Gently with the Ladies

by Alan Hunter

  Brenda Merryn gazed at her. For once she seemed nonplussed. She turned to catch Gently’s eye.

  ‘George,’ she said. ‘There’s something funny about this and I’m not certain what it is.’

  ‘Mademoiselle, you were here,’ Albertine wailed.

  ‘Yes. But where was it you saw me?’

  ‘It is when I am on the landing downstairs, Mademoiselle. I see you through the doors, going up.’

  ‘You were on the landing outside Madame’s flat.’

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle. It is true.’

  Brenda Merryn shook her head. ‘That’s just the point. It isn’t true. You didn’t see me.’

  ‘She’s lying, of course,’ Mrs Bannister sneered. ‘Why wouldn’t she lie in this situation? It is her word against Albertine’s; but I assure you Albertine is commonly truthful.’

  ‘Yes, but I can prove it,’ Brenda Merryn said. ‘Or rather, you can prove it for me, Sybil. Because though you didn’t see me on Monday I saw you. I was careful to check I wasn’t seen from your landing.’

  ‘You would not have seen me on the landing.’

  Brenda Merryn nodded. ‘And what you were doing.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You were feeding crumbs from the table to the goldfish in the illuminated basin. And you were alone.’

  Mrs Bannister’s eyes flicked wider. ‘I . . . yes, I did feed the goldfish.’

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘Yes. I was alone.’

  ‘Which is what is so funny,’ Brenda Merryn said. ‘Albertine didn’t see me. You didn’t see me. I’ll take my oath nobody else saw me. Yet Albertine knew I was here.

  ‘Albertine . . .’

  Mrs Bannister turned sharply. Albertine’s hand had flown to her mouth. The staring look she’d had on the ledge had come again into her eyes.

  ‘But if she didn’t see me, and still knew, then she must have heard me,’ Brenda Merryn said. ‘And she couldn’t have heard me from below, so she must have been up here. Mustn’t she?’

  Albertine whimpered. It was the only sound to be heard in the lounge which, in spite of the labouring Belling, seemed of a sudden extra chilly. Everyone looked at her. She stood shaking, her hand still near her mouth, her eyes rolling like an idiot’s, her bosom heaving silently. She made no effort to say anything. The little whimper was all. She stood defenceless and as it were naked, under the weight of their eyes. Then Mrs Bannister snapped something in French. And Albertine began blurting her head off.

  She was using French, and it was much too fast and idiomatic for Gently to follow. She had fallen on her knees before Mrs Bannister and was passionately wringing her hands as the words poured from her. Mrs Bannister apparently understood. She interposed short stabbing questions. She was very pale. At one moment she closed her eyes as though in pain.

  Gently looked at Reynolds, who was staring furiously, but he only shook his head. Fazakerly however was straining forward and seemed to be gathering a little of what was said. He was frowning and clenching and unclenching his fists. At last he flung himself on the settee.

  ‘The poor bloody bitch!’ he exclaimed. ‘No, no, you can’t send the poor whore up for that.’

  ‘For what?’ Gently said.

  ‘Sybil’ll tell you. Oh hell. It breaks your heart.’

  He sat punching his fists together and scowling at the carpet.

  Albertine finished. She sank on the floor, moaning and giving little shudders. Mrs Bannister, her face white, found a chair and sat. She looked pitifully at Gently.

  ‘Did you understand?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose I must tell you. Though it isn’t very pretty.’

  ‘I understood,’ Brenda Merryn said. ‘If you like I’ll tell him, Sybil.’

  Mrs Bannister looked at Brenda Merryn. Her hand lifted and fell.

  ‘I think I’ve got it right,’ Brenda Merryn said. ‘Albertine had a weakness for jewellery, isn’t that so?’

  Mrs Bannister nodded. ‘She sometimes borrows it. She doesn’t steal it, it always comes back.’

  ‘She knew Clytie was lunching with you on Monday and that Clytie never locked her door, so she made an excuse to her friend and slipped back to borrow some ear-rings for a dance they were going to. Then she saw the necklace and thought she’d have that. But Clytie came back and she had to hide. She had to stay there while I was with Clytie and until after the row, when Siggy had left. Then she tried to slip out and Clytie caught her. Clytie knew about Albertine’s weakness. She made Albertine turn out her bag and there were the necklace and the ear-rings. She threatened Albertine; either Albertine did what she wanted, or Clytie would have her arrested. She forced Albertine down on the settee with her. Albertine saw the pin. She got it. She hit Clytie.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand her dirty tricks,’ Albertine wailed. ‘I am decent, Monsieur. I pulled down the little silver rolling-pin and I made her a good woman.’

  Brenda Merryn nodded. ‘That’s about it. She made Clytie a good woman.’

  Half-an-hour later they had everything: the ear-rings, also recovered from the dustbin; a dress, blood-spotted on the front and sleeves; and a pair of blood-spotted gloves. The dress and gloves were found stuffed into a shoe-box and hidden behind Albertine’s wardrobe. She had intended putting them in the furnace downstairs but had been prevented by the presence of Dobson. The ear-rings were paste and of small value. Because they were wrapped in tissue Dobson had missed them.

  ‘What’ll happen to her?’ Fazakerly asked Gently, as they watched Albertine being taken to the lift.

  Gently shrugged massively. ‘Probably not much. Nobody’ll want to throw the book at her.’

  ‘Would it help if I briefed a top counsel.’

  ‘It might help you feel better. It’s not necessary.’

  ‘You’re a cynical so-and-so, Monsieur.’

  ‘Just answering a question,’ Gently grunted.

  Fazakerly went. Sarah Johnson went after him, though he pretended not to notice her. Mrs Bannister, still looking ghostlike, retired into her flat and bolted the door. Brenda Merryn was left. She came up to Gently. They were on the landing outside the Bannister flat. She stood in front of him, looking up, her face slack, her eyes weary.

  She gave a little sigh. ‘All over, George.’

  Gently didn’t say anything. Her face was ugly with blotched make-up and there was grime on her chin.

  ‘Is it always like this at the end – just feeling empty and dragged to death?’

  ‘Is that how you feel?’

  ‘Don’t you? As though none of it mattered a damn anyway.’ She let her head lean to one side. ‘But perhaps it’s different for you,’ she said. ‘You see it professionally. It’s a job done. You don’t let your feelings get involved with it. You’re like a surgeon who amputates then washes his hands and goes to tea.’

  ‘Do you know how a surgeon feels?’ Gently said.

  ‘No George. Only how I feel. Empty, hopeless and lost. Ready to get on the ledge again. Because that wasn’t entirely a fake George, I don’t have a lot to keep me here. I didn’t before, and I’ve less now, and I’ll be forty next year. Clytie’s gone. Siggy. Sybil. And here’s the surgeon removing his gloves.’

  Her eyes filmed and her mouth trembled. Her blotchy face swam close to his. Then the sharp sound of a slap rang out and she stumbled backwards, holding her cheek.

  ‘You devil! What was that for?’

  Gently smiled at her. ‘Surgery.’

  ‘My God, you’re brutal!’

  ‘Did you say your car was here? We left mine at the station.’

  They went down together in the lift. Reynolds had drawn off the reporters in his departing. Bland Street was empty again; nothing of the tumult remained except a coil of rope lying by the steps.

  Brenda Merryn unlocked the 1100 and they climbed in. Gently opened the glove-box. It contained no letter. Brenda Merryn looked straight ahead and started the engine and waited.

  ‘Where to?
’

  ‘Somewhere quiet for lunch.’

  She trilled the engine once or twice.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I work for a living. And you’ll make your apologies and take the evening surgery.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘When do you finish?’

  ‘This is Friday. Say seven.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up for a bite in town. Will that do?’

  She sighed. ‘Perhaps.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HE MET FAZAKERLY again a week later, when he accepted an invitation from him to lunch. It was at the Coq d’Or. It was a very good lunch though it may be less good than the prices on the menu would have led one to expect. Fazakerly was thoughtful. He had been at the Magistrate’s hearing and had undertaken to pay for Albertine’s defence. He had since had a session with her counsel which had not entirely convinced him she would get off with a light sentence. He wanted to talk about it and to extract a favourable opinion from Gently.

  They went into a lounge for their coffee. It was not the lounge where they had met on the previous occasion but a smaller and more intimate room with deep chairs and low tables. The walls were decorated with maroon panels with a golden cock in the centre of each and the full-length velvet curtains were embroidered with cocks in gold wire near the foot. Coffee was served scalding hot. Fazakerly ordered cigars. For some minutes they sat comfortably sipping and smoking and lulled by the soft buzz of conversation.

  Fazakerly said: ‘You know, I was right in coming to you, even though you wouldn’t believe I was innocent. I knew my man. I was a bit of a tick, but I was sure if I involved you in it I would come through. I was innocent, and it had to show up. All I needed was a grain of scepticism.’

  ‘I wasn’t necessary,’ Gently said. ‘Reynolds would have got there just the same. Albertine would have seen to that. Perhaps I saved you the unpleasantness of being charged.’

  ‘For which I’m properly grateful, Monsieur. On reflection, I don’t think prison life would have suited me. One gets these notions at odd times but they don’t seem to bear the light of day.’

  ‘What are you proposing to do?’ Gently asked.

  ‘First, see Albertine off the hook. And what I haven’t told you is I have a partner in it. Sybil. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. You have an eye for tattered humanity. Well, she’s going halves in the expense. She’d have probably paid the lot.’

  ‘And after the trial?’

  ‘A long holiday. I think I’m dragged with too many women. I want to cut free of them for one while until my perspective returns.’

  Gently sipped his coffee. ‘What about Sarah Johnson.’

  Fazakerly tilted a shoulder. ‘Nothing about her.’

  ‘She loves you.’

  ‘Possibly. The love of a woman.’

  ‘What else can she offer?’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  He puffed his cigar and looked quizzically at Gently.

  ‘Monsieur is a bachelor,’ he said. ‘Let him listen to Benedick the Married Man while he imparts true wisdom. A woman’s love isn’t for you. A woman’s love isn’t for marriage. A woman’s love isn’t even directed to biological ends. A woman’s love is for herself. She’s a hard core of primitive egoism elegantly dressed in hypocrisy, and unless you remember that hard core she’ll always be a mystery to you.’

  Gently smiled. ‘Perhaps you need that holiday.’

  ‘Oh I need it. I’m pretty sour. Just now I’m all for the Greek attitude to women: a slave at home and a whore abroad.’

  ‘Second-class citizens.’

  ‘Even lower. They’re distant a thousand incarnations.’

  ‘It may be because of that they need men.’

  ‘Yes. To eat. They live off us.’

  He puffed the cigar hard, making a heavy cloud between them. His mouth had a bitter set and his eyes were small and remote.

  ‘Where will you go?’ Gently said.

  Fazakerly’s face relaxed. ‘Everywhere. There’s a Hillyard twelve-tonner I’ve got my eye on. She’ll do. She’s my hand.’

  ‘You’ll go sailing?’

  ‘What else? It’s the one antidote to illusion. When your world goes awry there’s always a yacht and sea to sail her on. Each time you putter out into the estuary you’re starting the Grand Voyage. It may be only to the Point. It may be over the edge of the world.’

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘Alone. If that’s what you call it. But one isn’t really alone, you know. You’re lonelier here in this damned city than you’ll ever be with a sheet in your hand.’

  ‘I thought you might take Sarah Johnson with you.’

  ‘By God, you’ll never understand.’

  ‘The trial won’t be for three months yet. Give me a ring before you set sail.’

  Fazakerly shook his head. Gently finished his coffee, stubbed his cigar and went.

  Brenda Merryn’s opinion had been that Sarah Johnson would be back in favour within a fortnight.

  Albertine’s trial was interesting. She had been charged with murder committed in the course of a felony, but her counsel submitted that the killing and the (without prejudice) felony constituted separate acts. This was accepted. Counsel then submitted that the killing was justifiable homicide and that the (without prejudice) felony was supposititious and incapable of proof. The first contention was accepted. The felony remained on the indictment. She was found guilty, but her sentence was commuted to deportation and she was returned to her own country. Though perhaps not to Illiers.

  Norwich, 1964/5