by Alan Hunter
‘You devil!’ the A.C. exclaimed.
‘In fact, we are Stoll’s dupes,’ Gently said. ‘We are playing his script for him. This is act one curtain. Next, we have to put the transgressors through hell.’
‘No!’ the A.C. exclaimed. ‘Enough, Gently!’
‘I admit, it’s circumstantial,’ Gently said. ‘But it fits as well as the other two theories, and it would save a packet of tax-payers’ money.’
The A.C. thumped his desk. ‘I said enough!’
‘That’s my provisional opinion,’ Gently said.
The A.C. put on his glasses, adjusted them, and treated Gently to a grade one stare.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right, Gently. Message received and understood. So we don’t know enough to start wildcat theories and to call in our oracle to adjudicate. But our oracle has been called in, and our oracle will duly apply himself. I want this little lot sorted out, preferably before the Sunday papers can get their hands on it. Is that clear?’
‘Clear,’ Gently said.
The A.C. gave him another stare. Lyons was examining his trousers. Metfield, pop-eyed, was blushing, aware of sudden thunder.
CHAPTER THREE
THE A.C. DISMISSED them, and switched his attention to a working lunch with a Cabinet Minister. Gently entertained his mice, town and country, in the canteen: the executive end.
Metfield, by now, was completely confused. His so-certain case seemed to have gone through the window. He sat silently masticating his New Scotland Yard viands, his flush continual and his gaze vacant.
Lyons, too, was far from chatty. He was a pale-complexioned young man with thin lips and precise sideburns. He was being tipped in Met quarters as a likely recruit for the Central Office – Gently rather hoped not; Lyons seemed to lack humour.
So the meal was on the quiet side, with no mention of the Stoll affair. Gently, as he had intended, had returned the case to square one. No more theories. The next step was to go digging. At this end, naturally; because this end was nearest to hand.
After lunch, he dismissed Metfield to pursue his bucolic inquiries at Latchford, and himself, with Lyons and a driver, battled through the traffic to Campden Hill.
The two flats, Stoll’s and Walling’s, were in Dorchester Road, at a polite distance from Kensington Church Street. It was a road of late Regency plaster-front terraces, still impressive, though London-seedy. The architects, alack, had known nothing of cars, or of their dire need to come to rest: along each broad pavement stretched a tightly-packed column, as yet unembarrassed by yellow lines. They were the usual democratic metropolitan sample, dusty Rolls by rusty Citroën, and exhibited the familiar aspect of being parked for ever, with half that period unexpired. Behind them the villas looked out sullenly, even though enlivened by fresh paint. A few scaling planes, with town-dusty foliage, sprouted irregularly from either pavement.
Gently’s driver cruised ever more slowly between the breechless ranks of abandoned cars, but in the end had to double-park – it was clearly the way of life, in Dorchester Road.
‘Shall we look over Stoll’s flat first, sir?’ Lyons asked.
Gently shook his head and indicated Walling’s. A pale ghost behind the net curtains had been watching the policemen alight below. Gently mounted some tiled steps and applied his thumb to an elaborate brass bell-push. Chimes sounded sleepily within. The door opened to reveal a slender young man.
‘Police. Is Mr Walling at home?’
The young man stared with unwinking, large eyes. He was dressed in faded skinfit jeans and a wine-coloured shirt, open down to the midriff. He had dark, shoulder-length hair and fine-boned features, with a small mouth and chin.
‘I don’t know. He may be,’ he said quickly.
‘What’s your name?’ Gently asked.
The young man’s stare was quite expressionless. ‘I’m Messiter,’ he said. ‘Mr Walling’s secretary.’
‘And you think he might be in?’
‘I don’t know. He may be.’
‘So you said before,’ Gently said. ‘Like that, we’ll just have to take a chance.’
He pushed in across the threshold, making Messiter give ground. The young man backed off agilely, then halted, in a cluttered hall.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to find him. Perhaps you’ll just wait here.’
‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘Please don’t be long.’
Messiter ducked through a curtain at the end of the hall.
Lyons closed the street door, and they waited. There was no sound from behind the curtain. A faint smell of incense hung about the hall, which was lit only by a fan-light over the street door. The walls were muffled with floral tapestry and vases and knick-knacks stood about on stands. A bundle of Polynesian spears, very ancient and dusty, were stuffed into an umbrella-stand near the door. An odd, over-filled place, somehow devoid of effective character.
The curtain twitched again: a man appeared; he came hesitatingly towards them. He was aged about fifty, of plump build, with a short neck and bowed shoulders. He was wearing a green silk smock and loose trousers that suggested a judo kit, and embroidered slippers. He had fluffy, greying hair, and his large features were netted with wrinkles, like crumpled brown paper.
‘Oscar Walling?’ Gently said.
‘Yes – yes!’ The man was smiling ingratiatingly. He had a reedy but cultivated voice and appealing pale blue eyes.
‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Gently. I’m investigating the death of Adrian Stoll.’
‘Yes – yes – poor Adrian! Yes, of course. I understand.’
He made a quick, dipping motion forward, and threw open a door to Gently’s left. Then he stood smiling and motioning them through, with soft white hands, on which rings glinted.
They entered a large, lofty room, with the same appearance of clutter as the hall outside. In the centre stood a huge, over-stuffed sofa, piled with tasselled cushions and books. A rosewood desk occupied one wall, and fitted bookcases two others; several outsize chairs, echoing the sofa, were disposed to monopolize the remaining floor-space. Then there was an infilling of stands and whatnots, bearing vases, figures and native carvings; and everywhere books, papers, periodicals and piles of sheet-music. Two standard lamps, with vast shades, presided over the collection. In the bay window stood a music-stand; a violin lay on a chair beside it.
Walling bobbed in after them and closed the door, which was heavy and lined with draught-excluder. He waved them to seats. Lyons ignored him. Gently perched on an arm of the giant sofa. Walling hesitated, smiling, then emptied a chair, and plumped down in it, his short legs dangling. He looked hopefully at Gently.
‘Yes – poor Adrian! Yes – I wish I could be of some help to you! But I’ve spoken to this other gentleman already. There is really nothing I can add.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ Gently said. ‘Have you been to your office today?’
‘M-my office?’
‘Torotours. 221B Hapsburgh Place.’
‘Torotours?’ Walling gazed at Gently, his smile flickering on and off. ‘Yes – yes – that’s my company – Torotours, in Hapsburgh Place.’
‘So have you been there today?’
‘Well – no – not today. I’m not personally engaged in running it, you know. I have a good manager – very good man.’
‘I think you should ring him,’ Gently said.
‘What – why?’ Walling’s eyes were dithering. ‘Why should I ring him?’
‘I think you should. Then we can get on with our little chat.’
Walling sat uncertainly for a moment, the smile leaking from his crumpled face; then he darted up, crossed to the desk, and dialled a number with a silver pencil.
‘Stella – hallo? Get me Parsons, darling.’ He shored his plump bottom on the desk. ‘Hullo? What? I want Parsons! You’re not Parsons. What? Who—?’
Slowly, the instrument sank from his ear and was dropped back unsteadily on its rest. He turned his face away fr
om the policemen.
‘Dear God. Oh, dear God.’
Gently was watching him. ‘Will that help your memory?’ Walling shook his fluffy head. His bowed shoulders were more deeply bowed; he looked like an old lady who had taken a cowardly blow in the wind.
‘But he said . . . he swore he would give me a chance!’
‘How long did you have to find the money?’
‘A week. He swore he wouldn’t . . .’
‘On Thursday, was that?’
Walling hugged himself, groaning.
Gently pulled the Sekurit report from his pocket. ‘Then of course, you’ve seen this before?’
Walling turned, fearfully; he flinched. His seamed features looked blurred, ill.
‘B-but we were friends!’ he stammered. ‘Friends. I’d always found him backing . . . always. I used to stay with him, travel with him – he was the closest friend I had! And there was Nina . . . he loved Nina. How could he do this thing to me?’
‘You took his money,’ Gently said.
Walling’s hands waved anguishedly. ‘But that was just figures! I’m a man of figures – making figures work for people is my business. I had to make the figures right for his musical – that was Nina’s big chance, too. And who was taking the risk? It wasn’t Adrian! I had still to produce figures for him, based on Torotours.’
‘All the same, you were deceiving him.’
‘Couldn’t he have trusted me?’
‘Not after Chairoplanes flopped, I imagine. Then all you had going for you was Torotours, and this report showed him what that was worth.’
‘But if he’d just kept calm! I could have made it come right.’
Gently shook his head. ‘Torotours was doomed.’
‘No, I could have sacked the manager and put things right if only he hadn’t shown you that meddlesome report!’
Gently fanned himself with the report. ‘He didn’t,’ he said. Walling’s pale eyes jumped. ‘He didn’t?’
‘No. We found this in his flat. Stoll kept his word; he didn’t shop you.’
‘B-but—!’ Walling jerked off the desk and stood staring at Gently, his eyes wild. Then, with a moan, he dropped into the desk-chair. He covered his face.
‘I want my lawyer,’ he said.
A knock sounded at the door, and Messiter entered. His unwavering eyes took in the scene. He crossed silently to the desk and straightened the telephone, which Walling had replaced askew. He stood before Walling.
‘Did you call me, sir?’
Walling’s hands dropped from his face. He was trembling. He stared up at Messiter with a haggard, unfocusing expression.
‘No – no. I didn’t call.’
‘I wondered if you wished me to telephone.’
Walling shook his head.
‘I was about to bring you a drink, sir. Perhaps you would like me to fetch it now.’
Walling said nothing; Gently said nothing. Messiter left and returned with a brandy. He stood by obstinately while Walling sipped it, then collected the glass and retired. Walling looked less grey now. He had ceased to tremble, and his eyes had lost their muzziness.
‘That was a trick, Superintendent,’ he said, thickly. ‘You trapped me into making those admissions.’
Gently shrugged. ‘Nothing I can’t prove. And it saved us time at the outset.’
‘I needn’t have admitted all that about Adrian.’
‘You would have to have done, sooner or later. Stoll didn’t commission Sekurit for kicks. Once he’d seen this report, he’d have been after you.’
‘But you couldn’t prove that!’
‘Didn’t he show you the report?’
‘He . . . I . . . !’ Walling faltered wretchedly.
‘So your dabs are on it,’ Gently lied. ‘Why do you have to make us work for it?’
Walling ran fingers through his wool-like hair. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I didn’t kill him. All the rest, I admit that. But I didn’t kill him. Please believe me!’
‘Then what were you going to do?’ Gently said.
‘I was going to pay him back his money.’
‘The whole fifty thousand?’
‘Yes – yes! Though perhaps not all of it, not within a week.’
‘Within how long?’
‘I don’t know!’ Walling moaned. ‘It’s a matter of figures, it takes time. But a percentage, yes, I would have found him that, and Adrian wouldn’t have gone back on me.’
‘Didn’t he mean a week when he said a week?’
‘Yes – of course – but he was angry.’
‘You thought you could get round him.’
‘Yes – a percentage! Believe me, it would have been all right.’
Gently slowly shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t have been all right. Stoll wanted his money, not a percentage, not a Houdini stunt with figures. You could trust him, maybe, to sit on the report till the time limit was up, but after that he was going to act, and there was only one way to stop him.’
‘Please, no!’ Walling wailed. ‘How can you say that, when you didn’t know him?’
Gently grunted. ‘You knew him. And you were ready to believe he’d broken his word.’
‘But you tricked me into it!’
‘You still believed it. Stoll’s word wasn’t to be trusted. And you couldn’t find the money anyway. So how else was the plot going to end?’
Walling raked at his hair again. His wrinkled face looked clownishly woebegone. His short legs hung down pathetically, the feet barely touching the carpet. He gulped a breath.
‘How could it have been me, when I was at Brighton the whole weekend?’
‘At Brighton?’
Walling winced, and threw an apprehensive look towards the door.
‘I drove down after breakfast on Saturday. I didn’t arrive back till late on Sunday. Please, that’s the truth – Nigel can verify the times.’
‘Didn’t he go with you?’
‘No – no. This was a little trip on my own. Adrian had upset me very much, you know, and I wanted a quiet weekend to soothe me down.’
‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘All on your own. And of course, you can tell us where you stayed.’
Walling cast another look at the door. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. It’s just a little place I know.’
‘Then suppose you let us know it, too.’
‘Well, it’s a small place – very small.’
‘Too small to have an address?’
‘No – no!’ Walling swallowed. ‘It’s just – private. That’s all!’
He stared appealingly at Gently, who returned the stare stonily. Hastily Walling grabbed a pad and ballpen from the desk and scribbled something down. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Gently. It read:
‘Vivian Chance, Flat 3, Kyles Court.
PLEASE don’t mention in front of NIGEL!!!’
Silently, Gently passed the sheet to Lyons, who glanced at it, then tucked it away in his wallet. Walling watched them eagerly, his pale eyes pleading.
‘So you are known at this – small place?’ Gently said.
‘Yes—yes. You’ve only to ask.’
‘You met several people who could identify you?’
Walling’s hand fluttered. ‘Well . . . the one.’
‘Just . . . the one?’
‘I-I didn’t go out much! I went down to soothe my nerves, you know. To relax. The sea air. This p-place has a marine view.’
‘And you think we’re going to swallow that?’
‘But please—it’s true! Nigel will tell you when I was away. And you can inquire at the—the hotel. Please! The m-m-manager will give his word!’
Lyons said casually: ‘I think it stinks.’
‘Oh, dear God!’ Walling wailed.
‘I don’t think the manager’s word is going to help much,’ Gently said. ‘The way you are placed, it will take more than that. Somebody followed Stoll out to the forest. Somebody put him to sleep for good. Somebody with a very str
ong reason. And we have one man’s word that you were in Brighton.’
‘It isn’t going to stand up,’ Lyons drawled.
‘It certainly won’t convince a jury,’ Gently said. ‘I don’t know what the Fraud Squad have in mind for you, but I think they’re probably wasting their time.’
Walling dragged agonizedly on his hair. ‘No!’ he cried, his reedy voice hitting sudden falsetto. ‘You can’t believe that – it’s too completely incredible! I would never have dreamed of killing Adrian.’
‘Then who would?’ Lyons asked boredly.
‘Who—who? There’s Maryon Britton! She had reason enough, hadn’t she? And she was on the spot, too.’
Gently gazed at him. ‘Did she have reason?’
‘Yes. Yes! He was going to ditch her. And he was going to change his will, cut her out. None of that crowd was getting a penny!’
‘And you knew that?’
Walling faltered. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes, I knew it.’
‘How, Mr Walling?’
Walling swallowed. ‘I was there when they had the row.’
Gently gazed at him a while longer, then began deliberately filling his pipe. Walling was trembling again; there was a tremble or tic at the corner of his mouth. Gently lit the pipe and looked round for an ashtray. Walling bobbed to his feet and fetched one. His eyes avoided Gently’s. He plumped down again; his mouth was still twitching.
Gently puffed. ‘When?’
Walling looked sulky. ‘The weekend before last.’
‘When you went down with Stoll?’
Walling nodded. ‘We were old friends. He often invited me.’
‘What happened?’
‘This row blew up. Adrian saw Keynes kissing Maryon. Not that there was anything special about that, because Adrian had known about it for a long time. But perhaps he hadn’t actually seen them kissing before – or perhaps he just wanted an occasion for the row.’
‘Was it a violent row?’
‘There was plenty said. It didn’t come to physical violence. They knew all about my daughter, of course, and that made splendid ammunition. Adrian didn’t show up very well, though naturally he held the whip-hand. I was horribly infra dig. They practically accused me of pimping my own daughter.’
