Gently by the Shore csg-2

by Alan Hunter

…

  ‘So she won’t talk!’ he almost snarled, as Gently and he sluiced down canteen tea in the latter’s office.

  Gently shrugged woodenly. ‘You can’t really blame her. She’s convinced she’d be signing her own death-warrant.’

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t sign it I shall — she can bank on that for a start!’ yapped the super.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ Gently put down his cup and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief that had been seeing life. ‘I’ve got a couple of men looking for the taxi that picked them up on Tuesday night… if we can find that, we shall be getting somewhere.’

  ‘Now look here, Gently!’ The super almost choked. ‘This woman is the crux of the case. If your guessing is correct she knows everything — where he went to, who picked him up, who was after the money — she may even have been a witness to the murder, for all we know! And all you can tell me is she won’t talk. That’s all! They’ve put a scare into her, so she won’t talk!’

  ‘It isn’t a small size in scares, when you come to think of it.’

  ‘I don’t care what size it was!’ raved the super. ‘I’ve got a scare up my sleeve, too, quite as big as any of theirs. We’ll soon see who’s got the biggest!’

  Gently looked woodener than ever. ‘She’s got a perfect right to keep quiet. And you’re overestimating your scare. There’s nothing you can pin to Frenchy apart from conspiracy to burgle, and she’s not such a fool that she doesn’t know it.’

  ‘Oh, she isn’t, isn’t she? We’ll soon see about that! I’ll make a pass at her with a murder charge that’ll put paid to all this nonsense

  …!’

  ‘No.’ Gently shook his head. ‘I’ve tried it, anyway. The position is that you might get her, but they certainly will. They’re the ones who are holding a pistol in her back… or at least they’ve made her think so. No… Frenchy’s our ace in the hole, and for the moment we’ll have to leave her there. I’ve got an impression she’ll be a lot more vocal when she sees certain people wearing handcuffs.’

  ‘But how the devil are you going to get handcuffs on them when she won’t talk? And the man we want — let’s face it, Gently, it’s the fellow with the scar who’s got high jump written all over him — where will you ever lay hands on him again?’

  ‘He was here last night,’ muttered Gently obstinately.

  ‘Last night, last night! But where is he now — today? He isn’t just a criminal on the run. He’s part of a powerful and ruthless organization, professionals to their fingertips.’

  Gently smiled feebly. ‘Even organizations are run by human beings

  … they’re sometimes quite modest concerns when you get to grips with them. Anyway… about Frenchy. I want to ask a favour.’

  The super grunted fiercely, as though indicating it wasn’t his day for such things.

  ‘I don’t want her kept here… I’d like her released on bail.’

  ‘On BAIL!!!’ erupted the super, his eyes jumping open as though he had been stung.

  ‘Yes… nothing very heavy. Just a modest little reminder.’

  ‘But good heavens, man — bail! A woman of that character — arrested for a felony — suspected of complicity in murder — and you’re asking for bail! What the devil do you think I should put on my report?’

  ‘Just say it was at my request,’ murmured Gently soothingly, ‘I’ll carry the can if she doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘But I’m already in bad with the CC over this business-!’

  ‘She’ll be in court. You needn’t worry about that.’

  The super treated Gently to several seconds of his best three-phase stare. ‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘it’s your idea, Gently. You can have her. But God help you if she’s missing when we go to court. You’ll have her tailed, of course?’

  ‘Oh yes… Dutt’s one of the best tails in the business. And I’d like someone to check up on the flat in Dulford Street. The rent is paid to a Mrs Goffin who keeps a newsagent’s opposite… I’m just the wee-ish bit interested to know where it goes after that.’

  The telephone rang and the super hooked it wearily to his ear. Gently rose to go, but the super, after a couple of exchanges, motioned for him to wait and grabbed a pencil out of his tray.

  ‘Yes… yes… d’you mind spelling it?… yes… as in Mau-Mau… got it… you’ll send his cards… right… yes… thank you!’

  He hung up and pushed his desk-pad across for Gently’s inspection. ‘There you are — for what it’s worth!’

  Gently glanced at the pad and back at the super.

  ‘The names of our playmates… Special does work on a Sunday! Olaf Streifer is Scarface — he’s an agent of this precious TSK Party’s secret police… Maulik, it’s called. Special want him in connection with some naval sabotage at Portsmouth two years ago. You seem to have got a set of his prints from somewhere, incidentally…’

  Gently nodded. ‘And this… Stratilesceul?’

  ‘Stephan Stratilesceul — the lad on the slab. He wasn’t known over here, but the Surete had records. They wanted him in connection with a similar business at Toulon… the TSK seems to have a lien on naval naughtiness.’ He picked up the pad and held it up ironically. ‘So now we know — and how much further does it get us?’

  Gently hoisted a neutral shoulder. ‘It all helps to fill in the picture… you can’t know too much about a murder.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  It had been too fine.

  The peerless sky which had filled the beaches yesterday had vanished overnight literally in a clap of thunder and its place was filled by low, yellow-grey cloud which drizzled warmly, as though somewhere that wonderful sun was still trying to filter its way through. Perhaps it was wise of nature. There had been havoc enough wrought by one fine Sunday. In the damp streets plastic-caped holidaymakers went about with a wonderful solicitude for their fiery backs and arms…

  Now it was the cafes that came into their own. The innumerable little boxes clustered cheek by jowl all the way down Duke Street, empty and forlorn while the sun reigned, filled up now to the last tubular steel chair. After all, it wasn’t an unpleasant rain… one expected it some time during the holiday. And there were worse things to be done than drinking one’s coffee, smoking, writing cards and going through the newspapers…

  Not that it was front-page today, their own especial murder. The super had kindly released the news of the arrest of Jeff and Bonce and the discovery of the grey suit, but in the face of fierce competition from a Cabinet re-shuffle it hadn’t made the grade. It had slipped to page five. Strangely unanimous, the editors of the dailies had each come to the conclusion that the Body on the Beach wasn’t going to get anywhere, and they were quietly preparing to forget the whole thing.

  Like a certain superintendent, thought Gently, resting his elbows on the low wall bounding the promenade… though of course, the man had his reasons.

  He hitched up his fawn raincoat and produced his pipe. He couldn’t help it… this sort of weather always made him moody. To wake up and find it raining induced in him a vein of pessimism, both with himself and with society. He just wanted to turn over and go to sleep again and forget all about them…

  Well… if it would rain!

  He lit the sizzling pipe, tossed the match on to the sand below and turned abruptly away from the melancholy sea.

  Opposite him, across the carriage-way, loomed the garish tiled front of the Marina Cinema. A spare, florid-faced man with a wrinkled brow and a shock of tow hair was polishing the chrome handles of the swing-doors. Gently went across to him.

  ‘You’re at it early this morning…’

  The man paused to throw him a sharp look and then went on with his polishing. ‘It’s got to be done some time, mate.’

  ‘The sea air can’t do them a lot of good.’

  ‘Telling me! It plays the bloody hell with them.’

  He rubbed away till he came to the top of the handle, Gently watching patiently the while. At last he straightene
d out and gave his cloth a shaking.

  ‘What are you — a cop, mate?’ he asked briefly.

  Gently nodded sadly. ‘Only I was hoping it didn’t show quite so much…’

  ‘Huh! I can always smell a cop a mile away.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have stood to windward, should I?’

  The tow-haired man took a reef in his cloth and advanced to the next door-handle. ‘What do you want here, anyway?’

  ‘The usual thing. Some information.’

  ‘And suppose I haven’t got any?’

  ‘Suppose,’ said Gently smoothly, ‘suppose you be a smart little ex-con and keep a civil tongue when you talk to a policeman?’

  ‘An ex-con…! What creeping nark told you that?’

  Gently smiled at a diagonal frame filled with Lollobrigida. ‘You aren’t the only one with a developed sense of smell…’

  But he didn’t get any information from the man. He didn’t, or wouldn’t, remember anything about people taking taxis on Tuesday night last. Yes, he would have been in the vestibule just before the last house turned out, but he was probably chatting to the cashier or one of the girls… no, there wasn’t anybody else on late turn that night… no, he didn’t know Frenchy or anyone like her… going straight he was, and he defied anyone to prove different.

  Gently left him to his handles and plodded on down the Front, pessimism confirmed in his soul.

  ‘The Feathers’ was open, but it seemed rather a waste of electricity on such a customless morning. Its arrow was darting away with customary vigour, albeit it fizzed a little in the rain, but there were few enough strollers to be pricked into the temporary refuge of the arcade: its music drooled hollowly down empty aisles. Gently went up the steps and through the doors. Not a soul was about except the attendant, who was sweeping the floor at the far end. Through the doors of the bar, which were stood open with two chairs, could be seen a figure similarly engaged and a ‘closed’ notice hung rakishly on a chair-back. Obviously, they weren’t expecting a rush of business.

  He turned to the nearest machine and dropped a penny in the slot. It was one of the pre-war ‘Stock Exchange’ type and a pull on the handle yielded a brisk no-dividends. Gently tried again. He’d got quite a pocket-full of coppers. Absently he yanked the lever and watched the colourful passage of Rubber, Textiles, Railways and Gold… it seemed hard that such a well furnished wheel should come up no-dividends twice in a row. But it did. It was clever. It sorted out a solitary white from a whole rainbow of coloured, and stuck to it with an obstinate firmness.

  A gigantic hand ornamented with a solitaire diamond suddenly covered the handle and its guard.

  ‘You haven’t got the knack, Inspector,’ purred Louey’s voice behind him, ‘let an old professional show you how to beat the book!’

  Gently stood back without replying and Louey pressed a coin into the slot. Then he caressed the handle with an even, almost casual pressure and the wheel drifted lazily round to a Gold segment. A second coin brought coppers cascading down the shoot.

  ‘You see, Inspector?’ Louey’s gold tooth shone its message of innocent goodwill. ‘It is a matter of skill, after all…’

  Gently shrugged and repossessed himself of his twopence. ‘It needs a safe-breaker’s touch… the way one tickles a combination lock.’

  Louey’s smile broadened. ‘Some of the kids learn how to play them, though it costs them a few weeks’ pocket-money. But I don’t mind that

  … there are fifty who never learn for every one who does.’

  ‘Sounds like an expensive accomplishment to me.’

  ‘We have to risk our stakes, Inspector, when we’re out to win something.’

  Louey picked up the rest of the coins from the shoot and paid them back into the machine, one by one. They flicked up no-dividends as surely as a till flicking up no-sales.

  ‘Skill,’ purred Louey, ‘you can’t really call it gambling, Inspector.’

  Gently quizzed the huge man’s sack-like raincoat and corduroy cap. ‘You were just going out?’

  ‘My morning constitutional,’ nodded Louey, ‘I always take it, summer and winter.’

  ‘Mind if I come too?’

  ‘Delighted, Inspector! I was hoping for the opportunity of another little chat.’

  He ushered Gently out, holding the door obsequiously for him. They crossed the carriage-way and turned southwards along the almost deserted Front. The rain, from being a drizzle, had now become quite steady and gusts of sea-breeze made it cut across their faces as they walked. Louey snuffed the air and looked up at the sky.

  ‘It’s set in for the day… I shall be a richer man by tomorrow night, Inspector. You remember my pussy? I expect you thought he’d got his lines crossed yesterday, but he never makes a mistake. I suppose we shan’t have the pleasure of your company at the races tomorrow?’

  Gently grunted. ‘I follow my business… wherever it takes me.’

  ‘Ah yes… and I see by the papers that you’re making great strides. Well, well! Those two youngsters in their ridiculous suits! It must be a lesson to me to keep a tighter check on the customers in the bar…’

  Gently flipped the sodden brim of his trilby. ‘I still prefer your first theory, the one about a political organization.’

  ‘You do?’ Louey seemed pleasantly surprised. ‘I thought you must have forgotten that, Inspector… my amateur summing-up of the case! But these new facts explode it, I’m afraid. There wouldn’t seem to be much connection between Teddy boys and politics.’

  ‘There isn’t,’ grunted Gently.

  ‘Then surely we must give up my theory…?’

  ‘We could if the Teddy boys killed Stratilesceul, but as it is they only pinched his suitcase.’

  Three strides went by in silence. ‘Stratilesceul?’ echoed Louey, ‘is that the name of the murdered man?’

  ‘The man who skipped the Ortory at Hull and was chased down here by Streifer.’

  ‘Streifer…?’ This time Gently lost count of the number of strides. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector… a lot of this hasn’t appeared in the papers, or if it has, I’ve missed it. Was it from Hull that this unfortunate man came?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And he was chased by someone?’

  ‘By Streifer. Olaf Streifer. A member of the Maulik, the TSK secret police. It was just like in your theory, Louey… the execution of a traitor by an organization he had betrayed.’

  The big man shook his head with an air of bewilderment. ‘You must excuse me if I seem a little dense… I’m not so familiar with the business as yourself, Inspector. Am I to take it that the case is closed and that you have arrested this… Streifer?’

  Gently didn’t seem to have heard. He was poking in his pocket for a peppermint cream.

  Louey gave a little laugh. ‘I was saying, Inspector… has this Streifer been arrested?’

  The peppermint cream was found and Gently nibbled it with deaf composure… it might have been the rain which was making him so hard of hearing. Louey shook his head again as though realizing that it was necessary to humour a Yard man. After all, he seemed to be saying, it was a privilege thus to be taken into the great man’s confidence at all…

  They strode on towards South Shore. The rain kept driving in from the sea. There were warm sheets of it now, really wetting, and Gently’s experienced brogues were beginning to squelch. Even Louey was constrained to do up his top button, though it meant veiling the glories of a pearl tie-pin stuck in a grey silk tie but there weren’t many people to see it in any case.

  ‘Of course, it was Streifer we saw coming out of your office on Friday night,’ grunted Gently at last, the peppermint cream being fairly disposed of.

  ‘I thought we had disposed of that point, Inspector.’ Louey sounded justifiably piqued. ‘But it was Streifer all right, and it was your office all right.’

  ‘Well, if you say so… but I can’t imagine what he was doing there. Naturally we had a little check after you’d told us about it, but
as far as we were able to discover nothing had been stolen or disturbed.’ Louey turned his huge head towards Gently. ‘Do you want my opinion, Inspector?’

  Gently shrugged, hunched down in a leaky collar.

  ‘My opinion is that if it was Streifer and if it was my office, he must have ducked in there to avoid running into your man. Doesn’t that sound a reasonable explanation?’

  ‘Very reasonable… and why did he duck out again?’

  ‘Obviously he would have heard Peachey coming back.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he worried by the risk of meeting Peachey when he ducked in?’

  ‘Oh, come now, Inspector, I can’t work out the minute details for you…!’

  ‘And how did he know the door was unlocked in the first place?’

  ‘One must use one’s imagination. Perhaps he took cover in the doorway, and then tried the handle…’

  ‘Why, in fact, would he take cover at all? On Friday night he wasn’t known to us, and neither was my man known to him.’

  Louey chuckled softly. ‘There you are, Inspector! My naive amateur deductions don’t hold water for a moment, do they? I’m afraid it’s as big a mystery as ever… I would never have made a policeman.’

  ‘One other thing,’ added Gently evenly, ‘how did you come to know that it was my man who saw Streifer leave your office?’

  Louey’s chuckle continued. ‘How else could you have known about it? You admit that Streifer meant nothing to you on Friday night, so you could hardly have been making inquiries after him, Inspector…’

  They had passed by the Wellesley, its wrought-iron fantasia washed and gleaming, and were approaching the weirdly incongruous skyline of the Pleasure Beach. High over all reared the Scenic Railway, a miniature Bass Rock fashioned out of painted canvas and paper mache, and under it, like a brood of Easter chicks under a hen, the gay-painted turrets and roofs of side shows, booths and the other mechanical entertainments. Harsh strains of music through the rain suggested that the Pleasure Beachers, like lesser mortals, were assuming a custom though they had it not.

  Louey gestured comfortably towards the gateway. ‘Rivals of mine… but they don’t have a licence! Shall we stroll through?’