by Alan Hunter
Metfield took some paces up and down. ‘Look, sir, I know he’s our chummie!’ he said. ‘I don’t know how he managed to pull it, but that was the killer who just walked out of here. You could smell him. It was like a bad odour. I had to stop myself knocking him off that chair. You could see him doing it again, any time, and figuring he was that much smarter than the rest of us.’
Gently nodded. ‘The Devil’s disciple.’
‘The Devil himself!’ Metfield exclaimed.
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘The Devil I met. He had an appointment with the Gallows Tree, thirteen years back. But he had the same black charisma about him, except that in his case it was original. Webster’s is borrowed. Perhaps that’s the reason why he is less likeable than Deeming.’
‘But he’s our chummie,’ Metfield said. ‘You know he is.’
Gently twitched a shoulder. ‘One chummie,’ he said. ‘There has to be two. The inspiration was Webster’s, but apparently his wasn’t the hand on the gas bottle.’
Metfield hung on, his eyes rounding. ‘You don’t think that Miss Walling—?’
Gently shook his head. ‘Miss Walling is a chilly and perhaps a callous customer, but I don’t quite see her as a killer. In any case, she had less opportunity. She would have had to evade Walling’s manservant. Also she would be fatigued after two Saturday performances: on the whole, not an effective agent.’
‘Could the manservant be in it, sir?’
‘Possibly,’ Gently said. ‘He has a homosexual relationship with Walling. But I doubt if it would move him to murder for Walling’s sake, or whether Webster would trust him if it did. Besides which . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’ Metfield said.
Gently oscillated the swivel-chair. ‘There’s the curious matter of the pamphlet in the briefcase – which seems to point in another direction altogether.’
Metfield did a tongue-swallow. ‘The pamphlet, sir . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ Gently nodded. ‘Webster didn’t have to fetch it. He had it with him already; before his interview with Miss Walling. Before, you would have thought, he could know he would need it.’
Metfield opened and closed his mouth. ‘Perhaps that was coincidence. He might have carried one about just to show people.’
‘It seems scarcely likely,’ Gently said. ‘When he wasn’t responsible even for the subject matter. His father sent him a complimentary sample, and for a while they’d be lying around in the flat. Then, on Friday morning at the latest, he places one in his briefcase. At which time he knows nothing of Stoll’s quarrel with Walling, or the possible consequences to himself.’ Gently rocked forward. ‘Which almost gives you the impression that Stoll’s murder was in the pipe-line anyway.’
Metfield gazed at him. ‘But why, sir?’
Gently gestured. ‘We’d like to know! Whether it was connected with what happened here, or whether that just made a convenient occasion. If there was a plot to murder Stoll going – perhaps, in the beginning, just a gruesome game – then the explosion between Stoll and Maryon Britton would offer an attractive opportunity to act it out. From that point of view, Stoll’s subsequent row with Walling may even have been an embarrassment to the plotters, but it made Stoll’s removal an urgent matter for Webster, so there would be no question, then, of not carrying it out. The pamphlet came out of the briefcase, and Stoll was sent on his way.’
‘But Jesus!’ Metfield gaped. ‘Could it have started as a game?’
‘A touch of the real,’ Gently said ironically. ‘Turner seems to have some such notion. And it would fit what we’ve seen of Webster – and what we know of the creed he was raised on. Killing Stoll would be the biggest kick, the way-out touch. It would fit.’
‘But, great heavens!’ Metfield goggled. ‘Then perhaps there’s a whole crew in it with Webster?’
‘One,’ Gently said. ‘One is my guess. Webster is too bright to share it with more.’
‘It – it couldn’t be Turner?’
Gently swivelled the chair till he was facing the open window. He stared through it into the yard, his broad features empty of expression. At last he nodded.
‘I’m afraid it could. The job would most likely have been done from this end. And Turner is the most likely person to have done it, because he is a youngster who might go along with Webster. Keynes never would, nor Maryon Britton. There’s a slight question-mark against Jennifer Britton. But Turner is material that Webster could have worked on. And when we put him under pressure, he came out with Webster’s name.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘But there’s one thing against it.’
‘Webster was trying to sell him to us,’ Metfield said.
‘Yes. In fact, my reading is that he came down here for that special purpose. At first, I thought he might have seen Turner this morning, have become aware that Turner posed a threat to him. But the timing prevented that. Webster set out from London before Turner could be expected to get there. No, the reason had to be other. Webster must have summed the case up, just as we did. He realized that Turner was the strongest suspect, so he came down here to give our suspicions a hand.’ Gently hesitated. ‘Or did he?’
‘Pardon, sir?’ Metfield gulped.
Gently pulled a face. ‘Webster’s a clever chummie. He might have foreseen this situation.’ He idled the chair for a moment. ‘We put pressure on Turner, and eventually Turner drops Webster’s name. But Webster has a foolproof alibi, and we have insufficient evidence to proceed against Turner. So now Webster plays a double bluff by appearing to lead us back to Turner. Thus the situation is thoroughly confused. Especially with other valid suspects on the sidelines.’
Metfield took a big swallow of his tongue. ‘But look, sir – Webster didn’t know we could tie him in with the pamphlet!’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Gently said. ‘We shouldn’t have discovered that. It’s given him an unwelcome new angle to cope with. Because before, if we had happened to break Turner, it would have been simply his word against Webster’s. But now Webster is tied in, Turner’s story would have support. What would you expect Webster’s reaction to be to that?’
‘He’d keep shoving Turner at us,’ Metfield said. ‘Making like he was innocent, and Turner a villain.’
‘Which is what he did,’ Gently said. ‘And what he will keep doing. We can expect further action from him to that effect.’ He grinned at Metfield. ‘So we let him go – to dig himself in a little deeper. And meanwhile we’ll have the patrols looking out for Turner, because we want him in this office the moment he shows.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Metfield said. ‘I’ll pass the word.’
‘Turner is Webster’s weakness,’ Gently said. ‘That’s what Webster told us.’
He picked up the phone and spun off a number. Metfield gulped and went out to advise control. Gently cradled the phone under his chin and began filling his pipe while he waited.
‘Get me Inspector Lyons.’
The pipe was lighted before Lyons arrived at the other end. He was chewing something; had probably been wrested from a lunchtime snack in the canteen.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Listen,’ Gently said. ‘Webster’s acquaintances. Tell me what you’ve come up with.’
‘Well, they’re a comic lot, sir,’ Lyons masticated. ‘In fact, I’ve copped one for possession of heroin. Those I’ve talked to are on the fringe of show business, mostly in and out of work, dressed in gear, talking pop-slang, and proper insolent to policemen. I’d say there was something amusing going on there, sir, a bit of nastiness I couldn’t place. I took particulars of one or two of them; I reckon they can stand watching.’
‘Were any of them acquainted with Stoll?’
‘Two of them said they’d worked with him, sir. Brian Jeffs, calls himself a singer, and James Fletton, who paints scenery.’
‘What were they doing at the weekend?’
‘Jeffs says he was singing in a club, sir. Fletton was holed up with two birds. I didn’t know if you wanted it checked.’
Gen
tly shrugged to himself. ‘Better check those two. Did you notice if they had transport?’
‘Jeffs has a Honda scooter, sir. Fletton I was talking to in a pub.’ He paused to masticate. ‘Getting back to Webster, sir. Seems he may have had someone staying at his flat. I caught the roundsman on second delivery. Webster has taken extra milk during the past month.’
Gently grunted – that joke again! ‘It could be just that he’s developed ulcers.’
‘Well, sir, he must have found a lightning cure, because he was back to a pinta on Monday.’
‘Monday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Gently brooded. The hypothetical lodger would have been there at the weekend. A lodger would make a better alibi than a phone call, yet Webster hadn’t mentioned a lodger. Why?
‘We have no evidence other than the milkman’s?’
‘No, sir. It was just an odd inquiry.’
‘Nobody seen coming or going with Webster?’
‘I’ve had nobody mentioned to me, sir. The flat is a bit isolated, above a warehouse. There’s nobody handy who might have an eye on it. But maybe it’s like you say, and he was just trying out a new brand of muesli.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ Gently said.
‘I was planning to see Walling this afternoon, sir,’ Lyons said hastily. ‘The Fraud Squad were with him all this morning, and I reckon he’s about ripe for a cough.’
‘Great,’ Gently said. ‘But he’ll have to wait. The suspense will doubtless do him no harm. What I want to know is whether Webster did have a lodger, and if so, where I can lay hands on him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lyons said glumly. ‘I see, sir.’
‘Also,’ Gently said, ‘while you’re on your rounds, ask if anyone knows Lawrence Turner, and whether he is often seen in town.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lyons said. ‘Could he have been Webster’s lodger?’
‘I wouldn’t think it probable,’ Gently said. ‘But don’t let me prejudice you. What we want to establish is whether Turner knows Webster better than he says.’
He gave Lyons a portrait parlé of Turner, and details of the Rosenberg phone call for checking; then he hung up and relit his pipe, which, on an empty stomach, was tasting harsh. Metfield re-entered.
‘I’ve alerted the patrols, sir. They’ll pick up Turner when he enters the manor.’ He slumped down on a chair. ‘So what do we do now, sir?’
‘Wait,’ Gently said. ‘Just wait.’
But when Metfield’s phone, screened from routine calls, rang very late in the afternoon, it was still not to bring them news of Turner’s reappearance in the area. The local man, who took the call, listened for some moments with a blank expression; then he covered the receiver with his hand and stared uncertainly at Gently.
‘Sir, they’ve got Walling in reception.’
‘Walling!’
‘Yes, sir. He wants to see you.’
Gently stared too. ‘But he should be in town. I can’t see the Fraud Squad letting him roam.’
‘Well, he’s here, sir,’ Metfield said. ‘He just drove up five minutes ago. Seems he’s in a bit of a sweat. I reckon he must have cut and run for it.’
Gently shook his head bemusedly. ‘Ask them to send him in,’ he said.
Metfield spoke into the phone. After a short interval, a constable ushered in an agitated Walling.
Catching sight of Gently, Walling darted to him and grabbed his arm with trembling hands. He bobbed a tearful face towards Gently’s.
‘Please!’ he sobbed. ‘You must help me, Superintendent!’
Gently released his arm with some difficulty and took his seat at Metfield’s desk. Metfield slid into his old place at the table and quietly reached for pad and pencil. Walling blubbered.
‘Sit down, Mr Walling.’
Walling blindly fumbled for a chair and sank on it. He looked messy. His crumpled plump features were puffed and greyly pallid. His fluffy hair was damp and tousled, as though it hadn’t seen a comb that day, and there were dark patches of sweat in the armpits of his mauve shirt. His hands were grimy, and some of the grime was getting transferred to his cheeks.
Gently considered him for a moment.
‘Aren’t you required in London, Mr Walling?’
‘Oh yes – yes!’ Walling snivelled haplessly, his fists scrubbing his swollen eyes.
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I – I had to come!’
‘I don’t think I can help you in your affair.’
‘Oh yes, you must – please, you must!’
‘I’m afraid it’s in the hands of a different department.’
Absurdly, Walling tumbled down off the chair and came shuffling across to the desk on his knees. He clutched the edge of it with shaking fingers and tilted his woebegone face to goggle at Gently.
‘You must. You must!’
‘Please return to your chair.’
‘Yes – yes! It’s my last hope.’
‘Until you return to your chair we can’t discuss it.’
‘But you can’t – you don’t know what it means!’
He hauled himself to his feet, however, and shambled back blubbering to the chair. Sitting there, with his legs dangling, he looked like some wretched, gnomish Daruma doll. Gently signalled to Metfield.
‘Let’s have some tea in.’
Metfield departed on the errand. Gently took some pulls on a cold pipe, then folded his arms and leaned them on the desk.
‘Now! What’s it all about?’
Walling gave a sighing moan. ‘I’m ruined – did you know that? Ruined!’
‘Well,’ Gently shrugged. ‘That can’t be such a shock. You were always running close to the wind with Torotours.’
‘But it need never have happened!’ Walling sobbed. ‘I could have worked it out if they’d given me time. They don’t understand. It’s a matter of figures – all they know about is cash in the bank!’ He howled like a child. ‘It’s so unfair! At least they could ask someone who knows the business. If you ran things the way they say you should, we’d all be bankrupt by tomorrow morning!’
‘There are certain rules,’ Gently said.
‘Yes, but not like that,’ Walling sobbed. ‘You can’t run finance like a sweet-shop. It’s a matter of figures – and – and – confidence!’ He howled afresh. ‘And they don’t understand! They think striking a balance is the only answer. So they say I’m bankrupt, that I’m a rogue – that I’ll go inside for twenty years!’
Gently shook his head. ‘Not for twenty years.’
‘Yes – twenty years!’ Walling sobbed. ‘And I’m not a rogue, I’m a financier, a man who can make figures work for people. If that’s dishonest, why is it allowed? Why isn’t everyone in prison? It’s what finance is about, not cash in the bank, so why – why do they pick on me?’
Gently hunched. ‘You know you’re in a tangle.’
‘But that’s just what I wasn’t!’ Walling sobbed.
‘It began when Chairoplanes failed to click. When Stoll’s fifty thousand went down the drain.’
‘Yes, but please! That’s exactly the point. I could have covered all that in three months.’
‘With the take from Torotours?’
‘Yes – yes!’
‘What made you think you would ever collect it?’
Walling gaped as though he had been prodded, but just then Metfield entered with the tea. He handed a mug to Walling, whose fingers closed round it perilously, and winked as he placed another mug before Gently. Walling, still snivelling, took gulps from his mug. Tea dribbled from a corner of his tremulous mouth.
Gently drank some tea. ‘You’ll get time,’ he said. ‘Though it won’t be a sentence like twenty years. But we know the facts about Torotours, and you must expect to be punished for that.’
‘I can explain Torotours! It’s all a mistake. Everyone has trouble with the Spanish.’
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘We have the evidence. Torotours was a plain swindle.’
‘But you could talk to them for me!’
Gently shook his head. ‘I couldn’t. And why would I?’
‘Because I don’t trust them – and I trust you.’
Gently silently sipped tea.
Walling snivelled. ‘Then there’s no hope,’ he wailed. ‘I’ll be locked up in that dreadful place. For years and years, until I’m old, and all my friends have forgotten me.’ He sobbed. ‘And when I come out, destitution and the gutter. And Nina perhaps on the streets, her career ruined by my disgrace.’
Gently grimaced. ‘Cheer up! It can’t be quite so black as you’re painting it.’
‘Yes,’ Walling sobbed. ‘There’ll be nothing left for me. It would be best if I died now.’
‘You’ll get remission and a soft job. They’ll probably stick you in the library.’
Walling wagged his head inconsolably and wept tears into his tea.
Gently sighed and reached for the phone. ‘I’ll give the Yard a ring,’ he said. ‘They’ll be wondering where you’ve vanished to, and perhaps want you back with an escort.’
‘Oh please – no!’
‘But I must,’ Gently said. ‘You don’t seem to understand your position.’
‘No – it’s not important! That’s why I’ve come to you. The fraud doesn’t matter any longer.’
Gently rested his hand on the phone. ‘Go on,’ he said.
Walling’s mouth was trembling uncontrollably. ‘I – I – didn’t tell you the t-truth,’ he stammered. ‘About last weekend. I w-wasn’t in Brighton!’
Gently sat very still, and the silence was echoing. ‘Where did you go then?’ he said at last.
‘To a l-little hotel, out Epping way. It was me who d-did it, who killed Adrian!’
Then another silence – but broken this time by the sudden, furious scuffle of Metfield’s pencil. Walling, having delivered his bombshell, sat holding his breath, his pale eyes staring horrifiedly at Gently. In front of his mouth he held the mug, as though to hide that organ of betrayal. His eyebrows were arched so high that they were partly lost under his wayward hair.
Gently drank, and drank again.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ he said.
