by Alan Hunter
‘Did you find any latents on it?’
Gently passed it to the Assistant Commissioner.
‘No; it was smeary.’
‘It’s a poor surface for prints. Was there anything inside it?’
‘A couple of Churchman’s No. 1. And we found one he’d lit and thrown away, about a couple of feet distant.’
‘You examined them, of course?’
‘Oh yes, you bet I did! But there were only smears on them, and just the edges of prints.’
Gently nodded. He puffed several times without speaking. Chummie had lit a cigarette … thrown it away … dropped his case. And his hands would seem to have been sweating on that cool October mountain. It made an interesting picture: he filed it away in his mind.
Evans continued: ‘You’ll say I was dumb not to have connected the case with Kincaid, but when we found it Kincaid hadn’t been mentioned in the business. I showed it to Overton and Heslington and the rest of the party, and none of them admitted having seen it before. Then Overton rang me from his hotel; he wanted to have the initials again. When I gave them to him he told me that they were the same as Kincaid’s. I got them to look at the case again, especially the snapshot inside it, but none of them would commit themselves to a positive identification.
‘But now, with Kincaid’s name brought in, we could begin to see daylight. The next step was to inquire whether he’d been seen in the district. And you know how it is once you’ve got the right lead – people tumble over themselves to give you a helping hand. I got a call from Llanberis to say a young man had been in there. On the day of the crime he’d stopped at Llanberis and had coffee at the Snowdon Café. While he was having it he saw another customer who looked like the pictures of Kincaid, and since we were investigating Fleece’s accident he thought we might like to know.
‘That started it. I went to Llanberis directly. In a couple of hours we had Kincaid properly taped. He’d been making inquiries about his wife – that’s the story he tells, anyway – and he’d given his name and some particulars at a boarding-house he’d inquired at. Then he was remembered at the Snowdon Café, where they packed him some sandwiches, and was seen heading up the street towards where the Llanberis track begins. To round it off he returned at four and took a local hire-car back to Caernarvon. He was dropped at the Bangor Hotel, where he had booked for two nights.’
Gently asked: ‘Did anyone notice how he was dressed?’
‘Oh yes. He was wearing a tweed jacket and slacks.’
‘The same as Heslington described?’
‘Well … the slacks must have been lovat. But he had on a brown jacket, and I found the clothes at his hotel here.’
‘What’s his story?’
‘He admits he was there all right. Couldn’t very well deny it, in the face of the evidence. I came up here yesterday as fast as I could, and I had a long talk with him down at Bow Street Station.’
‘Where did he say he went?’
‘Not up Snowdon, you can bet your life! No, a nice lonely scramble up to the Devil’s Kitchen. I’ve given Llanberis a tinkle to have them check his story. There might have been climbers from Ogwen who can give him the lie.’
‘So you’ve no independent testimony to show he actually climbed Snowdon?’
‘Wait a minute!’ Evans ventured a wink. ‘You’re getting along too fast. Of course, I made some inquiries at the bottom of the track, and I’ve two witnesses who saw someone like him going up at about half-past ten.’
‘Would that fit in?’
‘It couldn’t be better for us. Like that he would arrive there around twenty minutes before Heslington.’
‘How good is the identification?’
‘Well, I admit it might be stronger. They only saw him through their windows, and the houses stand back, like. But then I’ve a separate witness who saw him coming down again. There isn’t much doubt, man. I had to charge him on the facts.’
‘Mmn.’ Gently scratched a match. ‘And you showed him the cigarette-case?’
‘Of course. And it shook him. He pretended he couldn’t remember it.’
‘Is that snapshot anything like him?’
‘It might have been him at one time. They’re going to blow it up for me and try a superimposing job.’
The Assistant Commissioner removed his glasses and gave them a polish with a handkerchief. He beamed from one to the other. ‘So now you see, Gently,’ he said. ‘As long as Kincaid is Kincaid we’ve got a good fighting case; but if he isn’t, then our best evidence is tantamount to irrelevant. It doesn’t matter that we can show he was up that mountain. It doesn’t matter that we can show he was standing on the cairn. We’ve got to show that he had a motive for shoving Fleece over the edge, otherwise his defence can write it off as an accident.’
Gently reached for the cigarette-case. ‘This is a paradox in itself, of course …
‘How do you mean, Gently?’ The Assistant Commissioner shot him a quick look.
‘Well … if Kincaid isn’t Kincaid, how did he come by this case? And if Kincaid is Kincaid, where did he get it from?’
The A.C. swung his glasses for a moment. Then he said: ‘Yes … I take your point. The first involves us in a wild coincidence; the second in a wild improbability. It’s difficult to believe that a mere hoaxer could have acquired the case, and even more difficult to believe that Kincaid would still possess it. In the first place he would hardly have taken it with him up Everest. It’s solid silver and weighty. He’d have left it behind.’
‘Just so.’ Gently took a sight down his pipe at the trinket. ‘And that leaves the situation rather open, don’t you agree? He left it behind – a likely souvenir for some other member of the party. And they were each and all of them on Snowdon when, or soon after, Fleece got the push.’
Evans flushed like a turkey-cock, his eyes growing rounder. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a stupid fellow I am! I never looked at it that way …’
‘There could be some explanation.’
‘No man – you’ve hit it. You’ve hit the nail on the head!’
‘Hold it, everyone.’ The A.C.’s voice came drily. ‘Let’s try to preserve our sense of proportion about this.’ He went on polishing his glasses, finally setting them back on his nose. He said to Evans: ‘Now you know why we’re all so fond of Gently!’
‘But it’s true, sir,’ Evans blurted. ‘You have only to consider—’
‘It’s true that, as usual, Gently has holed a neat case. But he hasn’t knocked it down, Evans, so don’t despond yet. A little routine investigation may stop the hole up again. And, Gently, that’s just what I’ve called you in to do: a little routine investigation into the antecedents of Kincaid. I’ve spoken to the Public Prosecutor about it and you were the man he asked to have assigned – so there you are: that’s the job. You’re to give us Kincaid’s identity on a platter.’
Gently stirred his feet disapprovingly.
‘Hasn’t some investigation been done?’
‘Yes.’ The Assistant Commissioner picked up a file which had been lying in his ‘Action’ tray. ‘Here you are, for what it’s worth. It traces Kincaid back to Kathmandu. It says also that the house he lived in was blitzed and so, too, was the registry office where he was married. And we drew a blank with the Press files.’
‘In fact, it bristles with leads.’
The Assistant Commissioner grinned impishly. ‘For your sake, I hope this doesn’t involve another ascent of Everest. But at least you’d have a reason, unlike these queer types who do it. I’ve often wondered what it is, Gently, that makes an Everesteer tick.’
His grin broadened and he added:
‘But what a draw it would be for tourists! For the price of a bomb, one could run a funicular up Everest.’
CHAPTER TWO
GENTLY TOOK EVANS down to the canteen and bought him a consoling cup of coffee. In spite of the A.C.’s careful handling, the Welsh inspector was down in the dumps. He’d sat in silence in Gently’s
office while the latter had read through the Kincaid file, then he’d answered a few random questions. But his attention had plainly been wandering.
‘It just goes to show, man …’
Now he was moping over his coffee, the red flush still clinging to his straight, smooth-skinned features. He was in his forties, but he looked boyish, his hair and eyebrows being fair. He was tall and hard-framed: an ex-rugby-player, probably.
‘We don’t see much excitement in Caernarvon, look you. I had visions of making myself on a case like this. And it all went so easy, that was the whole trouble about it. One thing led to another … I got too cocky, by far.’
‘You won’t be the first to have bought stock off Kincaid.’
‘I know, man. I should have gone like a cat on hot bricks. I should have waited till my head cleared before slapping a charge on him, but it’s too late now. I’ve dropped a most almighty clanger.’
‘I wouldn’t swear to that yet …’
‘Oh yes. I can sense it. The Assistant Commissioner was very decent, but he didn’t fool me, man.’
‘But he’s right about one thing – there’s still a case to be answered. So we’d better have a chat with Kincaid and see if we can chase up an angle.’
In the courtyard a squad car was waiting to take them to Bow Street. It was a drizzling October morning and the Strand had a drear and slatternly look. Umbrellas were bobbing along the pavements, newsboys huddled into doorways, a sky of motionless grey wrack pressed low over pencilled buildings. At the first tobacconist’s shop Gently stopped to make a purchase. He returned, to Evans’s surprise, with cigarettes of three different brands.
‘You do smoke cigarettes, don’t you?’
He took charge of Evans’s cigarette-case, adding samples from his three packets to the Players already contained in it. Then he handed back the case.
‘I’ve put the Churchmans on the right … it’s a silly trick, really. But then, we’re on a silly case …’
At Bow Street Police Court a couple of pressmen stood waiting on the steps and they snapped into action when they saw Gently arrive with Evans. A flash-bulb hissed momentarily, a notebook was thrust under Gently’s nose.
‘Is it the Kincaid job, Super …?’
‘Have there been some developments …?’
He pushed past them into the police station, murmuring something about routine.
Inside the station smelt dank, as though the drizzle had seeped into it. Gently explained his errand at the desk and was passed through to the office. The inspector in charge, who knew Gently very well, shrugged and made a face when Kincaid’s name was mentioned.
‘I’ve got a feeling about him, Super … you know the sort of feeling?’ He gave an expressive nod to make his meaning the more emphatic.
Then Kincaid was fetched in. He was thinner even than the pictures showed him, a spindly, emaciated man whose clothes hung slackly about him. He had a long, narrow skull, a high forehead and a straight nose, his cheekbones were over-prominent and his brown eyes large and intense. He had a small, thin-lipped mouth set in a pessimistic droop. His cheeks were sunken, his hair short and grey. He looked ten years older than the forty-seven he should have been and one placed him directly: a fanatic or a humbug. He had the fey, alien quality of one born to be notorious.
Evans introduced the session.
‘This is Superintendent Gently, Kincaid. He has one or two questions he wants to ask you.’
Kincaid fastened his brown eyes on Gently for a moment, then he looked round for a chair and sat down without speaking. Gently perched informally on the office desk.
‘Do you smoke, Kincaid?’
‘Yes, I smoke.’
His voice was pitched high and he spoke with care. Evans, cued in, offered his case to Kincaid; then he glanced towards Gently with a scarcely perceptible nod. After hesitating, Kincaid had chosen a Churchman.
‘Now Kincaid.’ Gently waited for the cigarette to be lit. ‘I’m rather interested in these inquiries you’ve been making about your wife. You’ve had plenty of time to find her, and you’ve had a lot of publicity. If she was still alive, don’t you think she would have come forward?’
The brown eyes stared through the cigarette smoke, but Kincaid made no offer to answer. He sat perfectly still, his disengaged hand resting lightly on his knee.
‘You understand me, Kincaid?’
His head nodded once, slowly. It was set on a scrawny neck which projected stalk-like from his collar.
‘Well … what’s your answer going to be?’
When it came it surprised Gently.
‘I’m not obliged to say anything when you ask me a question.’
‘Now see here, Kincaid—’ Evans jumped wrathfully to his feet, but Gently waved him away, signalled for him to sit again. Kincaid’s mouth had shut tightly and he watched the Welsh inspector with disdain. His bony hand, now tightly clasped, showed points of white along the knuckles.
Gently said smoothly: ‘You’re quite in order not to answer questions, and I don’t intend to ask any about the crime you are charged with. But if you still claim to be Kincaid I’d like some facts about that. If you’ve changed your mind, all right. We won’t go any further.’
‘Why should I have changed my mind?’
It was a difficult question. Either Gently told him the truth or he was paving the way for a judicial reprimand. Since Kincaid was charged he couldn’t be interrogated about the murder, and it was sailing close to the wind to treat his identity as a separate subject. Gently weighed his answer with care.
‘I think you know that, don’t you?’
Kincaid rocked his head again. ‘Please don’t look on me as an idiot.’
‘Right. Then perhaps I can have your decision?’
‘I don’t have to make one. I am Kincaid.’
Gently hesitated. ‘You can take advice …’
‘I certainly shall. But it won’t alter the fact.’
‘It isn’t a fact until it’s proved.’
‘Oh yes it is. And I’ll swear to it in court. I’d sooner swing as Reginald Kincaid than be let off as some impostor.’
His face took on a contemptuous twist: he seemed almost to be enjoying himself. For the first time it occurred to Gently that Kincaid might never get to court …
‘So in that case you’ll be ready to help us to establish your identity?’
‘Quite ready. And I’ll go further – I’ll instruct my lawyer to help you too.’
‘Then I’d like to return to the question about your wife.’
‘And I repeat: I don’t have to answer your questions.’
Was he mildly sane even? Gently stared at the large, burning eyes. They never changed expression, he noticed, though the thin features had plenty of eloquence. Two glittering dark orbs, they seemed to live independently; they weren’t wholly connected to the intelligence behind them.
‘Perhaps you’d like to make a statement, then?’
‘Oh yes. I’m used to that. I’ve done nothing else since I came back from India.’
‘About your wife.’
‘About anything. My opinions are sought after.’
‘I’d like her maiden name and some details of origin.’
‘Take a note.’
Kincaid crossed one bony leg with the other; then he folded his arms and gazed vacantly at the wall.
‘Maiden name, Paula Blackman. Place of birth, not known. Was living with mother in Fulham when married to R. Kincaid. Height, five feet seven. Age, forty-three years. Colouring …’ He faltered. ‘I don’t precisely remember that.’
‘Was she brunette?’
‘I don’t remember!’ He frowned reprovingly at Gently, adding scoldingly: ‘And it’s no use your trying to make me. Now I can remember the dress … we went to Wales for our honeymoon … her shoes … her handbag … but some things I can’t see. It’s only natural, isn’t it? It’s over twenty years ago.’
‘How would you recognize her if you saw
her?’
‘Stop asking me questions! I shall either tell you or I shan’t, but I won’t answer questions. And as for how I should recognize her, that’s a foolish question anyway: one has a faculty for it. You talk like a bachelor.’
Gently sighed. ‘All right! Carry on with your statement.’
Kincaid regarded the wall again. ‘Take a note,’ he said.
His memory was really surprising in both its commissions and its omissions. It could recall a minute detail and then lapse over something important. Yet there seemed no deliberate pattern, no intention of cunning, and one would almost be prepared to swear that the fluctuations were genuine. And, as one grew used to his eccentricities, Kincaid appeared less abnormal. A personality emerged from behind them, unusual perhaps, but firmly intact.
‘I’d like to have a statement about your search for your wife.’
‘Take a note. I went to our house in Putney …’
Only of course it wasn’t there, nor the houses of their neighbours, nor anything the way he’d seen it or known it. A bombed site here, a block of flats there, new people, new names, not a soul who remembered Kincaid.
‘I saw an announcement and I went to that Everest Club meeting. I don’t care about those people, they’re nothing to me at all …’
But surely some of them must know what had happened to Mrs Kincaid, and it was to question them that he had gone to the Asterbury that night. And there again he was frustrated. He couldn’t convince them of his identity. All he’d got from it was a slander suit and a waggon-load of publicity.
‘Still, I thought that when my name was published … and it was then I began advertising.’
But never a word reached him from Paula Kincaid.
‘Can I have a statement on your reactions?’
‘Take a note. I’m sure she’s alive. I’ve known that all along, really … up there in Shigatse, and Lhasa. The Tibetans have discovered a system and they can tell about people. I knew a priest in Shigatse, and he gave me lessons.’