by Alan Hunter
If Peachey’s expression was anything to go by he did want that very thing, but neither Gently nor Dutt seemed willing to oblige. He was stood firmly in the hall while Dutt was putting on his raincoat and Gently, still ravaging amongst the biscuits, appeared to be forgetting the existence of both of them. But as Dutt reached for his hat, Gently sauntered to the lounge door.
‘By the way, Peachey…’
Peachey blinked at him hopefully.
‘If you were running a short-wave transmitter it would be useful to have a nice high aerial, wouldn’t it?’
‘T-transmitter…?’
‘That’s right. For sending little gossip-notes to the Continent.’
‘But I don’t know nothing about it!’
Gently tut-tutted and felt for a scrap of paper. ‘Here we are… hot from Central Records. They released you from a stretch in ’42 to go into the Services; you were trained as a radio-mechanic at Compton Bassett; radar course at Hereford in ’44; demobilized as a Sergeant-Radar-mechanic in ’46. Quite a distinguished career, Peachey
… and of course you’d know all about building and working a simple transmitter, wouldn’t you?’
Peachey gulped and tried to get some moisture on to his lips.
‘And about that aerial? There aren’t so many high places in Starmouth. There’s the monument, but that’s a bit too bare and obvious. And there’s the observation tower, but that would be even worse. No… what you’d want would be something unobtrusive… something where a little private wiring wouldn’t notice very much, where perhaps there was an off-season when you could do the job without interruptions. That’s what you’d want, isn’t it, Peachey?’
‘I forgot all that… I don’t remember nothing about radio!’
Gently shook his head consolingly. ‘Never mind, Peachey. I dare say you will. It’ll come back to you with a rush one day. Oh, and just one other thing.’
Peachey sucked in breath.
‘Tell Louey I’ll be in tomorrow some time to settle up a bet, will you? He’ll know what I mean… just tell him that.’
Dutt hustled him out and the door closed behind them. Gently hesitated a moment till he heard the car pull away, then he returned swiftly to the lounge, uncoupled the phone, dialled a number crisply.
‘Chief Inspector Gently… oh, hullo, Louey! I thought it was only fair to ring you up…’
He smiled pleasantly to himself at the note of tenseness in the voice at the other end.
‘Yes, of course you have to know… with the races tomorrow too… naturally you’ll be stuck if we pinch your head boy. But there’s nothing to worry about, Louey… no, we came to an agreement. I’ve just sent him home now, as free as a bird. He’s a sensible chap, Louey… knows when it’s time to do a deal. We all have to play along with the police sometimes… eh? Yes… yes… Sidlow Street… yes. I’m glad it’s eased your mind, Louey. Have a good day with the gee-gees tomorrow… yes… good night.’
He pressed the receiver down a moment and then dialled again.
‘Gently here. Give me Copping.’
‘Hullo?’ came Copping’s voice, ‘have you had any luck? The chief super says that if you haven’t-!’
‘Never mind the chief super,’ interrupted Gently with a grimace. ‘Listen, Copping. This is vitally important. I’ve just sent Peach home to his flat at 27 Sidlow Street with Dutt to keep an eye on him. Now I want Dutt relieved at midnight and your best man sent to replace him. And armed, you understand? Peach has got to be guarded from now on, day and night… and heaven help the man who slips up on the assignment!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Starmouth races — that colourful, moneyful, tax-free event — Starmouth Races, when a town already full to the brim began bursting at the seams. From early in the forenoon the train-loads started to emerge. By lunch-time you could hardly move on the road to the race-course, and as for getting a sit-down meal, you were lucky to pick up a couple of cheese sandwiches. But it was Starmouth Races and nobody cared. You came for the fun and the flutter and the sea-air, and if you went back skint it was all part of the outing.
They’d got a brass band from Norchester, a regular festival-winning affair. It had come out today in a fanfaronade of new grey and pink, with a man on the baton who really knew his business. Dutt was enthralled. He had always had a weakness for brass bands. When they went to town with ‘Blaze Away’ it touched a chord in his simple cockney heart…
‘Worst day of the year!’ moaned Copping to Gently, ‘how can you police this lot with the men we’ve got? If we arrested all the dips and shysters who come up for the races it’d need a special excursion train to cart them back to town!’
The super was there, looking very spruce and commanding in his best blue with its rainbow of medal ribbons. He sharpened a glance for Gently’s baggy tweed. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Gently… Gish is out for your blood if anything goes wrong.’
Gently tilted his head accommodatingly and the super passed with a sniff.
As a matter of fact, Gently was beginning to worry himself, just a little bit. The thing wasn’t going to pattern at all. There had been no alarums and excursions, no rush for Sidlow Street in the quiet hours… Peachey had spent a restful night, said the report, or if not a restful one, at least a peaceful one. In the morning it was the same. The routine of ‘The Feathers’ had continued undisturbed. Louey had gone for his constitutional, Peachey had reported to the office, at lunchtime they had eaten together at a nearby restaurant and directly afterwards Peachey had fetched the car and driven Louey and two of the bar-regulars to the race-course. It was almost as though Louey were ignoring the situation, as though he were deliberately calling Gently’s bluff. Certainly there was no anxiety in his aspect, and if Peachey was looking rather more like a boiled stuffed rabbit than usual it was hardly to be wondered at.
Gently’s eye wandered through the busy crowd to the line of bookies’ stands. Biggest of all flamed a great orange banner, set up on two poles, and licking across it like scarlet fire ran the legend: LOUEY ALWAYS PAYS! — Not that it was necessary, such a banner. You could hear the voice of Louey like distant thunder, over-topping crowd, band and competitors:
‘ FIVE TO TWO ON THE FAVOURITE… COME ON NOW… ONLY LOUEY GIVES IT … FIVE TO TWO ON THE FAVOURITE!’
His gold tooth shone, his diamond ring flashed, he loomed over the crowd like a genial Goliath. And they liked Louey. He was an institution on the race-course. Plump Peachey could hardly scribble slips out fast enough to keep pace with the money going into that gaping Gladstone.
‘ FIVE TO TWO ON THE FAVOURITE… TEN BOB TO WIN TWENTY-FIVE… HUNDRED TO EIGHT ON CAMBYSES… COME ON NOW, THESE ARE THE ODDS YOU’RE LOOKING FOR!’
Up beside him the sporty individual was taking signals from someone across in the stands and chalking up fresh odds on the blackboard. Down below a couple of bar-types were touting recklessly, yanking custom from the very shadow of rival stands.
‘ COME ON NOW… NO LIMIT… IF YOU WANT A FORTUNE COME TO LOUEY… YOU SEE MY BANNER — IT MEANS WHAT IT SAYS!.. COME ALONG NOW AND DO THE INCOME-TAX COLLECTOR IN THE EYE!’
It was all so innocent, all so regular. Moral or immoral, book-making was legitimate business and watching Louey up there in all his glory tended to shake one’s convictions. He looked so little like a murderous fanatic with the gallows threatening to yawn at his very feet.
But that was the situation and Gently had made sure that Louey knew where he stood. He was counterbluffing, that was all; doing what Gently would have done himself if the positions had been reversed. But counter-bluff was a temporary measure. There would be a plan behind it, a positive step. What was it cooking now, that calculating mind, when was it going to happen, and where?
Gently moved over to Dutt, who had resumed his role as Peachey’s protector.
‘Keep your eyes on your man,’ he warned him snappily, ‘he’ll be easy enough to lose in a crowd like this.’
‘Yessir… of cour
se, sir. But you got to admit it’s a smashing bit of brass…’
‘I don’t admit anything — keep your eyes on Peachey.’
Dutt clicked his heels and did as he was ordered.
Gently wandered away with a frown on his brow. He was biting Dutt’s head off now! The double strain of a waiting game with Louey and a checking game with Gish was beginning to fray at his nerves. Gish wanted action. He hadn’t any faith in Gently. One had a shrewd suspicion that twenty-four hours would be the limit of his patience.
A slinking figure appeared to materialize out of the worn turf in front of him and Nits’ pop-eyes strained up to his own. Gently summoned up a smile for the halfwit.
‘Hullo! You come to see the races too, my lad?’
Nits gibbered a moment with his invisible mouth.
‘You better get over by the rails — there’s a race starting in five minutes.’
‘You let her come back!’ piped the halfwit, ‘you let her come back!’
Gently nodded gravely. Nits chittered and gabbled under his staring eyes. Then he turned to cast a glare of hatred at the towering form of Louey.
‘Him — he’s a very bad man — very bad!’
Gently nodded again.
‘He came to see her — frighten her!’ Nits hesitated and crept a little closer. ‘You take him away! Yes! You take him away!’ He laid a hand on Gently’s sleeve.
‘I’m thinking about it, Nits…’
‘He’s the bad one — yes! You take him away!’
Gently shrugged and slowly released his sleeve. The halfwit gabbled away furiously, darting angry glances, now at Louey, now at Gently. Gently produced a coin and offered it to him.
‘Here you are… but don’t go making bets with Louey.’
‘Don’t want it — don’t want it!’
‘Buy yourself an ice-cream or a pint of shrimps.’
The halfwit shook his head violently and knocked the coin out of Gently’s hand. ‘You take him away!’ he reiterated, ‘yes — you take him away!’ Then he jumped backwards with a sort of frisking motion and dived away through the crowd.
There was a stir now and a general surge towards the rails. The horses had come up to the tapes and were under starter’s orders. Out of a grey sky came a mild splash of sun to enliven for a moment the group of animals and riders, the brilliantly coloured shirts, the white breeches, the chestnut, grey and dun of satin flanks. Tense and nervy were the mounts, strung up and preoccupied the jockeys. A line was formed, a jumpy horse coaxed quiet and almost before one realized what was happening the tapes flew up and the field was away. Instantly a shout began to rise from the crowd, commencing near the gate and spreading right down the track. Fifty thousand pairs of eyes were each magnetized by that thundering, flying, galloping body of horse.
Out in front went the favourite, Swifty’s Ghost, and following it close came Cambyses and Rockaby, the latter at a hundred to one and scarcely looked at by the punters. Three furlongs, and the field was getting lost. Six furlongs, and you could almost draw your money. Seven furlongs, and Cambyses, a big grey, was making a terrific bid and going neck-and-neck. Eight furlongs, and out of the blue came Rockaby, fairly scorching the turf, a little dun horse with a halting gallop, but moving now like a startled witch. Could Swifty’s Ghost hold them? Could Cambyses maintain his challenge? — The roar of the crowd ebbed up to a fever pitch. But Rockaby drew level with a furlong to go, Rockaby slipped through with a hundred-and-fifty yards in hand, Rockaby passed the post two lengths ahead of the grey and the favourite was beaten to a place by another outsider called Watchmego. The roar died away, the roar became a buzz. They’d done it again… another race to line the bookies’ pockets!
Gently hunched his shoulders and turned away from the rails, and at that precise moment things began to happen. He had only time for a confused impression; it took place like a dream. There was a crash, some angry shouting, a sound like a quantity of coins being shot on the ground, and then somebody or something struck him heavily in the back and he was lying on his face on the bruised turf.
He wasn’t hurt. He got up in a hurry. All around him a crowd was milling about a centre of attraction which was otherwheres than himself. Inside this centre a dialogue for four voices was developing with great verve.
‘Of course it was on purpose — I bloody saw you do it!’
‘I was shoved, I tell you.’
‘You can tell it to the coppers!’
‘I tell you I was shoved — some bastard tripped me up!’
‘Do you think we’re blind?’
‘Well, you don’t look too bloody bright.’
‘Now look here, you dirty so-and-so!’
Gently shouldered his way through. The scene enacting was self-explanatory. A bookie’s stand lay on its side amid a debris of betting-slips, notes and coins, about it four angry men. Three of the men were obviously allies. The fourth, a burly gentleman in a mackinaw, appeared to be the defendant in the case.
‘Police!’ snapped Gently, ‘you can stop that shouting. One of you tell me what’s been going on here.’
The gent in the mackinaw broke off a challenge to the opposition and stared at Gently with aggressive insolence.
‘Police, he says! A snouting copper! You keep your big nose out of this, mate, or it’ll finish up a different shape from what it started this morning!’
‘You hear him?’ struck in one of the aggrieved, on his knees and trying to collect the scattered money, ‘that’s your man, officer — you don’t have to ask! Come up and threw down my bleeding stand, he did, never as much as a word offered to him!’
‘Mad!’ snapped a little man with a big coloured tie, ‘mad, I tell you — that’s what he is!’
The gent in the mackinaw seemed about to resent this allegation when he was interrupted a second time by a new arrival. This time it was Dutt and he was propelling in front of him no less a person than Artie of the ferret face.
‘I got him, sir!’ panted Dutt, ‘he’s the one, sir — saw him wiv me own mince pies! Standing right close-up to you he was, sir, all during the race, and as soon as this lot here started he catched you a right fourpenny one and hooked it… all he didn’t know was that I was watching him!’
Gently stared at the scowling bartender as though he had seen a ghost. ‘Get back!’ he thundered at Dutt. ‘Good God, man — don’t you understand? The whole thing’s a trick to get us out of the way — get back at the double, or there may be another body on the beach tomorrow!’
The odds were still being called under the orange banner, but it wasn’t Louey calling them. The slips were still being scribbled and handed out, but the man with the book wasn’t Peachey. It was the sporty individual who had taken over, with one of the touts for his clerk. He welcomed Gently and Dutt derisively as they rushed up to the stand.
‘Hullo-ullo! Coupla gents here getting in training for the selling-plate!’
‘All right!’ rasped Gently, ‘where are they — where have they gone?’
‘Gone, guv’nor? And who is it that’s s’posed to have gone somewhere?’
Gently wasted no time. A brown hand flicked out and fifteen stone of sporty individual was picked off the stand like a pear. ‘Now…! This may be fun for you, but it’s murder to me, and if you don’t tell me what I want to know I’ll see you in dock for complicity. Where’s he taken Peachey?’
‘I don’t know, guv, honest-!’ He broke off with a yell as Gently applied pressure to his arm.
‘Where’s he taken Peachey?’
‘I don’t know — we don’t none of us know!’
‘That’s right, guv!’ broke in the tout with the book, ‘he just said him and Peachey had got some business to see to what he didn’t want you to know about.’
‘It’s the truth!’ shrieked the sporty individual, ‘oh, my bloody arm!’
Gently threw him down against the stand, where he lay massaging his maltreated limb and moaning. ‘Find Copping!’ rapped Gently to Dutt, ‘tell
him what’s happened — tell him to issue a description to all his men — send one to “The Feathers” and one to Sidlow Street — the rest fan out and search the area round the race-course. Where’s Louey’s car parked?’ he fired at the sporty individual.
‘It’s over there — right by the gate!’
‘Check and see if it’s gone — if it has, alert all stations.’
Dutt hesitated a moment and then turned in the direction of the gate, but before he could set off an animal-like form came darting and swerving through the crowds and threw itself at Gently’s feet.
‘He went that way — that way! I saw him! I saw him go!’
Gently’s eyes flashed. ‘Which way, Nits?… which way?’
‘That way!’ The halfwit made a fumbling gesture towards the north end of the enclosure.
‘Gorblimey!’ exclaimed Dutt, ‘it’s “Windy Tops” again!’
Gently rounded on him. ‘Forget what I’ve been saying — just tell Copping to bring his men up there. And when you’ve done that, don’t wait for him… I shall probably be in need of some help!’
‘Yessir!’ gasped Dutt, ‘yessir — I’ll be there with you!’
But by that time Gently was gone.
It was a hummocky bit of paddock separating the race-course from the lane to ‘Windy Tops’ and Gently, past his best sprint years, found it very heavy going. At the far side was a scrubby thorn fence in which he had to find a gap. Nits, frisking along at his side, went over it like an Olympic hurdler.
‘You get back, m’lad!’ panted Gently, ‘there’ll be trouble up there!’
‘You going to take him away!’ chuckled Nits. ‘I want to see you take him away!’
‘You stop down here and you’ll get a grandstand view!’
‘I want to see — I want to see!’
There was no discouraging him. Gently ploughed on up the slope of the cliff. By the time he reached the gates of ‘Windy Tops’ he was glad of the breather offered by a pause to reconnoitre and Nits, entering into the spirit of the thing, gave up his leaping and frisking, and slid away like an eel behind the cover of some rhododendron bushes. Not a sound had come from the house. Not a vestige of life was to be seen at any of the windows. Only the front door stood half ajar, as though whoever was within didn’t mean to be there for very long.
