Gently Sahib (8 page)

‘It was a subject you had in common. Shimpling was in Kenya along with Groton.’

‘No! I’ve never talked to him about Shimpling.’

‘Where were you on the night of August twelfth last year?’

Hastings picked up a glass paperweight from the desk and began cupping it from one hand to the other. The mouth was tight. He was sitting forward, eyes lowered to the shuttling weight.

But if he’d really been a respectable property agent, would he have been submitting to this inquisition?

‘I know very well where I was on the night of August twelfth last year.’

‘Good. You seem to have an excellent memory for some things.’

‘You know what you can do with your sarcasm! I have an excellent reason for remembering. I spent that weekend with Ted Cockfield at his place in Weston-le-Willows.’

‘Who’s Ted Cockfield?’

‘Don’t you know?’

Perkins said: ‘He’s a building contractor. He’s got a big yard near the station . . . has a river chalet at Weston-le-Willows.

‘He’s also an alderman,’ Hastings said. ‘An ex-mayor, a family man, a well-known contributor to charities. Good enough?’

‘Who else was there?’

‘Another fellow. It was a stag party. Mrs Ted was at Torquay with their son Tommy and his wife.’

‘Were there servants at the chalet?’

‘There was the daily who keeps it squared-up. It’s only a glorified bungalow that Ted uses at weekends. We went down there on the Friday night and didn’t come back till midday Monday. Ted keeps a yacht there. We did some sailing. I never heard about the tiger till the Sunday papers.’

‘What was the name of the other fellow?’

‘I don’t remember—’

‘What was his name?’

‘Ken. Ken Ashfield.’ Hastings clutched the paperweight convulsively. ‘He’s a chemist – ask your pal there – he keeps the shop in Abbeygate.’

‘Another alderman?’

‘What’s that got to do with it? He’s a member of the Athenaeum.’

‘And the daily?’

‘What about the daily?’

‘Doesn’t she have similar claims to credibility?’

Hastings scowled at him – precisely the scowl of the photograph lying on the desk. Beard, moustache, a different hair-parting, they were suddenly and obviously mere props.

‘I seem to have heard all this before,’ Gently said. ‘Groton also has an unimpeachable alibi. They seem to grow wild in these parts – it was only the tiger who didn’t have one. What time did you leave here on the Friday?’

‘How should I know? After business.’

‘Before six?’

‘Before six! Nearer half past four, I should say.’

‘How many cars?’

‘My Jag. We picked up Ted from one of his sites.’

‘Go on.’

‘Then we drove down to Weston and had a meal at the Red Lion. After that, to the chalet. We played rummy. I won a bit. We killed a bottle of whisky and went to bed pretty high.’

‘Who was high?’

‘We all were.’

‘Not just Cockfield and the chemist?’

‘All of us, I’m telling you! We went to bed after midnight.’

‘In separate rooms?’

‘Separate rooms.’

‘So you could have gone out with nobody knowing?’

Hastings slammed the paperweight on the desk. ‘Yes! I could have gone out a dozen times – except that I was too sozzled to get the car out – and they’d have heard me doing it, anyway!

‘The garage is bung under the bedrooms and the driveway is new gravel – and, anyway, Cockfield has a dog.

‘That’s that – I didn’t go out!’

‘How long have you known these two men?’

Hastings gave his head a despairing lift. ‘Since I joined the Athenaeum. Over two years ago.’

‘Who put you up?’

‘Sam Sayers.’

‘The man who used to have this business?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to talk to him.’

Hastings paused, then said: ‘Well, you won’t talk to him in Abbotsham.

‘He’s retired, you understand? That’s why he sold me the business. He lived upstairs in the flat till last September, then he went off to Bournemouth. He left a forwarding address but—’

‘Now you don’t have it by you!’

‘Why should I? He had no relatives. Nothing came for him but pamphlets . . .’

What was extraordinary was the note of self-justification in Hastings’s voice, as though in some way he felt himself responsible because Sayers had no relatives.

‘Anyway, I’ve lost the address – it was some hotel or guest house – and nothing’s come for him since Christmas. If you want him you’ll have to look for him.’

‘I see.’

But where had that note of self-justification come from?

Hastings was mauling the paperweight again, shuffling it back and forth on the desk.

‘He left in September . . . not August?’

‘September. I can’t remember the date.’

‘Taking his furniture?’

‘I bought it off him. I live in the flat now.’

‘I wonder what his alibi would have been for the night of August twelfth last year.’

Hastings stammered: ‘What’s the use of looking at me?’

Gently shook his head. Then he rose to go.

D
UTT, WHO HADN’T
followed them up the stairs, joined them again in the Buttermarket, a pleased complacency showing on his chunky face.

‘Thought I’d go out for a cuppa, chief . . .’

He pointed to a Lyons across the street. It was plumb opposite Hastings’s office and about forty yards distant.

Gently grunted. ‘What have you got?’

‘Well . . . I chatted the bird at the counter first. But she’ll have a crush on her boss, I couldn’t get anything out of her. So I went across the road. The cafeteria’s on the first floor. You can sit at a table by the window and watch all that goes on over the street.’

‘What did you see?’

‘First, I palled up with a waitress, one who looked as though she’d been there for a while. Told her I’d been to see David Hastings, and that I’d heard he was a one for the girlies. Yes, she said, he was that all right, he’d had some smart pieces up there. Quite a scandal it was with the waitresses, it put the young ones off their work.

‘Was he steady with anyone? I asked. Yes, she said, he’d got a blonde. Very well dressed, drives a blue Merc, been regular with him for quite a time. Usually turns up after the office closes, but they’ve seen them hugging in the upstairs office.’

‘A blonde, eh . . . ?’

‘So she says. Shirley Banks is a blonde, chief.’

‘She’d have to have risen a bit in the world to fit the rest of the description. Anyone you know, Inspector?’

Perkins shook his head disconsolately.

‘I hope they serve good cuppas here,’ Gently said. ‘We may need a man up there, drinking them. What else, Dutt?’

‘As soon as you went out, chief, Hastings grabbed up the phone and dialled a number. And he wasn’t ringing the bird downstairs, because she kept banging away at a typewriter.’

‘Ringing his pals,’ Gently said, ‘to let them know we’d be round checking.’

‘Or ringing the blonde,’ Dutt said, ‘to warn her off from coming here.’

Gently shrugged. ‘We might not be interested. Could be it’s nothing to do with us. But a blonde is a blonde is a blonde . . . perhaps you’d better go back and have tea there, Dutt.’

‘That’s the way I feel about it, chief.’

‘Also, you can keep an eye on Hastings.’

Dutt went.

Perkins said: ‘That’s Cheyne-Chevington all right, isn’t it?’ Gently nodded. ‘Not much doubt. But we’ll have to pin him down on that. Put a man on checking – tax office, National Insurance, licence office – and borrow specimens of his handwriting. We’ll get witnesses who can identify him if neceessary.’

‘I knew I’d seen the man in that photograph.’

‘Do you remember a blonde from when he lived near you?’

‘I’ll ask the wife. She may remember. What do you think – is he the chummie?’

Gently smiled at the eager local man, began to walk back towards Headquarters. How could it possibly be a coincidence that Cheyne-Chevington was on the spot? And yet . . .

‘I don’t think we’ll find he’s the one who drove the truck. We’ll check his alibi, of course. But I imagine it will stand up.’

‘But if he went to arrange about the tiger . . . !’

‘We’re only guessing it was him. I think it was, but it doesn’t follow he was the chummie in the job.

‘Look at the pattern. Groton has the tiger, so he’s out – he must have an alibi. Cheyne-Chevington sets it up, but he’s vulnerable too – another alibi.

‘What we’re looking for is a third man, one who has no traceable connection with Shimpling – a man who
doesn’t
need an alibi, because we wouldn’t think to check it. Also, if this third man’s alone in the world and can vanish after the job’s done . . . that’s perfect!

‘The link is missing, and we can never bring it home to them.’

‘And the third man . . . ?’

‘Samuel Sayers. It seems to stick out a mile.’

‘But Sayers . . .’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Yes. I found him a likeable sort of chap.’

‘That’s not the point! Tell me about him. How old was he, for a start?’

‘Oh, he wasn’t so very old – mid-fifties, I’d say; medium height, podgy build, gone bald on top.’

‘Pretty active?’

‘Oh yes. He used to be secretary of the Lads’ Club. Went in for badminton and judo – he could send you sailing over his shoulder. But all the same . . .’

‘He fits the bill. I’d say he was just the man we were looking for. Especially his being a judo expert – he’d probably have needed to lay Shimpling out.’

‘But I rather liked him.’

Gently grinned. ‘We’ll have to dig him up,’ he said. ‘We can start by phoning a description to Bournemouth, though Hastings may have given us that for a blind. Then we can try the post office and the banks . . . perhaps his bank’ll be the best bet.

‘Where a man’s account is transferred to isn’t confidential information.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Perkins said, wriggling.

‘Remember, the fellow was a queer.’

Perkins’s ears reddened about the lobes. He muttered:

‘That lot happened before I knew him . . .’

They talked on, along Abbeygate Street, filled now with rush-hour traffic. Above ornate, bronze-framed windows a gilded glass panel read: K. Ashfield, MPS.

Gently tried the door, but it was locked, and a card said: ‘Closed Even for Larner’s Liver Pills’. Inside the shop looked cool and tidy. Gently hunched his shoulders. Tomorrow . . .

‘One other thing to bear in mind.’

They were crossing Abbey Plain and could see two reporters.

‘The “black book” – in the last analysis, that may be the key to this business. We’ve already a “G” and an “H” and an “S’, and now an “A” and a “C” from Ashfield and Cockfield. Of course, it needn’t mean a thing – but the right initials keep turning up.

‘Give us just one or two more, and it’ll have to stop being a coincidence.’

Perkins’s unhappy eyes turned on him.

‘You can’t mean you suspect Alderman Cockfield!’

‘Shsh,’ Gently said.

The two reporters were on them.

‘How’s it going, Super?’

Work, it seemed, was over for the day. In Bradfield’s office the chief constable was waiting to sweep Gently off home with him.

His name was Villiers and he had a twist in his nose as though it had once been broken and badly set; also his chin stuck out sharply. Yet he was handsome, in his rough-hewn way.

‘Bradfield’s been telling me you’ve spotted your man – a struck-off medico, isn’t he? Hastings, the fellow who took over Sam Sayers’s. You never can tell in this game, I say . . .’

An ex-army man, as like as not. He probably got that nose boxing. He had a hard, over-riding voice with a touch of Bow Bells in its accent.

No doubt a bastard if you rubbed him the wrong way, and that wouldn’t be difficult. He’d have favourites . . .

‘Not local, of course, that fellow. I meet him on club nights. Don’t like him. Bit of a pansy with that beard, eh . . . easy to spot them. I’m not surprised.’

‘You’ve reason to think he’s a homosexual?’

‘What? No – nothing of that kind! I mean the way he dresses . . . his manner. If I’d known him better I’d have black-balled him.’

‘Was Groton ever put up for the Athenaeum?’

‘No, but I like him. He’s a bit of a card.’

Soon it was evident enough how Villiers had spent his afternoon. He’d been collecting the local notables to meet Gently at dinner.

‘Nothing formal, y’know . . . just a meal with friends . . . the Mayor and one or two others.’

Did it really matter who murdered Shimpling?

They drove to Villiers’s house in Villiers’s Bentley. The house was out of town. Villiers drove fast and well. When they arrived three other cars were already parked on the sweep and through French windows came the sound of laughter and a chink of glasses.

‘You’d like to join them in a drink?’

Gently would rather have had a cup of tea, but soon he had a Scotch grasped in his left hand while he was shaking hands with his right.

‘Alderman Parkins, our present Mayor . . .’

A faded, ascetic-looking man.

‘Geoffrey Traynor . . .’

Of Traynor’s Fine Ales.

‘And here’s the missus, dying to meet you . . .’

And the Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates, the town clerk and the fire chief, all flushed and being familiar and making jokes and shooting questions.

Well, they could have their fun. In another twenty-four hours . . .

But just now his head was swimming and he wished he was safe in the Angel, reading
Pickwick.

The room, in spite of open French windows, had the suffocating airlessness that went with the absence of a fireplace.

‘Alderman Cockfield . . .’

Cockfield? Now he was alert again!

A powerful, moon-faced man with thinned grey hair, who stared and shook hands challengingly.

‘How do, Superintendent. What do you think of our little job?’

In his late fifties. The hands, the body of a man who’d worked his way up from the bottom.

‘Nothing special from your point of view, but it makes a stir here in Abbotsham. Not that the fellow was worth making a fuss about. I read in the paper he was a blackmailer.’