters’ sympathy. But the bond had held. Both had realised that where, formerly, they had worked one with another on sufferance, now they had chosen to stay together, and that made a difference. They had nobody to blame but themselves if it didn’t work; and neither liked being blamed for anything.

  From the new beginning Green had tried, and tried hard, to cooperate. Masters, watching the painful process of a leopard trying to change its spots, had in turn made the effort to treat Green as he would treat any other man. The gap had narrowed. At least Green now addressed his chief as George and in return was addressed as Greeny. But not on this particular Tuesday morning apparently. A sign, perhaps, that they were both a little embarrassed by this particular meeting. As though they had known in advance that it would take place even though both wished it wouldn’t.

  “What for?” Green sounded scornful—a scorn accusing Masters of pretence. “The recommendation.”

  “Oh, that!”

  “Yes. Oh, that!”

  “Has it come through?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations. Now, Detective Chief Inspector, if you don’t mind we’ll say no more about your promotion, but I am willing to take a drink off you on account of it any time you care to suggest.”

  “Lunchtime. Round the corner. About half twelve.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “Your fiancée.”

  “Wanda? What about her?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know she was inviting me and the missus down to Pilgrim’s Cottage for next weekend.”

  “We decided we ought to be chaperoned whenever I stay there. It’s the turn of you and Mrs Green to play nursemaid—if you’ll accept. I’ll give you a lift down on Friday, after tea.”

  “We’re accepting, and we’ll take you up on the offer of a lift.”

  At that moment the internal phone rang. Masters said: “Don’t go. I want a word with you about sergeants.” He then picked up the phone. “Masters.”

  “George, there’s an out-of-town job for your lot. Come and see me, now please.”

  Masters put the phone down. “It looks as if we’ll be lucky if we get our weekend off, Greeny. That was the A.C. Crime. There’s an out-of-town job on.”

  “For us?”

  Masters nodded. “Make yourself comfy for a bit. If you stay it’ll save me having to find you. Rope in Sergeant Reed, too. He might as well be here from the outset.”

  *

  Detective Sergeant Reed was Hill’s replacement as Masters’ assistant. As yet, Brant, who had been Green’s assistant, had not been replaced, though he had been gone the better part of a year. This had originally been due to the uncertainty about Green’s future, but at the moment it was mainly because of a shortage of manpower. It was this situation that Masters had wanted to discuss with Green. Now Green had been promoted he would get a permanent sergeant again. It would mean taking one from an inspector. The question was, whom to choose. Though Masters was willing to give Green a free hand, he was interested in the choice because, to some degree, the harmony of the team depended on it.

  Reed had now settled into his new job. He had been on one or two major investigations and both Masters and Green were satisfied with the way he was shaping.

  He arrived in Masters’ office looking slightly blown. A man of medium height, and wiry rather than heavily built, he was not someone on whom the eye might light instinctively. Not that he was unprepossessing. He simply had a personality that did not immediately claim notice. That he had earned promotion and then had attracted the attention and interest of a man like Masters said quite a lot for his ability at his job. But now he was puffing slightly from hurrying.

  “Luggage all in, including the murder bag.”

  “Good lad. But why the heavy breathing?”

  “After you gave me the warning order I didn’t want to waste time in case the Chief got back quick and I missed something.”

  “Highly commendable, lad. Draw up a chair and sit down.”

  As Reed complied, Green offered him a cigarette from a rather crushed packet of Kensitas.

  “Tell me, boy,” said Green, accepting a light, “what do you know about Detective Constable Berger?”

  “Berger, sir? He’s a bit of a mate of mine, so I’m probably a bit prejudiced, but I reckon he’s good.”

  “Bright?”

  “Don’t know about bright, so much as thorough. He’s a driver A1, of course, and he’s specialising in photography.”

  “Not dabs?”

  “Not yet at any rate. But he will, once he knows all about photography. He’s the sort that learns everything there is to know about one thing and then mov
es on to another. He reckons that if he gets a string of proficiency ratings the pressure of those alone will help him get promotion. Of course, he’s passed the constable-to-sergeant tests.”

  “What grade?”

  “Top. You knew that. I heard you asking yesterday.”

  “Yes, well, never mind. And keep this under your hat.”

  “If you say so.”

  The door opened and Masters came in.

  “Where to this time?” asked Green.

  “The market town of Limpid.”

  “Nice name.” At one time Green would have asked: “Where the hell’s that?”

  “A nice town. In East Anglia. It will take us two to two and a half hours to get there. I’d prefer to brief you as we go, because I’ve got something to look up before we set out.”

  “Fair do’s. Before you start, you said you wanted to talk with me.”

  “About sergeants? Yes, I do. Reed, make sure we’ve got the right maps with us and then phone both my home and Pilgrim’s Cottage. Tell both my mother and Mrs Mace that I’ll be out of town for a few days, but will get in touch as soon as possible. Do it from the sergeants’ room, will you, please?”

  After Reed had gone, Masters went across to his bookcase and took out his navy-blue bound text-book of pharmacognosy. Green, who recognised the book, said: “One of that sort, is it?”

  Masters nodded, consulting the index, and then asked: “What about a sergeant for you? Any ideas? Not for this particular caper, necessarily, but for when we get back. You’ll be having more administrative work to do, remember, so you don’t want to hang fire.”

  Green sucked a tooth noisily, a habit which Masters loathed and deplored but strove to ignore for the sake of peaceful relationships. “I was going to ask your advice.”

  “About any particular sergeant?”

  “Not a sergeant. A D.C. Chap called Berger.”

  Masters turned a few pages before replying. Then: “Have you discovered his standing with the promotion board?”

  “He’s in the bracket, okay. But I thought that until he’s shoved up, he could chore for me as a D.C.”

  “Plain clothes, so I don’t see why not. It’ll save taking somebody else’s sergeant from them.”

  “Do you know him, George?”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “From which reply I gather you don’t think much to him.”

  “I’ll put it this way. I’m not going to sing his praises. You can make your own mind up. But at the same time I’m willing to go so far as to say I have no objections nor reservations about Berger. On the rare occasions he has worked with me he has done his stuff thoroughly. What you will get, if you take him on, is a man who is a sticker and has a willingness to work.”

  “That’s not bad, is it?”

  “No. As long as you don’t prefer a whizz-kid.”

  “Heaven save me from that sort.”

  “Fine. Go ahead and make the arrangements. See to it now if you like. I’ll be a quarter of an hour reading this. You could get the written application in so that the wheels can turn while you’re away.”

  “Done. And. . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Thanks . . . again.”

  *

  “They wouldn’t transfer him immediately,” said Green, “but as he was spare, they suggested we should take him along to see if he suits us.”

  “You mean you want him to come to Limpid?”

  “If that’s okay by you.”

  Masters walked across to the car, Green at his side. “We’ve got four seats and, as I said, it’s your pigeon. I don’t want to influence your choice, merely to approve it from the team’s point of view.”

  “We’ll take him,” decided Green.

  Reed drove, working east to the A11 and A12. Berger sat beside him, quiet, as if afraid to speak. Green was in his usual nearside back seat. Masters alongside him.

  Green pulled out his battered Kensitas packet. “You don’t smoke, son, do you?” he asked Berger. The constable shook his head. “Good. And the sergeant mustn’t, not while driving in heavy traffic. That’s a good, cheap round.”

  Masters had his big-bowled cadger’s pipe in his hand, but made no attempt to fill it. Green, glancing at him, said: “Something’s biting you. Is it this case?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you about it in a few minutes, when Reed can give us a little attention.”

  The day was pleasantly warm and the mid-morning traffic was beginning to thin to less than rush hour proportions. Reed made good time, and Masters was pleased to note it. The area they were passing through was not the best in London, and even the eastbound road, when it eventually reached the countryside, was an unsightly mass of ribbon development in the making. It was not until they turned towards Brentwood at Gallows Corner, where they left the Southend traffic to continue its way across the flyover, that Masters felt it time to begin his briefing.

  “The man who has died,” he began, “is called Frederick Hardy. He was a man of fifty-eight, a town councillor of Limpid and the senior partner in the biggest firm of auctioneers and estate agents in the area.”

  “He’ll have been well britched then,” commented Green. “Estate agents—aren’t they what your pal Heath calls the unacceptable face of capitalism?”

  Masters felt a faint surge of anger. He had long considered Green as one of those socialists who let their credo permeate their whole lives, jaundice every action, and taint every word. The sort that paint the world grey because they must insist on bringing envy into everything. This attitude had played a large part in their earlier antipathy. So it was with some asperity and not a little untruth that Masters replied: “Heath could hardly be called a pal of mine, since I consider him to be so far left as to be one of the best socialists ever to come to power in this country. Furthermore, his comment about the unacceptable face of capitalism referred to those who made use of so-called tax havens. I should have thought that a man of your prodigious memory would have recalled the facts more exactly, and also have remembered that over the past few years quite a few of our colleagues have been engaged in unveiling some of the more unacceptable faces of socialism, particularly in the north-east. So now, can we forget politics, as we are on a non-political investigation, and turn our minds to the more mundane business of murder?”

  “Crikey,” said Green. “You’re taking on a bit, aren’t you? It was only a remark, I made.” He looked closely at Masters. “You’re jumpy about something. You don’t reckon to get the willies about a murder investigation. What’s up? Something sinister about this party?”

  Masters at last started to rub a palmful of Warlock Flake for his pipe. “Yes, there’s something I don’t like about it.”

  “Why? What sort of a case is it?”

  “You were quite right when you said that the victim, Frederick Hardy, was a fairly wealthy man. I say you’re right because I cannot possibly understand why the local police should mention the fact unless it was significant.”

  “Ah! Now I see why you’re so touchy. You’re frightened this may turn out to be some sort of a corruption case, and that wouldn’t suit you at all.”

  “It certainly wouldn’t. I don’t like corruption in the first place. It’s bad enough when only money is involved, but when it starts leading to murder, it reduces this country to the level of a South American republic. Besides that, I don’t think you and I would be much at home with figures. I’ve no desire to do the fraud squad out of a job.”

  “Now you’re giving me the jim-jams. What’re we heading into? A hot-bed of back-handers?”

  Masters ignored this question. Instead he continued to give reasons for his disquiet.

  “This chap died soon after he’d eaten lunch on Sunday. Apparently he liked his food.”

  “I know the type. Four meat meals a day and a bit of supper.”

  Berger laughed and then tried to stifle it. Green said: “Let it come, lad. Don’t stint yourself, or me. I don’t get so much approbat
ion that I don’t like to hear it. Loosen up, son. This car’s a confessional. What goes on inside it is strictly confidential, but that doesn’t mean you can’t behave naturally. If you’ve anything to add to the conversation, add it. And if you’ve anything to ask, ask it.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Masters approved of Green’s handling of Berger, but he pushed on. “Hardy’s doctor had told him to cut back on the food, so he was only indulging in—for him—a fairly light lunch. A green salad with ham and sautéed potatoes, followed by ice cream with a flaky chocolate bar crumbled over it.”

  “That was cutting down?”

  “Apparently.”

  “No wonder he snuffed it. If that was a restricted diet what was his gut like? I take it he died as a direct result of the food?”

  Masters grinned. “It seems inevitable, doesn’t it? Yes, he died of gut’s ache.”

  “Literally?”

  “So I’m informed.”

  “Then what the hell are we on our way out there for?”

  “Induced gut’s ache?” asked Berger quietly.

  “Bang on,” said Masters warmly, which caused Berger to redden with pleasure. “Induced by a substance known as croton oil according to the pathologist.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Green glumly. “And how the hell did he manage to take it in the first place?”

  Masters lit his pipe. “I hadn’t heard of it either, until the A.C. mentioned it this morning.” He drew strongly to get the pipe glowing. “That’s why I asked you to wait for a few minutes, so that I could look it up.”

  “And?” asked Green.

  They were taking the Brentwood by-pass and heading towards Chelmsford. Here the road was much emptier, and Reed had his foot down. But this did not prevent him from making a suggestion. “Oil, you said, Chief? And this chap was eating salad? Well, salad and oil go together, don’t they?”

  “Quite right,” replied Masters. He turned to Green.

  “We’ve got a bright pair here.”

  “So sharp they’ll cut themselves if they don’t watch out.”