“I asked if there were just the two of you here?”
“Only me an’ Bandy ’cept on sale days, then we signs on old Jeff an’ Gil Dunn, just to give a hand with the lifting like.”
“Then you must be Bert Horner.”
“That’s right. Bert an’ Bandy Horner, Removals.”
“I thought you worked for Hardy, Williams and Lamont.”
“We do, most of the time. But we’re available for hire. It’s our van, you see. Bandy’s driver, I’m boss.”
There was the noise of something heavy being dragged over the uneven, red brick floor of the mill.
“Bandy seems to do all the work, too.”
“He’s younger’n me.”
“And thinner, too, I expect. Right, Bert. At the April sales in the Corn Exchange you bought lot number one three nine; twenty-seven pieces of assorted glassware.”
“What if I did?”
“I want to know what you did with it.”
“Nothing.”
“You must have wanted it for something, or you wouldn’t have bought it.”
“An’ that’s where you’re wrong. I didn’t buy it for myself, see.”
“Who for, then?”
“I was biddin’ for Mr Lamont, as the auctioneers aren’t allowed to when they’re on the stand.”
“For Lamont? What would he want a job lot of glassware for?”
“He didn’t.”
Green was beginning to lose his temper. “Now look, matey, don’t try to be funny with me. You said Lamont asked you to bid for and buy a lot he didn’t want.”
“He thought he did when he told me. Then after the sale he came up to me, said he’d had a look at the stuff and it wasn’t what he’d thought. He told me I could have it. Cost him 30p, it did, so he wasn’t bust by that, was he?”
“What did you do with it?”
Bert lifted up his voice. “Bandy!”
“’Ello!”
“Where’s them old glasses and things from last sale that Lamont didn’t want?”
Bandy came from wherever he’d been working and rounded the van to join the party.
“Why?”
“These gents want to look at ’em.”
“To buy? Let ’em go for a quid.”
“They’re the police, Bandy.”
“Oh!”
“Where are they?”
“Along here.”
They were stacked on top of an old chest of drawers. Green looked at them and then counted. “There should be twenty-seven pieces. There’s only twenty-six here. Where’s the other one?”
“Other one? What other one?”
“There was a sort of bottle with two necks.”
“That’s right, Bert,” said Bandy. “I remember, when we laid them out. Green thing with bits of red and yellow raffia on it.”
“Well don’t ask me. I never saw it. That’s just as it was when I got it from the ’Change.”
“Does anybody else ever come in here?”
“Fletcher comes in to make up lots sometimes. If it’s a houseful, one of the partners goes with Fletcher to do it on site. But if odd bits come in here to be added on, Fletcher does it himself. And believe you me, mister, if Fletcher says there was twenty-seven bits of glass there, there was twenty-seven.”
“Anybody else?”
“No. Only the two I told you about, and they don’t come in here. They go to the ’Change to handle at the sale.”
“So where did that bottle go missing?”
“In the ’Change after the sale. It’s hell’s delight in there then. People paying and claiming. Fletcher saying, ‘Bert! Number forty-seven, six dining chairs for Mr Whatsisname here!’ And I has to get them out where we’ve stacked ’em, an’ they’re allus at the bottom of the heap. Everybody’s working, an’ buyers are picking up their bits an’ pieces off the tables—aye, an’ leaving stuff.”
“Leaving it, after they’ve paid for it?”
“When it’s a composite lot, yeah. Say you’ve got a pressure cooker an’ eight bowls in one lot, an’ some woman bids ’cos she wants a pressure cooker but doesn’t want a load of old cracked bowls, she takes the cooker an’ leaves the bowls for us to clear up.”
“Are you telling me,” asked Green, “that you and Bandy boy here don’t make a bob or two out of what’s left? To second-hand dealers and such like?”
“Well, we ’as to dispose of it somehow. Dustmen won’t take it.”
“They do more than make a bob or two,” said Hoame. “I’ve just remembered. I’ve heard of you two characters, but I’d forgotten the name.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Timber. You collect all the old furniture and take it to bits and sell the wood.”
“What about it?”
“I wonder how many wardrobes are broken accidentally-on-purpose so they can’t go into the sale, but can be broken up for planks of oak or mahogany?”
“Wait a minnit, mister. . . .”
“It’s all right, Bert. I’m not complaining. But don’t try to tell the Chief Inspector you never get any perks. Especially after Bandy wanted to charge us a quid for that glassware you got for nothing.”
“It’s good wood. People making things like a bit of seasoned oak or bird’s eye maple at half price.”
“I’m sure. Do you plane it up for them?”
“That’d cost more.”
“I bet it would. You’re making a packet, Bert. And don’t forget in future that I know all about it.” Hoame sounded as if he’d come to the conclusion that all the citizens of Limpid were either corrupt or on the make-haste and he was going to keep an eye on things from now on.
Green looked at his watch. “Time we were getting back to the pub for lunch. Care to join us for a pint, Colin?”
“I might just do that.” He turned to Bert. “Watch your step, you two.”
When they were in the car, Berger said: “I thought they genuinely didn’t know what had happened to that flask, sir.”
“Bert didn’t. He’s too idle. But Bandy knows there’s something on. He’s fly. Senior coppers don’t chase after useless bits of glassware in his opinion. He’s mistaken, of course. I’ve chased after useless bits of paper and fag ends in my time. But Bandy won’t realise that. He’s thinking things over. Wondering if he saw anything significant at that sale, or else he’s simply putting two together, and wondering what’s in it for him.”
“You reckon he’s not above a bit of blackmail, sir?”
“Seeing the environment in which he works, said Hoame bitterly, “would there be anything odd if he were a villain? If environment counts for anything he’ll be up to all the crimes in the calendar.”
“Take it easy,” said Green. “Keep a sense of proportion, mate. You can’t afford to get emotional about this. If you play it right, you’re going to sort them all out.”
“It’s like ground elder,” replied Hoame. “Once you get it you can’t get rid of it.”
“I can’t say you’re wrong, chum,” replied Green, “because I reckon there’s more to come.”
Chapter Six
Masters and his two companions arrived at the Swan and Cygnets shortly after Green’s party.
“Six minds with but a single thought.”
“If they’re all like mine, Mr Masters,” said Hoame, “they’re not focused on beer.”
“Develop two planes of thought,” said Masters. “It’s important. School yourself to think of beer—or anything else for that matter—and meanwhile push the case into the back of your mind without dismissing it altogether. If you can achieve that, you’ll never be caught out. People will call you jammy and say you can’t even stop for a pint of beer without some clue dropping into your lap. They’ll be wrong, of course, because while you’re drinking you’ll still be on the job, working twice as hard as they are and thoroughly earning or deserving your luck.”
“Is that what you do?”
“I try to. For instance, I’ve noticed that while I�
��ve been talking to you, Mr Richard Benson, who is not unconnected with this case, has come into the bar.”
“So?”
“So I ask myself why he has come. Has he just dropped in for a drink, or has he come in in the hope of seeing somebody?”
“You, for instance?”
“Perhaps.”
“You can’t say he has.”
“Of course I can’t, but it’s a possibility I must consider. If I am pretty sure he would like to say something to me but isn’t quite sure how to approach me, I must make the effort to give him his chance.”
“For all you know he could hate the sight of you.”
“I know he doesn’t.”
“How?”
“Because he knows I am staying at this pub and that I’m not a teetotaller. It is, therefore, on the cards that should he come in here he would see me.”
“He couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain.”
“Of course not. But it is a risk—if he were trying to avoid me.”
“It could be that he doesn’t care either way.”
“That, too. But I know that he doesn’t frequent this or any other pub at nights because I found him at home last night. Furthermore he keeps a very well-stocked drinks cupboard which includes beer. This leads me to believe he is a home drinker. I can’t think that he keeps such a stock for visitors. Nor do I believe he is a heavy enough drinker to drink at home and at a pub.”
“You’ve now talked me into believing that he cannot have come here for any purpose except to see you.”
“That was my intention.”
“But he has made no move to contact you.”
“Because he is a man of innate courtesy and would not intrude while I was in conversation with a colleague on what might well be professional business.”
Hoame put his empty glass down. “Mr Telford knew what he was doing when he accepted, on our behalf, a few days tuition from you in direction. Have another, sir.”
“No, thank you. I have to see a man about an antique.”
But Masters was wrong. It was not an antique. It was a property deal.
“Mr Masters,” said Benson, who was sitting alone on a bar stool, “I hope you will forgive me for seeking you out.”
“I’m pleased you did.”
“Actually, I usually come in here for lunch on Wednesdays. My Mrs Taylor doesn’t come on Wednesdays and so she’s not there to cook me lunch as she usually does.”
“And Saturdays and Sundays.”
“She always leaves me well stocked up after her big bake on Fridays. I fend for myself at weekends. I am fortunate in that respect because this place is packed out for lunch on Saturdays. Wednesdays are slack, of course, because the shops close at one and the town is dead in the afternoon.”
“Have a drink, sir. After your splendid hospitality last night. . . .”
“Thank you. The same again, please. Bitter.”
The bar was a long, low, attractively-beamed room with a smoke-grimed ceiling and a lot of warm red in its decor—red lamp shades, red cushions on chairs, red terry-towelling place mats on the bar and a turkey red carpet. The bar counter was long, like half a paper-clip split lengthwise, turning back to the wall at each end, leaving just enough room between itself and the side walls for a door—one marked Ladies and the other Gentlemen. It was called “the snug”, and it was snug. Several centuries of convivial meeting and drinking had given it an atmosphere that had soaked into the fabric, from which it diffused into the room just as a modern storage heater garners heat only to radiate it into the surrounding air.
The two tankards of bitter arrived.
“You said you had come here to see me, Mr Benson,” reminded Masters.
“Because last night I made some suggestions which probably amounted to accusations. I had not expected you, of course, so I had in no way prepared what I said to you then. I believed what I said to be true, and I still believe it to be true. But I was bothered lest I had been intemperate.”
“You began to think you had been surprised into making an unprepared statement and so had either misled me or been unjust to those whom we discussed.”
“You are an understanding man, Mr Masters. So you will appreciate that I was less than happy when I reviewed our conversation.”
“I cannot recall any time when, in my view, you overplayed what you had to say.”
“First off, I didn’t have to say very much of what I did say. And second, I felt I should have attempted to check my references.”
“I can only say I am pleased you spoke as you did. Had you been inhibited, your information would have been of far less use to me and the local police.”
“It’s kind of you to say so. Nevertheless, when you called this morning I was preparing to set out to do that which I should have done had I known you were intending to call on me last evening.”
“You were about to check your references?” asked Masters with a smile.
“Indeed. I said nothing to you about it at the time because I wanted to do my snooping first. If I confirmed that what I had said was not an exaggeration, so much the better. If I found I had gone over the score, I could then seek you out.”
“As you have done. Have you discovered that something you said may have been an exaggeration?”
“Far from it. I suspect I have not opened your eyes to all that is going on.”
“Ah! Do you wish to tell me now, or later? If now, I would like Green to hear it, too.”
“As you wish.”
“Why shouldn’t the three of us have lunch together? Or why not make it a foursome. Superintendent Frimley is the local man who will need to do the mopping up here after I and mine have gone.”
“Very well.”
With Benson’s consent, Masters beckoned Green over from where he was talking to Frimley.
“Greeny, Mr Benson has something he wishes to tell us. I think Frimley should hear it, too. Could you arrange for a table for the four of us in about ten minutes’ time and tell the other three to eat at another table?”
“Pleasure! Nice to see you, Mr Benson. I’ll have a word with you at lunch.”
Benson nodded, and as Green went away, said to Masters: “Did you find a gimmel flask at Mrs Horbium’s?”
“We did. All nice and dusty and unused for years. But a curious thing happened.”
“Really. Am I allowed to know what it was?”
“I was surprised to learn that Mrs Horbium, though merely a dilettante collector, was nevertheless unaware of the name gimmel flasks!”
“I must say, I’m a little surprised, too. But she is in no way an academic collector. By that I mean she does not study her subject, except perhaps superficially. She is like a natural singer who can make a passably pleasant sound as an amateur, and so is regarded as a singer, until she is compared with the trained professional. Then her defects become obvious. She is a hobbyist. Nothing more. A hobbyist with a certain amount of natural appreciation of the antique world.”
Masters nodded as if to say that Benson had fairly summed up his own opinion of Mrs Horbium’s expertise. Then he remarked: “But the curious thing I mentioned happened a moment later when, having said she did not know what a gimmel flask was, she qualified that by saying that the first time she had heard the word gimmel was several weeks ago. Then, as might be expected, she added how very funny it is that having heard a strange word once, one almost invariably heard it a second time shortly afterwards.”
“A common remark, but the experience has, nevertheless, happened to all of us in our time, and so we comment on the apparent coincidence, when what we should be acknowledging is that we have been more awake than usual and so have been more alive to the occurrence.”
Masters nodded again. “Of course the fact that gimmel flasks had been recently discussed in Limpid—by anybody—was of interest to me.”
“Naturally.”
“So I asked Mrs Horbium who had spoken to her about them the first time. And her reply was
that it was Lamont.”
Benson stared in near disbelief. “Now that really does surprise me. The man has no knowledge of and no feeling for the world of antiques. I say this with some certainty, because of late he has made several rather clumsy attempts to pump me on the subject. Indeed, I had come to the conclusion that he was intent upon making a killing in the market because he was in financial difficulties, and was hoping that somehow he might glean from me some hint or tit-bit of information which might enable him to do this.”
Masters signalled for more beer.
“You say you got that impression solely from his showing eagerness to make money in a sphere which he patently knew nothing about? Or were there other reasons which helped bring you to that conclusion?”
“It is always difficult to say with strict accuracy how, when and why an idea entered one’s head. But I must confess that I have no knowledge whatsoever of Lamont’s financial state.”
“But?”
The beer arrived. Benson waited until the barman was out of earshot before replying.
“One of the saddest things in life, to my way of thinking, is to see the man who has married fairly young and who then gets on in life—either financially or socially—outgrow his wife: leave her behind because she cannot keep up or, in some cases, actually grow ashamed of her.”
“You think that this is what has happened in Lamont’s case?”
Benson smoothed his grey hair with one hand, as though considering his reply, lest he be guilty of the hastiness he believed he might have shown the previous evening.
“I will not say so categorically. But I will give it as my opinion that this is so. Mrs Lamont had an animal attraction in her youth. She came from a home where her mother cared little and her father less. To survive she had to be strong and, I believe, physically proud. Does that term surprise you?”
“Not in the least. I would have called it physical arrogance, perhaps, but I recognise your description. I have never seen Mrs Lamont, but I feel I can visualise her. A strong body, marching proud, heels put down firmly, back straight, nose in the air, brows straight across the forehead. I’d guess at dark hair and a severish or simple line in clothes. How am I doing so far?”
The Gimmel Flask Page 11
