by Alan Hunter
‘Something new about Johnson, is it?’
He smiled engagingly from one to the other; nevertheless, one could tell from his eyes that he was far from feeling at ease.
‘No… this is a little different. It’s to do with the exhibition.’
‘I don’t know much about that, I’m afraid.’
‘Would you care to tell us how you spent last night?’
After a pause he told them, without any hedging. He had been to his club for a game of tennis. Then he had returned home to watch the television, and had gone to bed soon after it closed down.
‘What time did you get up this morning?’
‘Oh… about nine. Does it matter?’
Now he was beginning to look visibly unhappy, his smile becoming fixed and without conviction.
‘Perhaps I’d better tell you what happened.’ Gently briefly related the facts. Hansom, sprawling in an easy chair, kept his hard eyes fixed on the bank manager. And he had been right, quite right about one thing: Farrer’s smile was not proof against this. Before Gently had done, the last vestige had vanished and a look of unmistakable fear had replaced it.
‘So it looks very much as though someone…’
‘My God!’ Farrer had turned almost grey. The shock, indeed, had exceeded Hansom’s estimate; it seemed to have dealt a mortal blow to the man.
‘I wouldn’t be too alarmed… it may be coincidental-’
‘No!’ Farrer’s head shook with exaggerated insistence.
‘You don’t think it is?’
‘My God — I know it isn’t! You don’t know the half of it… the other half is here!’
He touched his breast with his hand as though making a dramatic gesture, then, without any warning, he flopped down in a chair. He was shaking so badly that he could hardly get to his wallet. Muscles twitched in his face and at the corners of his eyes.
‘It’s a nightmare… I don’t know… I wasn’t going to show it to you! It was a joke, I thought… just somebody taking the rise. I found it this morning. They had shoved it through the door… My God — but now! I don’t know where I am…’
He had managed to get from the wallet a carelessly opened manilla envelope, and this he held out tremblingly for Gently to take. Inside it was a folded sheet of softish grey paper, to one side of which had been pasted some printed capitals:
YOU HELPED HIM TO GET AWAY THERE’S ANOTHER KNIFE WAITING
They were all of one typeface and had been very neatly arranged. The envelope was a common one such as are sold by the thousand, but the paper was unusual, seemingly of linen manufacture.
‘It’s a nightmare, I tell you…!’
The bank manager’s voice sounded hoarse. He made an attempt to get up, then sank back weakly in his chair.
‘What have I done to deserve it… nothing! I’ve done nothing at all. He’s a madman, whoever it is… I want protection until he’s arrested!’
Gently passed the missive to Hansom, handling it carefully by its edges. He stared for a moment at the appealing face on which blank terror was stamped so plainly.
‘Another time you may not be so ready to fool the police!’
‘But I didn’t — I didn’t know — he didn’t tell me you were watching him!’
‘Someone thinks you knew, by the look of that letter.’
‘But it’s a mistake, a crazy mistake! You’ve got to give me police protection…’
Gently shrugged. ‘In that case, perhaps we can have your cooperation — you must admit that up till now it hasn’t been a conspicuous feature.’
‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know!’
‘Right — what precisely did Johnson tell you?’
‘He said that he had to get out for a bit — there was nothing else, I’m willing to swear it!’
‘Didn’t he tell you who he thought had done it?’
‘He asked me that. He thought it was one of us.’
‘And what was your opinion about it?’
Farrer swallowed, pointing falteringly at the letter. ‘I was certain of that from the first — it had to be one of us who’d done it. Aymas, he was the one I bet on… they’d had a flaming row that evening …’
‘And the letter seems to confirm it?’
‘Good Lord! Haven’t you noticed what paper it’s on? That’s a special watercolour paper… at first, I told you, I thought it was a joke…’
Gently reached for the letter again and examined the sheet of paper closely. It was certainly of an uncommon type, a class of paper he had rarely met with. Though soft and thin, it had the appearance of strength and the surface was finely grained. Held up to the light it showed part of a watermark — a piece of design, with the
letters: O… DA… VI.
‘Do you know what sort of paper this is?’
‘Of course! I’ve made a study of papers. That’s an Italian one, the “Leonardo da Vinci” — supposed to be the same as da Vinci used.’
‘Where can you buy it over here?’
‘I don’t think you can, unless they have some in London.’
‘Have you seen any of the members use it?’
‘No… I’ve only seen it in reference books.’
Gently lingered a little over the panicky bank manager — just then, he was wanting to be especially helpful! The rest of the bank house was suspiciously silent, and one wondered if some surreptitious eavesdropping was in progress.
‘Your wife tells me that you are driving over to Lynton today…?’
Farrer shuddered involuntarily. ‘We were going to visit her people
…’
‘It might be wise to postpone the trip.’
‘I’m not stirring a foot till you’ve got him inside!’
Rather against Hansom’s wishes, Gently agreed to the police protection — Hansom was thinking more in terms of manpower than of scared bank officials. When the door closed behind them he gave vent to his ill humour:
‘On top of all the rest we’ll need a whole bunch of search warrants!’
That was the case — interrogations were unfortunately now not enough. Because of the letter they would have to search for incriminating evidence. For some more of that paper, for the source of the printed characters — on the very slim chance that neither of these had been destroyed.
‘What’s the betting that we don’t get a print off that letter — not apart from yours and mine, and the boyo’s back there?’
Hansom leant on the Wolseley’s wheel and brooded darkly over the problem; he wore a sub-Byronic scowl when he felt that things were piling up on him.
‘There wasn’t one on the knife…’
‘Not on either of the knives! This is a very slick chummie, and he doesn’t make mistakes. I can tell you something, though.’
‘That it lets Johnson out?’
‘Well, doesn’t it?’ Hansom gave Gently a challenging leer.
‘You can take it either way… there’s somebody who wanted Johnson nailed — or there’s Johnson, setting up an Aunt Sally for us to shy at.’
‘How do you explain that precious paper?’
Gently grinned. ‘Didn’t it seem familiar? I’ve got an impression that you’ve been nursing a sheet in the office for three days.’
‘Hell’s bells!’ Hansom stared at him. ‘Surely not the “Dark Destroyer”?’
‘We’ll need to check it to be certain, but I’m offering you three to one…’
At Headquarters both their guesses were tested and found correct: the letter bore no additional prints and its paper matched that of the picture. It went a stage further. The letter and picture corresponded. The partial watermark on the one was found completed on the other. The original whole sheet had been divided — by the blade of a sharp knife; the picture represented one half, and from the other had come the letter.
‘So what do you make of that? She didn’t send that letter herself!’
And if Shirley Johnson hadn’t sent it then it followed that her husband h
ad: it was too fanciful to suppose that any outsider had obtained the paper. But her husband, looking for something to simulate a Palette Group origin, would naturally choose a piece of such an arty-looking paper. Therefore he had composed the letter, and therefore he had done the slashing — a piece of deliberate misdirection which could hardly have been conceived by innocence.
Or by sanity, if it came to that… though Johnson had seemed to have his wits about him.
‘I’d like to know where she got that paper… I didn’t see any more of it at the flat.’
‘I’ll send a kiddie out there to look. Perhaps Johnson put a match to the rest of it.’
‘There’s also another possibility — she might have been given it by one of the others. Maybe just that single half-sheet, it being a difficult paper to come by.’
‘Ah-ah!’ Hansom shook his head. ‘I’m getting cheesed with all these hunches. For me, this fixes it square on Johnson, and that’s the way I’m going to see it from now.’
‘All the same, we’ll go through with the search.’
‘Yeah — who are we to rest on Sundays?’
‘Every Palette Group member without exception — including St John Mallows. Him, I’ll see personally.’
He got on the phone to the academician, who listened without comment while Gently told him what had happened.
‘It’s a bit of a shock, Gently… I don’t know what to say.’
‘If you will, I’d like you to meet me in the Gardens.’
It was midday and the city had woken up to its Sunday life — there was a thin movement of traffic and a scattering of pedestrians. Many of the latter were churchgoers, dressed in sombre, scented decency, in contrast to the scantily clad cyclists who pedalled intently towards the country. From the direction of Thorne Station came the thud of drums and the tooting of bugles, for it was there that the naval cadets had moored their flagship, an ex-MTB.
By now a small crowd had gathered outside the Gardens, and saunterers were peering hopefully through the railings and herbage. A reporter and his photographer were arguing with the constable in charge, but on the appearance of Gently they hastily transferred their eloquence.
‘Our editor’s getting in touch… surely we could take a couple of pics?’
Under the plane trees near the pens the scavengers lingered, a watchful group.
St John Mallows drove up with all the consequence that was dear to him, waving the crowd away from the gate to make a space for his shiny Daimler. He was dressed very sprucely and wore a magnificent bowler hat, and willingly posed by the car to enable the photographer to get a picture.
‘Never miss a chance of a press puff, my dear fellow…!’
He steered Gently through the gate as though he had personally taken charge of the business. Then he continued to walk briskly, his hand on Gently’s arm, paying no attention to the ruined pictures until they were round the bend and out of sight. There he came to a sudden halt and, planting his feet, stared about him.
‘Vandalism… the purest vandalism!’ He snuffed the air as though it contained a fragrance. ‘Exhilarating, isn’t it? — because it’s so thorough! Just imagine him, will you, as he went round that lot — imagine the pure ecstasy of soul-glutting hatred!’
This wasn’t quite the reaction that Gently had expected, but one could predict very little about Mallows’s reactions. With his blue eyes sparkling he seemed to be drinking in the spectacle — it held for him a quality transcending moral judgements.
‘Unbalanced, of course — psychopathic in capitals — ordinarily, we repress the lust to commit mayhem. But the glorious scope of it — what a masterpiece of catharsis! I don’t remember ever having seen such a completely successful blow-up.’
‘It’s a good job you weren’t exhibiting.’
‘My dear Gently, don’t be petty! This is an occasion on which any man would gladly sacrifice a canvas. I almost wish I’d had one in — feel I haven’t been represented. Can’t you sense the stupendous energy, the crackling flame of the fellow’s loathing?’
‘What do you recommend then — an associated membership?’
‘Dear me, no! I’m afraid you’ll have to lock him up. He’s right round the bend, he needs a holiday from life.’
‘And who do we happen to be talking about?’
‘Why — X. Who else comes into it?’
Farrer’s exhibit had been removed along with the knife, and Gently made no reference to this interesting feature. Instead, he quietly produced the letter from his pocket. He offered it to Mallows without prefacing an explanation.
The academician, after glancing at him, unfolded the grey sheet, which he examined without the slightest alteration of expression. After feeling the paper between his sensitive fingers he raised it to the light to look for the watermark.
‘Hmm… letters were cut from The Times, I should think.’
‘You take The Times, do you?’
‘Of course — though I don’t read it.’
‘What about the paper?’
‘It’s a flashy Eytie stuff — no good for anything except to hang in the toilet.’
‘Where can you get it from?’
‘Nowhere, in perfidious Albion. But it’s common enough abroad, especially in Italy, where they make it.’
‘Have you seen any of the Palette Group with it?’
‘No… but they might have seen me. I bought some sheets in Verona, just to give the stuff a trial.’
Gently was suddenly aware that Mallows was eyeing him whimsically, his two demonic eyebrows lifted rather like horns.
‘Go on, you old bloodhound — now ask me if I did this letter!’
‘I was going to ask you something else. To whom did you give a sheet of that paper?’
‘Hah!’ Mallows made a ludicrous weaving motion with his shoulders. ‘You’re pretty certain, aren’t you, that I know who did it? Well, I’ve drawn you his portrait to the best of my ability — and now I can look you in the eye and tell you I gave that paper to nobody!’
‘Not even to Mrs Johnson?’
‘No — and I know what you’re getting at. She erupted her “Dark Destroyer” on to a piece: I noticed it when we were doing the selection.’
‘And you didn’t give it to her?’
‘No, Positively not. Nor to anybody else — so there’s your answer to the Clue of the Paper.’
Gently took back the paper and tucked it away with the ghost of a shrug. Was Mallows being the slightest bit overemphatic? It wasn’t easy to read his lively countenance; it was full of expression, but of expression under command. One suspected that very little slipped past it unawares.
‘Now I’ll do a little guessing. There’s a connection here, isn’t there? You found something here that put you on the trail of the letter. Otherwise you might have missed it, he might have kept it to himself. If I read that letter aright, he assisted — Johnson, was it? — to escape.’
‘It didn’t necessarily refer to Johnson.’
‘My dear fellow! Who else is there? He assisted Johnson to elude your clutches — you were shadowing him I suppose? And there’s this X, he didn’t like it, and it brought on another outburst. He left something here that was threatening to Farrer, and sent him that letter to make it plain…’
Gently felt himself grow cold. He had said not a word about Farrer! Deliberately, he had kept the name of the bank manager out of it. He stared unbelievingly at Mallows, and Mallows at him: they were both instantly conscious of that revealing blunder. Then slowly, rather sadly, Mallows began to shake his head.
‘I talk too much — don’t I? It’s always been my downfall… But you’d be a fool to attach too much importance to it, you know. To tell you the truth, Farrer rang me this morning — he was worried about Johnson and wanted to confess it. So it wasn’t too difficult to deduce that it was he who received the letter.’
A perfectly logical explanation — but the damage had been done. The playful intimacy that existed between them see
med to have felt the touch of a frost. Mallows stood biting at his lip and gazing down at one of the pictures. Gently, hands stuffed in his pockets, wore the most wooden of his expressions.
‘There are a few routine questions I have to put to you… and naturally, we’re making a thorough investigation.’
‘I understand that. Damn it, you’ve got to be thorough. I don’t suppose you like it any better than we do…’
But he went through the rest of it as quickly as he could, and Mallows confined himself to giving straight answers. He had spent the evening in his garden, and then gone to bed to read; like Gently, he had had his breakfast in bed that morning.
Gently watched him drive away, and then went straight to a phone box. In the directory he found the number of the bank house.
‘Superintendent Gently… did you ring Mallows this morning?’
Farrer began with a little hedging, trying to find what the query was about.
‘I can check with the exchange. I merely thought you’d save me the trouble.’
‘I see… yes… no, I haven’t rung him today.’
Gently clamped the receiver down hard on its rest. He remained there, leaning on it, for several minutes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He abandoned his plan of lunch at his hotel and returned instead to have it in the canteen. Hansom, who was a bachelor, made a habit of lunching there, and had a small, sacred table and even aspired to a private napkin. With this tucked under his chin he had a somewhat ogreish appearance.
‘Your playmate rang in — two of the Butters’s went to church, the mother and the eldest daughter, in the eldest daughter’s car. Then the old man came out and had a mooch around the lawn. He’d been sinking it, apparently, wasn’t too steady on his pins.’
‘Did nobody else visit the house?’
‘No… half a mo’, the paperman.’
Gently grunted into his soup, imagining the Sunday scene at Lordham. Stephens had taken with him a folding stool of the type familiar to fishermen. His car being concealed, he would have crept to some hedge or shrubbery, and there, with his glasses, have zealously watched the house and grounds. Then, stealing some hasty minutes, he would send his report back on the car’s radio, all the time in a frantic rush in case he were missing the vital moment. To be amused by that sort of thing one needed to be as young as Stephens…
