Gently With the Painters csg-7

by Alan Hunter

  Johnson frowned, though whether from pain it wasn’t easy to decide. There were deep creases about his eyes and a square set to his mouth.

  ‘What do you want to know… about that?’

  ‘Everything. All you can remember.’

  ‘I tried to get Anne on the phone… twice… wanted to tell her where to find me.’

  ‘Did you get through to her?’

  ‘No… this morning… when they went to church… reckoned that would be the time.’

  ‘What else did you do?’

  ‘I can’t remember… went to the flicks.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Damn! High Street… Cary Grant in a horse opera.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I went to bed.’

  ‘Where? Where did you spend the night?’

  ‘What does it matter? I don’t know!.. Bed and brekker in Church Street…’

  ‘What was the name of the people?’

  ‘Blast it, cocker… have a heart! Got a knocker like a horseshoe… remember that, it’s why I went there…’

  He was frowning more and more, and the doctor shook his head at Gently. Anne Butters, as though taking a cue, began decorously to weep. Gently shrugged and rose to his feet:

  ‘I’d like to use your phone, if I may…’

  ‘You’ll find one in the office — now, I must really get him to Radiology.’

  Gently’s first call was to Headquarters where he made an unexpected connection — Superintendent Walker, who had heard news of Johnson’s capture. The city police chief had driven in from his house on the outskirts, and was now waiting impatiently to learn the sensational details.

  ‘Have you pinned the charge on him?’

  ‘No — not yet! There’s one or two more things which need tying up. I’ll be back in about an hour and we’ll talk it over then… in the meantime, will you post a man outside Mallows’s house?’

  ‘Mallows! Has he got something to do with this?’

  ‘I think he can help us…’ Gently made a face. ‘I’ll want him for questioning as soon as I get back. But don’t waste any time about putting a man on him.’

  His second call was to Chelmsford, to Inspector Horrocks, to whom he gave the details he had learnt from Johnson.

  ‘It’s urgent to have them checked with the least possible delay. Ring me back at City Headquarters — I’ll be available all night.’

  All night… or as long as it took Mallows to crack. He went in search of Stephens and Hansom, and took them off for a cup of coffee.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was curious how, with no direct information available, everybody had a sense of approaching climax; even the remote subordinates in distant corners of HQ who seemed linked together by some psychic grapevine. In part it was perhaps an intelligent reading of events. Though Johnson had been found, he had not been proceeded against. Nor had Gently taken himself off to his hotel by the Castle, and as late at night as this he was prepared to summons Mallows. Unless he was hot on a scent, wouldn’t the morning have done as well? And would Walker, who liked his eight hours, be preparing for a nocturnal session?

  This odd feeling of tension had extended itself to the press men, half a dozen of whom Gently found playing rummy in the waiting room. There was a rush and a scrambling for notebooks when they saw him come up the steps — they had had a handout already, but they wanted some live quotes.

  ‘Is it a fact that you don’t intend arresting Johnson?’

  ‘Isn’t there a woman in this…?’

  ‘Was the plane smashed deliberately?’

  Even now there would be photographers bumping out to Rawton Aerodrome, and in all probability getting lost in the dark.

  But the reporters were not satisfied with details of l’affaire Johnson. Their professionally developed instincts warned them that this was only secondary. After exhausting all their questions they didn’t rush off to the nearest phone, but instead returned to the waiting room, taking care to post a sentry. Then they picked up their cards again and automatically continued the game.

  Having been through it once with them Gently had to repeat his performance for Walker, and the Super, like his man of parts, could see no alternative to the arrest of Johnson. Gently was masterful in his evasion, but he emphasized the salient point:

  ‘That letter must have been sent by the culprit — and Johnson couldn’t have sent the letter.’

  ‘But suppose you leave the letter out of it.’

  Gently shook his head decidedly. ‘There are two factors concerning the letter which tie it directly to the crime. To start with, the paper was part of the same sheet on which Mrs Johnson painted her picture, and then the composer of the letter knew that Farrer had helped Johnson to escape.’

  ‘Johnson may have lied about his movements.’

  ‘I don’t think he did, not in his condition.’

  ‘You admit yourself that he’s a clever bloke…’

  ‘There’s a limit to the cleverness that I admit to in anyone.’

  Hansom, uncharacteristically, kept out of the argument. His belief in his judgement had taken a bad knock. He lit a cheroot in pretended boredom, and looked at the pictures in the Super’s Forensic Medicine…

  To avoid the reporters, Mallows was brought in by the back way, having been driven right round the block to evade passing the main entrance. He stalked fiercely into the office, a folded paper in his hand, but after some moments in the frigid room a lot of his starch seemed to go out of him. He looked tireder, older; there were dark semicircles beneath his eyes. His grey hair clung more limply over his distinguished forehead. But since nobody at first appeared to notice his arrival, he took a chair from the wall and sat down challengingly in front of the desk.

  ‘A fine time of the day to drag a man out of his home!’ His eyes rested on Gently reproachfully and without their customary twinkle. Then he glanced round the room at Walker, Hansom, Stephens, the stenographer, the latter busy sharpening pencils with a razor blade in a holder. The forces of society…! Suddenly, Gently saw it all much clearer — as though, in a flash of sympathy, he was sharing Mallows’s vision. They were arranged by accident in a crescent, resembling a primitive battle array; a formidable half moon of enemy figures who were no longer individual people. And at the focus, naked in his chair, the artist clutching that folded paper… Gently guessed that it was Mallows’s Times, the innocent copy delivered to his house.

  ‘We have some questions to put to you, Mr Mallows…’

  Once more he was conscious of a painful symbolism. Always, the inquisition was started by the recitation of those words. He could hear Johnson’s mocking rejoinder, speaking for everyone subject to question. ‘Whacko…!’ Did one ever ask questions without implying an accusation?

  ‘I know why you’re after me — I saw what they found under my door mat. I was watching them, you can bet — you don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you!’

  ‘Would you like to make a statement?’

  ‘Damn it, yes, I’ll do your work for you! No, sir, you can put your questions, but here’s an answer for you to begin with.’

  He threw his paper on the desk, making with it a stilted, jabbing motion; it was in fact the previous day’s Times, his name scrawled roughly across one corner.

  ‘You realize, naturally, that this proves nothing?’

  ‘Touche, my friend. It proves I’ve got one.’

  ‘Something suggested its use for a certain purpose… what would that be, except familiarity with the paper?’

  ‘The knowledge that I took it in, perhaps.’

  ‘Apart from your servants, who would have that knowledge?’

  They were sparring like a pair of boxers trying to feel each other out: Gently instantly perceived his mistake, and let the next reply dangle in air. When the expected riposte failed to come Mallows stared at him, but maintained his silence. Walker, who was sitting at the end of the desk, also looked expectantly at Gently.


  ‘Earlier today you admitted to certain knowledge concerning the recipient of a letter I showed you. You explained it by saying that he had telephoned you, but this he denies having done.’

  ‘He might have very good reasons for that.’ Mallows said it briskly, inviting a reply. Now, however, Gently was on his guard, and once more Mallows was left without support.

  ‘Suppose I guessed it, knowing what I knew? One has a brain, and you can’t help it working! From the letter one might deduce that it was Johnson who had eluded you, and after a quick check of suspects… surely Farrer is the obvious one? Naturally, Johnson would go to the bank. It’d be the last thing he would do. From there he’d want to get away quickly — and he was pals with Farrer. You see? It’s deducible.’

  ‘According to witness, you were more than friendly with Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Is it true, or false?’

  ‘It’s true that people have different ideas of what is friendly — it’s not the same thing in Mayfair and Montmartre.’

  ‘You were more than friendly with Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘I don’t say you couldn’t prove it.’

  ‘She was your mistress for a time.’

  ‘I’m going to swear at you, in a minute!’

  Mallows was visibly put out by this form of procedure, which left him nothing to aim at and pinned him firmly to the defensive. His forte, as Gently had observed, lay in smart repartee, but deprived of openings for this he quickly surrendered the initiative.

  ‘Derek Johnson suspected you of killing his wife.’

  ‘If he did, then this is the first time I’ve heard about it.’

  ‘He got in touch with you yesterday before he left the city.’

  ‘My dear fellow, you’re talking moonshine. I haven’t spoken to him for days.’

  ‘He got in touch with you from his office, and this is the gist of the conversation. In acknowledgement of his keeping his mouth shut, you were to pay him a certain sum of money. I’d better inform you that I’ve had an opportunity of talking to Johnson — at this moment he is lying in the West County Hospital, at Fosterham.’

  Not only Mallows but the others also sat up at this outrageous statement, rolled out as it was with the most stolid conviction. Until then Hansom had continued his investigation of Forensic Medicine, but now he shut the book with a bang, his eyes opening wide.

  ‘This is an astounding accusation!’

  Mallows had flushed and was really angry: his big eyebrows lifted until they were nearly horizontal.

  ‘It’s not only astounding but untrue! I have had no communication with Johnson. If he says that I have, then bless my soul! The man is a psychopathic liar, and you can tell him I say so.’

  ‘Then you didn’t promise to pay him?’

  ‘I tell you again, I haven’t spoken to him!’

  ‘He had no money from you?’

  ‘Good lord! Am I going mad?’

  ‘You didn’t advise him to leave the country, undertaking to pay him ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘A little more of this, and I’m going to insist on having a lawyer!’

  ‘And yet you knew who received that letter?’

  ‘It was only a guess… must I keep on repeating it?’

  Gently paused for an instant, a gleam in his eye: now he had produced a good working sweat! His next aim must be to keep it beading, to give Mallows no time to appreciate his tactics.

  ‘Where did you have lunch on Monday last?’

  ‘Monday… at home. I had lunch at home.’

  ‘You had lunch with Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘That’s untrue. Until the evening…’

  ‘According to witness you were seen coming out of Lyons with her.’

  ‘Not on that Monday…’

  ‘On that Monday! You went up The Walk with her and drove her off in your car. Johnson had been watching you, and he saw it too — so there doesn’t seem much to be gained by denying it.’

  ‘This is a fantastic perversion-!’

  ‘Shall I tell you what followed? You told her that you couldn’t pay her demands any longer. She’d been blackmailing you, hadn’t she? Threatened to cite you as co-respondent! And for a time, till she got greedy, you thought it was worth your while to pay her.’

  ‘You can’t believe this!’

  ‘Was she never in your studio?’

  ‘Yes, several times, but-’

  ‘You gave her that half-sheet of paper. You can’t buy it in this country and only you had a supply of it — and precisely the same sheet was used for the painting and the letter! How are you going to explain that?’

  ‘I don’t have to — I won’t explain it!’

  ‘Yet you knew who received that letter?’

  ‘For the last time — I guessed about it!’

  Had the others got an inkling of what he was up to? Two of them, at least, must be spotting the chaff amongst the wheat. Walker, on the other hand, was not so conversant with the details; he might be a little surprised, but he was probably swallowing most of it.

  Under the glare of the strip light, his face looked frowningly intent.

  ‘You were the last person to speak to her?’

  ‘Have I ever denied it?’

  ‘At lunchtime you called her bluff, and you were in purgatory until the evening. You hoped it would put a stop to her, that she would draw back from her threat — but she was determined, wasn’t she? In a few words, she confirmed it. So you followed her, trying to soothe her, telling her that after all you intended to pay — that the money was in the car, that the car was in the park-’

  ‘But it wasn’t, it was in the Haymarket!’

  ‘How many of your servants sleep in?’

  ‘Two-’

  ‘Above or below you?’

  ‘Above!’

  ‘So they wouldn’t hear you go out!’

  All the time he kept the tone subdued, never allowing his voice to rise: his face was entirely flat and gave no hint of the feelings behind it. He was like some impassive robot drilled to destructive accusation, turning it, twisting it to an implacable purpose.

  ‘Last night you didn’t sleep much.’

  ‘I admit that. I had indigestion-’

  ‘During the evening you concocted that letter, not to warn Farrer, but to make him tremble. At two a.m. you crept out of your house, carrying the letter and one of the knives. Where do you say you lunched on Monday?’

  ‘At my house — the servants will tell you!’

  ‘Why was your car parked in the Haymarket?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been!’

  ‘So it was in the car park?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then where was your car? I thought you had decided it was in the Haymarket.’

  ‘If you’re talking about Monday evening-’

  ‘Yes, Monday evening. Where was it then?’

  ‘I can prove it was in the Haymarket!’

  ‘And of course, you knew who received that letter?’

  Mallows threw up his hands in despair. He needed time to recover his balance. He wasn’t beaten — not yet; not by a long chalk he wasn’t! — but Gently had got him persistently moving in the wrong direction. He badly needed a break to discover the pattern of this ruthless treatment…

  ‘Didn’t you tell me that Farrer was a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes… yes…’ Mallows strove to hold him off.

  ‘Goes to the same club — plays golf — exchanges visits?’

  ‘Yes… that’s right… I’ve met his family…’

  ‘And this is the way you treat a friend?’

  ‘What do you mean by that? I’ve always done my best-’

  ‘If the positions were reversed, would he have treated you like that?’

  ‘My dear fellow, regarding Farrer…’ Mallows broke off with a hunch of his shoulders.

  ‘You treated him shabbily! There’s no denying that. The whole trick was despicable, the product of an inf
erior mind. And you had the effrontery to admire it — to stand admiring those damaged pictures! In front of me, of all people, you showed the pleasure it gave you. There was a spectacle to arouse disgust and anger in the meanest of intellects, yet you, a distinguished artist, could only look about you and gloat…’

  ‘Gently Iscariot…!’ Mallows gave him a reproachful look, but Gently returned a marble stare and hurried on with his assault.

  ‘Getting back to fundamentals — how long had she been your mistress?’

  ‘I didn’t admit that she had-’

  ‘Oh? But we can produce several witnesses.’

  ‘I categorically deny it!’

  ‘That is your privilege, but the facts remain.’

  ‘We were friendly-’

  ‘So I understand — to the extent of her visiting you alone in your studio.’

  ‘Twice — three times she came to my studio!’

  ‘And after that she started the blackmail?’

  ‘There was no blackmail-’

  ‘We have evidence of that. And then again, you knew who received that letter…’

  Two hours later it was still going on, in an atmosphere slowly thickening with tobacco smoke. Not once had Gently paused in his steady flood of accusation, and his low voice, varied only in tempo, seemed stamped on the character of the room. All of them were tiring except, apparently, Gently. The stenographer, who was only window dressing, had given up his pretence at scribbling. Hansom was studying the ceiling, his umpteenth cheroot in his mouth; Stephens kept smothering yawns, and Walker was frowning harder than ever.

  ‘And so, you knew who received that letter…’

  That was the text of the fearsome gospel. Again and again it was punched at Mallows, till it began to take on an almost mystical quality. Sometimes the artist would try to counter it, wearily producing his argument of deduction; but this was no use, it was contemptuously shrugged aside, and always after an interval the words came again:

  ‘But of course, you knew who received that letter…’

  Hansom thought he would scream if he heard them any more. So the charlie did know who received the flaming letter! And what was so killingly funny about that?

  An interruption came at last in the form of a buzz from the phone, and so absorbed had they been with Gently that everybody gave a start.