by Alan Hunter
‘They’d no reason to lie.’
‘They’d every reason to lie. They wanted to make it seem that Frenchy was the principal… it could just be that she’s as innocent as she says she is.’
Gently shook his head impatiently. ‘Baines wasn’t lying. The statements agree except where Wylie is trying to whitewash himself.’
‘The fact remains that no taxi driver in town remembers the incident and nobody’s got records of such a journey. Of course it’s just possible that it was a taxi licensed at Norchester or Lewiston that picked them up… you know the distances, you can judge how likely it would be.’
‘I’m sorry… but that taxi has got to be found.’
‘Then what do you suggest — a general check-up of all the taxis in a fifty-mile radius?’
‘It may come to that, though first I would like your men to re-check their re-check… it’s surprising how repetition sometimes jogs people’s memories.’
The super gave Gently what from meaner men would have been classed as a dirty look.
‘Very well… you know your job. But remember that I’ve got plenty of routine work going begging when you’re through with the bottom of the barrel…!’
It was a good exit line and the super duly acted upon it. Gently folded up his map with a sigh and stowed it in the drawer with the Moriarty. He didn’t blame the super. He would have felt exactly the same in the great man’s shoes. Police routine didn’t stop because a couple of Yard men were trying to hatch a murder charge… it just became more difficult. And when the murder charge didn’t look like hatching anyway, well then the Yard men started to become a nuisance about the place. The trouble was that the super hadn’t got an incentive any more. He was reasonably happy with the way things had panned out. His corpse was no longer an unsolved mystery, he had pinched a small handful of auxiliaries in the case and if the principal had made tracks for a far country it wasn’t through any dereliction of the super’s duty… All that really concerned the super now was the propitiation of Christopher Wylie and the making of his peace with the chief constable.
Gently sighed again and unhooked his clammy raincoat. There were times when being a Central Office man wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Accoutred for the fray, he went along to the canteen for a preliminary cup of tea. It was a quiet time there. He had the gloomy room all to himself. Behind the scenes could be heard the chink and clatter of washing-up in progress, but the only other excitement the place afforded was the distant view of someone working on a car under a tilt. Gently sauntered to the window to watch the operation while he sipped. There was something soothing about watching other people grapple with their troubles.
And then, perhaps inspired by the tea, a dreamy expression crept into his eye. He drew closer to the window. He pulled back one of the blue cotton curtains. At one stage he was even pressing his nose against the pane.
Finally he put down his cup half-finished and let himself out into the yard by the side-door.
It was an elderly car of the high-built and spacious days, and the elderly man who worked on it, though not high built, was spacious also. The dungareed rear end of him which protruded from the bonnet was particularly spacious, and so too was the language which rose in a muttered stream from somewhere in the interior. Gently hooked his fingers in the climb-proof wire fence which surrounded HQ property and conducted a leisurely survey.
‘Having a spot of bother?’ he inquired affably.
The stream of language faltered and a red, moon-like face disengaged itself from the oily deeps.
‘Bother! Can’t you hear I’m a-havin’ some bother?’
‘Well… it sounded like a big end gone, to say the least.’
The spacious one heaved himself upright and shored his bulk against the off-side mudguard. ‘Jenny!’ he observed feelingly, ‘that’s the bloomin’ trouble — Jenny!’
‘There’s a woman in the case?’ queried Gently, who wasn’t mechanically minded.
‘Woman? Naow — the Jenny! Stuck away there at the bottom till it’s nearly draggin’ on the ground — an’ they must know it’s goin’ to give trouble — Jennies allus give trouble!’
He waved an adjustable at Gently as though daring him to contradict, but Gently’s interest had slipped to some crude white lettering just visible on the uptilted bonnet. It read: ‘Henry Artichoke, Hire Car, 76 High Street.’
‘This your car?’ he asked casually.
‘’Course it’s my car — who’s did you think it was?’ Mr Artichoke gave the vehicle a glance of mingled affection and exasperation. ‘Good now as half your modern tin-lizzies — only thas like me, getting old …’
Gently nodded understandingly. ‘And how’s business with you these days?’
‘Business? Well — I don’t complain. Though I aren’t saying it’s like it was in the old days-!’
‘Too many charas and coach-trips.’
‘An’ all these new-fangled cars about… still, don’t run away with the idea that I’m complainin’.’
‘Were you doing much last week?’
‘I was out on a trip or two — can’t do without me altogether, you know.’
‘Last Tuesday, for instance. Did you have a trip that day?’
Mr Artichoke ruminated a moment and dashed away a raindrop which had leaked on to his oily cheek. ‘Tuesday… that was the day old Hullah was buried. Yes. Yes. I had a couple of trips on the Tuesday… in the mornin’ I took Sid Shorter over to see his missus at the nursing home. Then last thing they had me out to fetch an old party and her things from Norchester — that’s it!’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘Well, I hadn’t got really set down at the “Hoss-shoes”… that couldn’t have been much after seven.’
‘Then you went to Norchester to pick her up?’
‘Her’n her things — you’d be surprised what the old gal fetched away with her!’
‘Made you late, I dare say…’
‘Late enough so’s I didn’t get into the “Hoss-shoes” again…’
‘It was after ten by the time you’d got her unpacked?’
‘As near to it as makes no difference… parrot she’d got too — damn’ nearly had my finger as I was carting it in!’
‘And where did you take her… what was her new address?’
‘Oh, she was goin’ to live with the Parson of St Nicholas.’
‘Is that the big church?’
‘No — that’s St John’s. St Nicholas is the one down in Lighthouse Road.’
‘You mean down at South Shore?’
‘That’s right… the one with a herrin’ stuck up for a weather-vane.’
Gently relinquished his grip on the wire fence and dived his hand into a pocket that rustled. ‘The Front — was it very busy when you came back that night?’
‘Huh! Usual lot of rowdies — kids, the best part on’m.’
A peppermint cream came to light and lay poised on a stubby thumb. ‘Did you have any luck… like picking up an odd fare?’
Mr Artichoke raised two round eyes grown suddenly suspicious. ‘Here!’ he exclaimed, ‘come to think of it, I don’t like the side of the fence you’re standing on — I don’t like it at all!’
‘It’s the honest side, Mr Artichoke…’
‘That’s as may be — I don’t think I like it!’
The peppermint cream went into Gently’s mouth and was chewed upon thoughtfully. Mr Artichoke watched the operation indignantly, his broad face flushing a deeper shade of red. One would have thought there was something almost indecent about eating a peppermint cream.
‘Now look, Mr Artichoke, I think you’re in a position to help me in a rather important matter. I know you haven’t got a hackney-carriage licence and that it was an offence for you to pick up a fare in the street, but if you picked up the people I think you did, then between you and me there won’t be any charges… is that quite plain?’
Mr Artichoke nodded non-committ
ally, but kept his mouth tight shut.
‘Well then… did you or didn’t you?’
Mr Artichoke shrugged his heavy shoulders and stared at the adjustable in his hand. ‘That depends a bit on who them people was, don’t it?’ he remarked tentatively.
‘I want you to tell me that.’
‘But how am I goin’ to know if they’re the ones I shan’t get pinched over?’
Gently returned the shrug. ‘I’ve got a very bad memory except for criminal offences.’
Mr Artichoke brooded some more on the adjustable. ‘Just suppose there were two of them — a male and a female. Is that somewhere about the mark?’
‘It’s right on the target.’
‘And suppose this female was a blonde female — one of them there that work up this way during the season… am I still going the right way?’
Gently nodded with deliberate slowness.
‘And suppose this bloke was a foreigner with a beard, dressed a bit flashy, and answering to the name of Max — and suppose they wanted taking to a house on the cliff which as far as I know has been empty for the last five years. Would I still be heading straight?’
There was the briefest of wavers in Gently’s nodding and a smile little short of angelic crept over his face. ‘Mr Artichoke… you’ve just answered the sixty-four dollar question, whether you know it or not.’
‘Eh?’ queried Mr Artichoke.
‘The sixty-four dollar question,’ repeated Gently. ‘Now just stop here. Don’t move. Don’t go away. I’m going to have a short chat with the superintendent about his man-power problem and after that we’ll make a little trip to North Shore together… who knows? We may even be lucky enough to find a tenant in that house on the cliff…’
Copping made one of the party and Bryce, at Gently’s request, was added to the strength. Copping became highly indignant when he heard about Mr Artichoke’s activities.
‘And after all the ratepayers’ money that’s been spent trying to find the cabby! What’s the use of issuing these licences if a lot of pirates come along and gum up our investigations for us?’
Gently clicked his tongue. ‘He was only turning a slightly dishonest penny.’
‘We might never have caught up with him… you admit it was pure accident.’
‘Luck,’ said Gently, ‘you have to cultivate it in the Central Office…’
Copping snorted. ‘We shouldn’t have needed luck. Routine will catch a criminal if everyone is being completely honest…!’
Under Mr Artichoke’s directions they proceeded north along the main Norchester road. The dreary suburbs passed by, the expensive splendours of High Town and finally the long, level, white-railed expanse of the race-course, its empty stands lifted gloomily against the rain-pale sea.
‘Steady!’ warned Mr Artichoke, made uneasy by the driver’s reckless and newfangled technique, ‘we’re turning off here — if you can pull up this side of Barston!’
The driver slowed down to a dangerous thirty.
‘There!’ exclaimed Mr Artichoke, ‘Up that little loke. There’s only one house up there, so I shan’t have made a mistake.’
‘It’s “Windy Tops”’ muttered Copping, ‘it belongs to one of the Thorners of Norchester.’
Gently glanced at him questioningly.
‘We had some trouble with them a few years back. The Borough Engineer scheduled it as being unsafe because of cliff erosion and they made a case of it. He won the case, but there hasn’t been a cliff-fall in that area from that day to this. Just mention “Windy Tops” if you want to get him in the raw.’
‘It’s been empty all the time?’
‘Naturally. Nobody’s allowed to live in it. The B.E. is just living for the day when it goes over the top.’
The narrow road skirted the northern end of the racecourse, crossed the railway line and turned abruptly left. Here the ground rose suddenly to form the first of a line of crumbling gravel cliffs and perched at the top, looking in no-wise conscious of its danger, was a small but well-architected modern house.
‘Looks safe enough,’ Gently murmured.
‘Probably is,’ grunted Copping, ‘but the B.E. got rapped on the knuckles about a row of cottages that went over… he hasn’t taken any chances since then.’
The road came to an end at a spacious turning place and the gate to ‘Windy Tops’. Bryce was sent round to the back while Gently and Copping advanced on the front. The garden had run to seed and there was grass growing out of the crazy paving, but the house itself seemed in a fair state of preservation and Gently found himself sympathizing with the Thorners in their reluctance to abandon the place. He stooped to inspect the crazy paving.
‘Someone’s been up here recently all right.’
The grass had been bruised by trampling feet. But Copping was already trying the front-door handle and apparently expressing surprise at finding it locked against him. He ran an eagle eye over the front of the house and thus discovered a partly-open window which Gently had noticed as they got out of the car.
‘Easy!’ called Gently, ‘there may be some interesting prints about.’
Copping whisked up the sash and dumped himself over the low sill. Gently followed him at a more dignified pace. It was a large room and had probably been the lounge, but it was quite empty except for some ashes of burnt paper in the grate. Copping swooped on them, sniffing like a well-trained hound.
‘They’re fresh!’ he exclaimed, ‘they haven’t been there longer than a few days.’
Gently nodded and applied a speculative finger to the light switch. Pale radiance shone from an unshaded bulb.
‘Every modern con… and I think I can hear a cistern hissing somewhere.’
‘He’s been living here!’
‘Undoubtedly…’
‘He might be here now!’
‘There’s just the remotest chance…’
The efficient Copping needed no more. He invaded the house like an unleashed jumping-cracker, pouncing from room to room, poking in cupboards, surprising the backs of doors and generally making life hectic for anything in the shape of a secret agent.
‘He slept up here!’ came his muffled cry from above-stairs, ‘There’s a mattress and some blankets… cigarette-ash… empty matchbox!’
Gently shook his head sadly and went to unlock the kitchen door. The cupboard was bare, he knew it intuitively. There had been that chance, that one chance, that Streifer had decided to lie low until the heat was off, but he had sensed it evaporating the moment he had set foot in this so-silent house. He called to Bryce.
‘Any signs of life out there?’
‘No sir, nobody — not even on the beach.’
‘What about the garage?’
‘The door’s on the latch — there’s nothing in there except a pair of old tyres.’
‘Well, come in and give Inspector Copping a hand upstairs. You’ll have to get into the loft somehow.’
Bryce came in without much enthusiasm and went up to join his superior. Gently remained below in the kitchen. There were plenty of signs there of recent occupation. On the draining-board stood a plastic cup and plate with a knife and fork, all dirty. A hot-plate was plugged in at the electric switch-point, upon it a tin kettle and nearby an aluminium teapot. In a wall-safe were a tin of condensed milk, tea, sugar, a couple of rolls… stale of course, but no staler than Saturday’s rolls usually are on Monday afternoon… butter and an unopened tin of anchovies. By the wall leaned two cheap folding-stools. Under the sink stood a rusty distemper-tin containing refuse. And there were several newspapers, including Sunday’s, and a pile of brown paper. Gently unfolded a Sunday Express. It had had a cutting taken from it. He unfolded three others. Each had cuttings taken from them.
‘He’s hopped it all right.’ Copping came in, dusty and aggrieved. ‘Bryce is up in the loft now, but he’d have hardly got up there without someone to give him a bunk… there’s nothing to stand on. I’m afraid we’re just too late… they always seem o
ne jump ahead, these bastards!’
Gently pointed to the pile of brown paper. ‘What do you make of that?’
Copping stared intelligently. ‘Looks as though he bought a geyser or something.’
‘Was that mattress upstairs a new one?’
‘Brand new — and so were the blankets.’
‘And what does that suggest to us… knowing what we do?’
There was a pause and then the divine spark fell. ‘By glory — it’s the same paper that was used to wrap the clothes!’ Gently nodded approvingly. ‘Used to wrap mattresses — and there’s the new mattress and you can see it’s the same paper — it’s got that crimp in it, just the same!’
‘And it’s had a piece torn off it… just about the same size.’
Copping’s heavy features flushed with excitement. ‘We’ve got him, then — we can tie him in! We’ve got proof now, good, hard, producible proof — the sort of thing juries love — material proof!’
‘Just one thing, though,’ murmured Gently.
‘Proof!’ boomed Copping, ‘what more do we need?’
‘We need something we haven’t got right at this moment and that’s the initial proof that Streifer was ever in the house at all.’
Copping faltered in his raptures. ‘But good lord… it must have been him!’
Gently shook an indulgent head. ‘Remember that jury and keep your hands to yourself. Don’t touch the paper, the taps, the dishes or anything else that’s lying about. I suppose it’s too late to worry about the doorknobs. As soon as Bryce is through having fun in the loft he’d better light out for your print man. It isn’t likely that Streifer was too careful here… he expected to be far otherwheres when and if we ever identified the place.’
‘And how right he was — how dead bloody right!’
Gently hunched his shoulders soberly. ‘He’s a man like you and me. People don’t become magicians when they join a secret police.’
‘It’s enough to make you think so, the way this bloke keeps himself lost.’
A dishevelled and wash-prone Bryce was dispatched in the car and Gently, having completed his tour of the house, went out to inspect the grounds. They had nothing relevant to disclose. The tumpy wilderness which had been a lawn, the nettled and willow-herbed flower-beds, these looked as though a full five years had elapsed since a foot had trodden there, or a hand had been raised in their defence. Gently went round to the Achilles heel, the seaward side. Not more than five yards of stony land separated the house from its inevitable tumble to the beach.
