Gently with the Ladies

by Alan Hunter

  ‘She couldn’t have found something, perhaps – say some letters from Miss Johnson?’

  ‘Sarah never wrote me letters. I used to ring her each day.’

  ‘You can’t explain it?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’d like you to think back very carefully.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s no use.’

  ‘What I want you to remember is whether you and your wife were certainly alone in the flat.’

  Fazakerly’s mouth opened, then he hesitated. He gave Gently a quick look. ‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘It’s just possible you’ve put your finger on it there. I’ve gone over that scene a hundred times and each time it bothered me somehow. It may be you’ve found the answer. Though I didn’t hear or see anyone.’

  ‘Did you notice if any doors were open?’

  ‘The door of the lounge, that was open. I dumped my kit in the hall and went straight in to get a drink.’

  ‘Was that the only room you visited?’

  ‘Yes. And I never got the drink.’

  ‘What was your wife doing?’

  ‘Just sitting.’

  ‘With a cigarette?’

  ‘She didn’t smoke.’

  He slapped his forehead. ‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘She didn’t smoke – never has done. But the room was smoky when I went in. Somebody was there, or had been there.’

  ‘It’s a thin clue,’ Gently grunted.

  ‘But I noticed – I was going to make a remark. Then she started on me and I forgot it. It’s bloody true – can’t you believe me?’

  ‘Who did you think might have been there?’

  ‘Sybil of course. Who else?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘Well I thought Sybil. And that’s the reason for her going at me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t natural, not her threatening me about Sarah. I’ve had women all over the option and Clytie didn’t care a damn. But suppose it was Sybil put her up to it – she hates my guts, you know that? – and suppose she was listening round the corner: then it begins to make sense. Clytie was laying on an act. She was showing Sybil how she could handle me, how I’d jump when she cracked the whip, even give up the woman I was mad about. Oh yes, it falls together all right. Put Sybil in there and it clicks.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually see Sybil.’

  ‘Who the devil else could it have been?’

  ‘Another smoker.’

  ‘It took Sybil. She’s the only one Clytie would want to impress.’

  ‘And then, of course, after you’d left . . .’

  ‘She killed her. That has to follow. I know it’s illogical as hell, but it’s the way it must have been.’

  Gently frowned at Fazakerly’s cigarette, which was burning unnoticed between his fingers.

  ‘You know about the wills?’ he asked.

  ‘I do now, but I didn’t when I made my statement.’

  ‘Would you say there was a motive there?’

  Fazakerly flicked the cigarette. ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It would wrap it up for you nicely. But no, I can’t suspect Sybil of that, malignant bitch though she is.’

  ‘Your wife was worth a lot of money.’

  ‘But Sybil’s worth a lot more. And honestly, I have to say this, Sybil doesn’t have a passion for the stuff.’

  ‘So why should she want to kill your wife?’

  ‘She wouldn’t. I’ve said so all along.’

  ‘But now you’re suggesting that she did.’

  Fazakerly slowly shook his head.

  ‘Tell me about your wife and Mrs Bannister,’ Gently said. ‘What sort of relation was it they had: who was the dominant one, for instance, who used to lay down the law.’

  ‘Have you talked to La Bannister?’

  Gently nodded.

  ‘Well, you may have got the wrong impression. She was the masculine element all right, but she never dominated Clytie. Clytie always had the edge. She could make Sybil shrivel up. She liked Sybil to wear the jack-boots because it titillated her, but she always had Sybil under control.’

  Was your wife masochistic?’

  ‘When it suited. She was anything that gave her an emotional kick. That was her preoccupation in life, raising a high emotional head of steam. Sybil was really a foil for Clytie, though it seemed to be Sybil who made the running. Sybil is a sadist, period. Twisting the knife gives her a thrill.’

  ‘Was she jealous of your wife?’

  ‘That’s an understatement. They’re worse than men, you know, are Lesbians.’

  ‘And your wife of her?’

  ‘Clytie too. They nearly broke up over one of the girls.’

  He sent a curious look at Gently.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about?’ he said. ‘A pair like La Bannister and my wife always have a third girl in tow. She’d be a mannequin, probably, or some hanger-on in that racket. You’d be surprised if you knew the extent of the Lesbian colony in London. Well, these girls come and go. They’re just to freshen-up the scene. But Sybil got stuck on one once, and then the fur began to fly. She worked for a fashion magazine, this girl, and Clytie pulled some dirty tricks on her; she lost her job and her reputation. She was sunk without trace.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Oh . . . Beryl something.’

  ‘Beryl Rogers?’

  ‘That could be it.’ His eyes opened a little wider. ‘You do your homework, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Gently asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. She ceased to be.’

  ‘What magazine was she on?’

  Fazakerly’s hand jerked a gesture.

  ‘You see, I wasn’t much around when the girls were in session. As the joker said, things like that can harm a young lad. I’d be out on the town following my own sexual pattern, which was probably no nicer though more socially acceptable. So I never met Beryl Rogers.’

  ‘But she was dropped by Mrs Bannister.’

  ‘Naturally. Her name was never mentioned again.’

  ‘And it was the only trouble of that kind.’

  ‘After that the girls were strictly temporary. Apart from Albertine, of course, who was a hired hand and didn’t count.’

  Gently silently nodded. Fazakerly dipped his cigarette in an ashtray.

  ‘But this half-sister,’ Gently mused, ‘where does she come into it?’

  ‘Brenda Merryn?’

  ‘Brenda Merryn.’

  Fazakerly went on tamping out the cigarette-end. At last he said.

  ‘She was my little comfort. I slept with her more than with anyone.’

  He ground the butt to pieces methodically, spreading shreds of tobacco over the ashtray. Then without looking at Gently he continued:

  ‘Brenda was sorry for me, that’s about it. I was such a weak and depraved devil, without a friend to my name, and no more backbone than a tadpole. So Brenda Merryn took pity on me.’

  ‘Did your wife know that?’

  ‘She either knew or suspected. She flung it up at me a few times when she wanted to be catty. But Brenda still used to call round, Clytie never made an issue of it. She’d no use for me herself and Brenda was welcome to her leavings. In fact, Brenda was always welcome to the leavings. Clytie used to pass on surplus clothes to her. I figured in about the same category, some evening wear she’d got tired of.’

  ‘How long was Miss Merryn your mistress?’

  ‘Several years, off and on. But I never thought of her as my mistress. She was more like a sister with sex added.’

  ‘You trusted her.’

  ‘I could talk to her. She had no illusions about Clytie.’

  ‘She was on good terms with your wife.’

  ‘I suppose you could say that, in a poor-relation sort of way. She’s’ – he rocked his shoulders – ‘she’s a bit of a deep one. You always wonder about Brenda. I could never feel I was very close to her, though she was always on my
side. That’s what I mean when I say she was like a sister. She’s family, but on her own.’

  ‘Could you discuss your other affairs with her?’

  ‘Why not? They were only a giggle.’

  ‘You told her of Miss Johnson?’

  ‘She knew about Sarah. Though I didn’t blab too much in her case. Sarah is different, she’s rather special; she’s the woman I ought to have married. I suppose you always find them too late: that’s the failing of monogamy.’

  ‘And what was your answer to have been?’

  Fazakerly shrugged. ‘The bum’s answer. Doing nothing, living along with it. Till she got fed up and dropped me.’ His eye caught Gently’s. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘for the last time – can’t you see it? I don’t give a damn what happens to me, but I’d like just one person to understand. I didn’t kill Clytie. It’s out of character. There’s not enough bounce in me to do it. I’d just have toed the line and given up Sarah and boozed and slept it off with Brenda. That’s me. I’m predictable. The bum line is my line.’

  Gently nodded. ‘Yes . . . predictable. People would know how you’d take it.’

  ‘Ask anyone – even La Bannister. I haven’t faced up to a problem for years. I know you can argue that I’m a weakling and that this is a weakling’s way out, but I’m not just weak: I’m a bum too. That’s the middle and crux of the business.’

  ‘You’d have given her up and cried with Brenda.’

  ‘Yes. Except I wouldn’t have cried. And then I’d have settled to the round again, a naughty boy with his knuckles rapped.’

  ‘And into this predictable pattern, you’re saying . . .’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m taking it back. I can’t believe such a thing of Sybil any more than I can of myself.’

  ‘But that cigarette smoke was a fact?’

  ‘So Sybil had been there. But she didn’t do it.’

  ‘Somebody did.’

  ‘Put it down to a burglar.’

  Gently stared at him and shook his head.

  Fazakerly leaned back and sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Have it your way. It probably makes the most sense, and it might as well be me who takes the rap. At least I’m getting something out of it. I’ve sloughed my old bumming skin. I’ll be an aristocrat where I’m going: it’s a sort of spiritual rags to riches.’

  ‘And that’s all you can say about it?’

  ‘Yes. Stop wasting your time with me.’

  ‘You could confess.’

  ‘I could spit. But just now I haven’t the energy.’

  He gave Gently a hard look, and Gently grunted and rang the bell. He shoved his chair back and got up. Fazakerly followed him with his eyes. Then, when Gently had reached the door, he said:

  ‘Will you be seeing Sarah at all?’

  Gently stopped. ‘And if I do?’

  ‘Tell her I’m sorry. That’s all.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  AFTER GREENWICH IT was a pretty smooth run through to Rochester, with the Sceptre slipping along at seventy for much of the way. The drive was soothing. Gently hadn’t been out of town for a month, and the soft boom of the Rootes engine seemed to relax a tension. He was driving off the top and enjoying the sensation. Perhaps, except for the promise of this jaunt, he wouldn’t have bothered about Sarah Johnson. At one moment was balanced in his mind the drab rush-hour plod home to Finchley and the straight stretches of the A2; and the A2 had won. And he was glad. The Sceptre felt good. It was handling like a surgical instrument. For a while it was even pushing to a distance the nagging conviction that he was making a fool of himself over Fazakerly . . .

  Limit signs sprang upon him and he let the engine pull his speed down. The Sceptre crept through Strood and across the dull flood of the Medway. He turned down through the traffic about the Castle into the quieter waters of the Esplanade, and then left into a cul-de-sac bearing the name Vosper Gardens. He drove along it. Vosper Gardens was a road of slightly shabby detached houses. They were mid-Victorian in character and peered shyly from among mature trees and tall shrubs. At the top however, standing flush to the pavement, was a building which once perhaps had been a coach-house, a barn-shaped structure of red brick with a high roof of blue-black pantiles. It was presumably still in use as a store or garage, but at one end were two casement windows and a door. Gently coasted the Sceptre up to it and parked. At the slam of his door, pigeons rose.

  He rang. There was movement inside but his ring was not directly answered. He had time to study the splines and bolt-heads of the door and the name, Parson’s Mews, painted across it. Then the wrought-iron handle turned squeakily and he was faced by a brunette of about thirty.

  ‘Miss Johnson?’

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Gently. May I come in?’

  Her face was pale and she stared uncertainly at him. No doubt he was not very welcome.

  ‘It’s . . . Johnny, of course?’

  ‘Yes, John Fazakerly. I’ve just come away from talking with him.’

  ‘Oh. He wouldn’t – he didn’t send a message?’

  ‘A short message. Shall we go in?’

  She stood aside from the door and admitted him to a little tiled hall. Then she opened a second door and they passed into a small sitting-room. It was a dull, ill-lighted room with few concessions to decoration; a framed Renoir print hung opposite the window and an Egyptian tapestry on another wall. A mahogany dining-table, too large for the room, was pushed up close to the window, and on it were spread the panels of a knitted garment and a paper covered with lines of pencilled figures. A painted book-case stuffed with paperbacks gave colour to a dark corner, and some miscellaneous chairs and a cottage settee made up the remainder of the furniture. It was dull; yet unexpectedly, it added up to something agreeable.

  Sarah Johnson pointed to the table. ‘I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,’ she said. ‘I was busy codifying a pattern. It’s the way I make a living.’

  Gently picked up one of the panels. ‘You design these things?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it sound improbable? But yes, I design them. That’s a mohair bolero for the winter collection.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope my customer thinks the same.’

  ‘Who buys them from you?’

  ‘Oh, mostly wool manufacturers. And I sell them to magazines, too.’

  She was flushing. She turned away to straighten some items on the table, a pencil, a steel rule, a rounded block of india-rubber. She was slim in stretch slacks and an exquisitely-knitted sweater and her hair, which had a natural wave, swung forward about her face as she stooped.

  ‘But . . . about Johnny. Oh, please sit down!’

  She swept some papers from an easy-chair. Her movements were quick and she wafted a sweet, fur-like odour from her person.

  ‘I mean, is he all right? One hears so much . . .’

  ‘He was quite cheerful when I left him.’

  ‘It’s so terrible. Do sit down! I feel I should be there trying to help him.’

  Gently sat in the easy-chair and Miss Johnson perched on an arm of the cottage settee. It may have been accidental, but her face was turned from the direct light of the window. She had an oval face, slightly pointed, with a shapely nose and a small mouth, and her hands, clasped about her knee, were long-fingered with revealed bones.

  ‘Are you . . . the other man was only a sergeant.’

  ‘I’m not in charge of the case,’ Gently said.

  ‘But they’ve called you in.’

  ‘Not even that. In fact, we’re pretty well on the same side.’

  ‘I don’t understand!’

  ‘Fazakerly came to me. My job is at New Scotland Yard. He turned himself in there this morning. He’s a distant relative by marriage.’

  ‘Related to you?’

  ‘To my brother-in-law. I did meet him once, years ago.’

  ‘Then you’re – actually – helping him?’

  Gen
tly hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m looking after his interests, you can say that. But don’t misunderstand me, Miss Johnson, I’m not convinced of his innocence. And if I can help the prosecution to make their case, I’ll be in duty bound to do it.’

  Her eyes widened in the shadow. ‘But,’ she cried, ‘he is innocent! You must know that if you’ve talked to him. Johnny wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘There’s always a first time, Miss Johnson.’

  ‘Not with Johnny. It’s not possible.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t altogether know him.’

  ‘Oh, I do. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Still, I’m not convinced myself, and I must make that plain. I’m willing to help him where I can, but first of all I’m a policeman.’

  She slowly shook her head at him. ‘Then you’re doing nothing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t believe him you won’t help him. No, that’s too much to expect. But he didn’t do it for all that. I know, and nothing you say can alter it. It’s his rotten wife who’s at the bottom of it – I don’t know how, but she is.’

  ‘She didn’t kill herself, Miss Johnson.’

  ‘It was her rottenness that brought it about.’

  ‘I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Her utter vileness. She was a devil. She deserved everything.’

  ‘You knew her, then?’

  ‘I? No! She never set foot in Rochester.’

  ‘But you’d come into London, wouldn’t you. To meet your editors, that sort of thing?’

  Her hair swung. ‘Yes, I do. But they’re in the Street, not in Chelsea. Oh no, I heard all about her from Johnny: and that was enough, I can tell you.’

  ‘Johnny may have been prejudiced.’

  She twisted contemptuously. ‘It’s easy enough to say that. But you had only to see what she’d done to him to know what sort of a depraved bitch she was. Because Johnny’s decent, that’s the tragedy. He isn’t what he’d have you believe. He’s just been treated so badly so long that he’s come to believe he’s rotten himself. But I know him, and it’s not so. And if you’d any perception you’d know it too. It’s worse, it’s the other way round, he’s so damned nice at the bottom of him. The times are he’s made me feel humble, he’s basically more decent than I could ever be.’

  ‘Yet you turned him down on Monday.’