by Alan Hunter
‘That’s the real reason why you are at home, is it?’
‘Of course it is! You knew what I told you was an excuse. While I was here she had to stop seeing him … before this happened, anyway. If she went out, I followed her. What else was there I could do …?’
On the Friday morning he had followed her into Norchester and witnessed her visit to the office. During the afternoon she was very silent and absorbed in thought. At about half-past three he had passed through the hall and found her in the act of telephoning. She had immediately hung up and avoided him by going into the kitchen and giving some orders about tea. A little later he had seen her slip out of the house by the kitchen door.
‘She went to the phone-box at Wrackstead Turn. I timed her. She was talking for twenty minutes.’
Suspicious and very much on his guard, Paul had laid his plans for the evening. Instead of staying in the house he would deliberately go off on his motorcycle and then lurk in a side-turning, waiting to see what she would do. Mrs Lammas fell into the trap. Within five minutes she had set out to visit her lover. On the way, for motives then obscure to Paul, she had turned off to Halford Quay and made some inquiries of a petrol-pump attendant. But then she went directly to Marsh’s house. She had remained there for the rest of the evening.
‘You’re sure of this – it’s important, you know!’
‘How can I be other than sure, when I was watching the whole time on a thousand knives! She drove straight up the drive as though she owned the place, parked the car so it was out of sight and ran into the house without even knocking. Do you think I took my eyes off it one second after that?’
Gently nodded, satisfied. If Paul were telling the truth, no plain-clothes man could have watched that house half as intently as the slighted spoiled boy …
‘I watched for nearly two hours, from just after half-past seven till just before half past nine. Then she came out, and him with her – patting her shoulder and all that sort of slush! When she got into the car I raced back home. I wanted it to be a surprise, didn’t I just! And I waited for her in the lounge – and that was the row the servants heard.’
Under the circumstances, he had simply refused to believe her excuse that she had gone to Marsh for advice. What sort of tale was she telling him, about his father having sold out the business and gone off with Linda Brent? It was all too ridiculous! A palpable invention! They had gone on rowing till the return of Pauline put an end to it.
Gently refilled his pipe and lit it meticulously.
‘All right … it hangs together. Now where is Henry Marsh’s house?’
Paul hesitated before replying. He had talked himself back into fettle.
‘I suppose you’ve got to know?’
‘Oh yes, I’m afraid we have.’
‘Very well, then – and please don’t think it’s something significant! – his house is at Ollby.’
‘His house is where?’ The spent match stayed put in Gently’s fingers.
‘At Ollby, about quarter of a mile from the turning. But I can tell you right now that it means exactly nothing!’
It seemed an age before that spent match was flicked into the water. Gently kept staring at it as though it were something he hadn’t seen before. Then it went suddenly, with a curve of irritability, and Gently was lugging out his beginning-to-be-dog-eared Ordnance Survey.
‘Come on, now! No fooling about. Just whereabouts is that house situated?’
Paul pouted at his rough tone, but pointed to the spot.
‘Yes – just where I thought! It’s that white house with the trees round it, standing all on its own … over a mile this way from the village, and a good two from Panxford Upper Street!’
‘But it doesn’t signify – it might have been twenty miles away!’
Gently’s eyes fastened on him and there was no mildness in them now.
‘You can’t be that stupid! Don’t you realize what you’ve told me? On your own admission you, your mother and this Marsh were within half a mile of the scene of the murder at the time it was going on.’
‘That’s just the point – I can prove she didn’t go there!’
‘On the contrary, Mr Lammas … you can’t even prove that you didn’t go there.’
The cheeks blanched to their incredible whiteness, as though Gently had stabbed him with a knife. Even the hand clutching at the counter was drained of colour.
‘You – you trapped me into telling you this!’
Gently shook his head. ‘You seem to have trapped yourself.’
‘I told you in good faith – now you’re making it evidence against me!’
‘You told me because you had to tell me something … how much remains to be seen.’
‘I told you everything!’
‘Then look at this map.’
He prodded at the buff coloured line of the secondary road taping out from Wrackstead. It left Panxford to one side, passed through the hamlet of Panxford Upper Street and for over three miles from thence to Ollby proceeded without a single side-turn … except one.
‘You must have seen the chauffeur pass.’
‘I didn’t, I tell you!’
‘You must have done, if you were on that road. Do you want me to believe he went ten miles about?’
‘I wasn’t watching the cars!’
‘You’d have noticed your father’s.’
‘I’d got my back to the road!’
‘Then you’d be in full view of the house.’
Paul swayed as though he would fall and Gently halted to give him time to recover.
‘Another thing … you’d have seen the smoke.’
Paul moaned like a stricken animal.
‘From the house the trees hid it, but you’d have seen it from the road.’
‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘Then you must have been blind!’
‘I’m not going to say any more … I told you the truth, and now you’re trying to trap me!’
He sank back into the cushions and threw his arm over his face. Gently bit hard on his pipe-stem, looking down on the crumpled form.
‘You see where this is leading – it could have been you and the chauffeur. There’s nothing to show you didn’t intercept him and persuade him to help kill your father.’
Silence; except the twittering of the reed-warbler.
‘You were pals, weren’t you? If it comes to that, you might even have made the phone-call.’
Silence, complete and utter.
Gently snorted and reached for the painter. ‘Very well, then – for the present! But you’re in dangerous waters, my lad, and you’d better do some hard thinking. It may be that only the whole truth will save you from a long drop – and be a close call into the bargain!’
He pushed the dinghy clear. Once more the reed-warbler began to twitter from its world of tall stems.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PHYSICALLY THE WOLSELEY was an oven, spiritually it was an ice-box. You could almost feel the waves of refrigerating hate coming from the angry woman in the rear. Upright she sat, like a tiny princess. Her dark, flashing eyes tried to drill holes in Gently’s unexpressive back.
‘I still don’t understand, inspector!’
‘I regret the necessity, ma’am.’
‘I have already been into Norchester once this afternoon. If you had anything to ask me, it could surely be asked at “Willow Street”!’
‘We require your presence, ma’am.’
‘I shall certainly consult my solicitor!’
The briefest of ironic smiles flitted across Gently’s homely features as he pulled out to slide past a truck. He had been on the phone at ‘Willow Street’ before Mrs Lammas got back.
But the smile didn’t last. He was quite frankly a bit out of his depth. The more he delved into this case, the more perplexing it seemed to get. The more you found out, the less did it add up into a coherent and satisfying whole … as though each new piece in the jigsaw threw the others just a l
ittle out of true.
But they were all legitimate pieces – they had to fit into it somewhere!
And yet …
He banged on his horn and shook a wandering cyclist.
Well, you went on asking questions, and let the theory take care of itself.
The city was buzzing with the news of Cheerful Annie’s demise and the resultant manhunt. It leapt from the fly-sheets and made banner heads across both locals and Londons.
MANHUNT FOR MAD KILLER – link-up with Broads slaying, ran one of the latter. Body Taken From Dyke – Police Searching Marshes, said the more conservative Eastern Evening Star.
Gently pulled over to a news-stand and bought a sheaf. No mention of .22 bullets … the Londons were guessing. ‘The Police are still eager to contact the chauffeur, Joseph Hicks, missing since the discovery of the remains of James William Lammas in a burnt-out yacht a few miles from the scene of last night’s tragedy. They believe he could assist them in their inquiries.’ A question of two and two!
‘Here … you may not have seen this.’
He handed the papers back to his icy passenger.
‘Another reason why we specially want you at Headquarters.’
She wouldn’t even bother to make a comment.
Hansom was waiting on the steps, looking badgered and ready to bite someone. But he cheered up at the sight of Mrs Lammas … wasn’t he free, white and forty-one? A quick glance passed between him and Gently.
‘This way, ma’am … we shan’t keep you waiting.’
He led her down the corridor and opened the door of an interrogation-room. Gently hung back and waited till the door was safely closed again.
‘You managed to pick him up?’
‘Yeah – but not without some agony.’
‘Never mind, as long as you’ve got him. Are there any results on that stuff I sent in?’
‘The rayon fits for sure – it came off the night-dress.’
‘But what about the rest?’
‘Someone has been very clever! There’s nothing on the tube – it’d been out in the weather. The shoe-box was weathered too. It had a nice set of your prints and a dirty smudge on the lid.’
‘That’d be Thatcher’s paw! But what about the notes?’
Hansom laughed nastily. ‘That’s where someone was clever. First of all they’d replaced the paper bands with rubber bands – you probably noticed that. Then they’d removed the top and bottom note from each bundle, making ninety-eight to a bundle instead of a hundred. Result, a clean bill of health. We can’t even trace the clerk who paid them over the counter.’
Gently nodded ponderingly. ‘Sounds a bit too intelligent for the average run in chauffeurs.’
‘That’s what I thought, but of course you never know.’
‘This romp on the marsh … has it flushed anything yet?’
‘Not a blasted sausage and the super’s as peeved as hell.’
‘Well … here’s an outside tip. I don’t promise it will pay off. Take a search warrant and two or three men and see what you can find at “High Meadow”, Ollby – that’s Marsh’s place. I’d put your men out back, by the way … there’s a plantation sheltering the house which might have been put there to fade into.’
‘You mean that house near the turn?’ stared Hansom.
‘Yes, and give the servants a once-over. I’m particularly interested to know what happened there on Friday evening.’
‘You darned-well bet I will!’
‘And ring through here.’
Hansom departed at great pace, the gleam of the hunter in his eye. Gently stood still a moment, gazing after the vanishing form. Then he sighed very softly to himself and turned the handle of the interrogation room door.
The Headquarters of the Norchester City Police was a modern building, completed shortly before the Second World War. Outside it was a well-flavoured and handsome pile in Portland brick and stone. Inside it bore an unhappy resemblance to a requisitioned morgue and the interrogation room was no exception to the prevailing climate. It was bleak and inherently depressing. The steel desk, steel chairs and steel filing-cabinets did nothing to relieve the gloom. Once you set foot in here, they seemed to say, you were as good as lost … you might just as well confess to something and have done. Mere innocence was stripped off you at the doorway.
The room, however, seemed to have made little impression on Mrs Lammas. It was doubtful whether she had even noticed it. She had appropriated the desk with her handbag and gloves, lit a cigarette and now stood glowering at nothing, in the centre of the floor.
‘Won’t you sit down, ma’am?’
Disdainfully she perched herself on the edge of the nearest chair. It seemed positively gigantic in relation to her. Gently glanced at the rather-superior chair behind the desk, but decided not. He sat down on the desk itself.
‘To begin with, I want you to know that this interview is informal.’
She breathed scathing smoke at him. Her cigarette was coloured and slightly perfumed.
‘What you may tell me now won’t be used as evidence unless you give your permission. It’s between you and me, without any witnesses.’
‘Thank you. But I am well aware of what is evidence and what is not.’
‘Then that point’s settled! Now – would you like to do the talking?’
‘Talking? What about?’
‘Why … about your movements on Friday.’
She stared at him without emotion. The cigarette hung like a pink ornament between two exquisite fingers.
‘Be good enough to explain! You are no longer satisfied with my statement?’
‘Not really, Mrs Lammas. That’s why I’m giving you this opportunity.’
‘An opportunity, indeed!’
‘Yes … to explain certain facts.’
‘What precious facts are they?’
‘Some rather serious ones which have come to my notice.’
She stubbed out the cigarette. It was only half-smoked. In the stuffy atmosphere the scented fumes lingered in a faint miasma.
‘You will kindly tell me the facts.’
He nodded without looking at her. ‘I’ll tell you what I can prove … perhaps you’d like to go on from there. In the first place you had a call about the bad cheque from your husband’s head clerk. You went to the office. You discovered what your husband was up to. You discovered about Linda Brent and the trip on the Harrier. You told the head clerk to keep quiet about your having been there. And in the evening you went looking for your husband and making inquiries as to his whereabouts.’
‘That’s all you can prove?’ Her question came like a whip-crack.
‘Yes … just for the moment. Though there are a few subsidiary points – like your fingerprints being on the drawer that contained the gun.’
‘That is readily explainable.’
‘I know. But it’s still evidence.’
‘I am prepared to admit everything you have found out.’
‘It would be hard to do otherwise.’
‘Nor do I agree with you that it is particularly serious – I am quite certain that you wouldn’t venture to base a charge upon it.’
‘Is that to be your answer?’
‘Do you really expect any other?’
‘I think it’s reasonable to expect you to bring your statement up to date … since you’re admitting that it’s substantially untrue.’
Mrs Lammas reached for her bag and took out a fresh cigarette. A jewelled lighter no larger than a walnut clicked and flamed. This time the cigarette was blue … its aroma was subtly different, Gently noticed.
‘It’s the evening you want to know about, isn’t it?’ she breathed.
‘Naturally …’
‘If I was looking for my husband, then I might conceivably have found my husband – and put him out of the way.’
‘As you say … conceivably.’
‘But that isn’t what you think.’ There was scorn in her tone. ‘You’re the sort of f
ool who’d warn me, according to the rules. You’re too sentimental to be a good policeman, Chief Inspector Gently.’
‘It’s the good policeman who sticks by the rules … but we won’t go into that! Where did you go from Halford?’
‘Is that where I admitted I went?’
‘The petrol-pump attendant recognized you.’
‘Then I certainly wouldn’t bother to deny it.’
She paused deliberately to puff and exhale, her brown eyes examining him with unfeigned calculation.
‘Where do you say I went, inspector – even though you can’t prove it? You said our conversation was to be informal.’
‘I’m not sure of my evidence … that’s why I’m asking. But it might impress a jury more than it does me.’
‘How very intriguing! Then it would make up your charge for you?’
‘It might form the basis of one, unless I hear something different.’
‘And I won’t tell you different, will I, because I’m not impressed with your secret evidence. We seem to have reached an impasse, inspector – or shall we say you are being a little clumsy?’
Gently looked at her woodenly. She was feeling well on top now! It wasn’t even worth being angry with him when she could lead him on so adroitly. And she knew where she stood, this diamond-sharp little woman – she wasn’t to be frightened by talk of charges or long faces!
‘We’re not getting far.’
He grunted and got off the desk.
‘We aren’t, really, are we?’
‘No … so it’s time we had some help!’
Dramatically he strode across the room and threw open the dividing door. A tall, dark-haired man sitting on a chair immediately opposite quickly looked up. And for the second time in two days Gently’s ears rang to the blood-curdling shrill of Mrs Lammas’ scream.
‘This is completely illegal!’
Henry Marsh was trying to establish his dignity, while Mrs Lammas clung whimpering to his arm.
‘You had no right to bring me here to play this trick on Mrs Lammas!’
He was a good-looking man, though his grey eyes ran a little close. He had a large, straight nose, a broad, curving jaw, a sharp chin and small, neat ears. He wore a clipped moustache and a lot of long hair brushed straight back.
