by Alan Hunter
Gently Does It
Alan Hunter
For
ADELAIDE
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
A GENTLE REMINDER TO THE READER
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
About the Author
The Inspector George Gently series
Copyright
A GENTLE REMINDER TO THE READER
This is a detective story, but not a ‘whodunit’. Its aim is to give a picture of a police investigator slowly building up his knowledge of a crime to a point, not where he knows who did it – both you and he know that at a fairly early stage – but to a point where he can bring a charge which will convince the jury.
I thought it worthwhile mentioning this. I hate being criticized for not doing what I had no intention of doing.
Sincerely yours,
ALAN HUNTER
CHAPTER ONE
CHIEF INSPECTOR GENTLY, Central Office, CID, reached automatically into his pocket for another peppermint cream and fed it unconsciously into his mouth. Then he folded his large hands one over the other on the guard rail and peered into the inferno below him with a pleased expression, rather like a middle-aged god inspecting a new annex for the damned.
It was something new in Walls of Death. It was wider, and faster. The young man in red leather overalls was not finding it at all easy to make the grade. He was still tearing madly round the cambered bottom of his cage, like a noisy and demented squirrel, trying to squeeze yet more speed out of his vermilion machine. Chief Inspector Gently watched him approvingly. He had always been a Wall of Death fan. He breathed the uprising exhaust fumes with the contented nostrils of a connoisseur, and felt in his pocket for yet one more peppermint cream.
Suddenly the gyrating unit of man and machine began to slide upwards towards him: a smooth, expert movement, betraying a brain which could judge to a hair. The ear-splitting thunder of a powerful engine in a confined space rose to a crescendo. The solid wooden wall vibrated and swayed threateningly. Higher it crept, and higher, and then, in one supreme gesture, deliberately rehearsed and breathtakingly executed, shot up to the very lip of the guard rail with a roar of irresistible menace and fell away in drunken, flattening spirals.
Chief Inspector Gently smiled benignly at the ducked heads around the guard rail. His jaw continued its momentarily interrupted champing movement. The steadying quality of peppermint creams on the nerves was, he thought, something that deserved to be better known.
Outside the Wall of Death the Easter Fair was in full swing, a gaudy, lusty battleground of noise and music. There were at least five contenders in the musical field, ranging from the monstrous roundabouts that guarded the approach from Castle Paddock to the ancient cake-walk spouting from the cattle-pens, wheezy but indomitable. All of them played different tunes, all of them played without a break. Nobody knew what they were playing, but that was not the point …
Chief Inspector Gently shouldered his way tolerantly through the crowd. He didn’t like crowds, by and large, but since he was on holiday he felt he could afford to be generous. He stopped at a rock-stall and inspected its brilliant array of starches. ‘Have you got any peppermint creams?’ he enquired, not very hopefully. They hadn’t, so he bought some poisonous-looking bull’s-eyes with orange and purple stripes to take back for the landlady’s little boy.
A newsboy came thrusting through the crowd, challenging the uproar with leathern lungs. ‘Lay-test – lay-test! Read abaht the …’ Gently turned, in the act of putting the bull’s-eyes into his pocket. The newsboy was serving a tow-haired young man, a young man still wearing a pair of scarlet leather breeches. Gently surveyed him mildly, noticing the Grecian nose, the blue eyes, the long line of the cheek and the small, neat ears. There was a note of determination about him, he thought. The peculiar quality which Conrad called somewhere ‘ability in the abstract’. He would get on, that lad, provided he survived his Wall of Death interlude …
And then Gently noticed the long cheek pale beneath its coat of dust and smears of oil. The blue eyes opened wide and the hand that held the paper trembled. The next moment the young man had gone, darted off through the crowd and vanished like a spectre at cockcrow.
Gently frowned and applied to his bag for a peppermint cream. The newsboy came thrusting by with his stentorian wail. ‘Gimme one,’ said Gently. He glanced over the dry headlines of international conferences and the picture of the film-starlet at Whipsnade: tilted the paper sideways for the stop-press. ‘Timber Merchant Found Dead,’ he read. ‘The body of Nicholas Huysmann, 77, timber merchant, was discovered this afternoon in his house in Queen Street, Norchester. The police are investigating.’ And below it: ‘Huysmann Death: police suspect foul play.’
For the second time that afternoon the jaw of Chief Inspector Gently momentarily ceased to champ.
Superintendent Walker of the Norchester City Police looked up from a report sheet as Chief Inspector Gently tapped and entered the office. ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was just wondering whether we should get on to you. What in the world are you doing down here?’
Gently chose the broader of two chairs and sat down. ‘I’m on holiday,’ he said laconically.
‘On holiday? I didn’t think you fellows at the Central Office ever had a holiday.’
Gently smiled quietly. ‘I like to fish,’ he said. ‘I like to sit and watch a float and smoke. I like to have a pint in the local and tell them about the one that got away. They don’t let me do it very often, but I’m trying to do it right now.’
‘Then you’re not interested in a little job we’ve got down here?’
Gently brought out the battered bag which had contained his peppermint creams and looked into it sadly. ‘They’ll send you Carruthers if you ask them,’ he said.
‘But I don’t want Carruthers. I want you.’
‘Carruthers is a good man.’
Superintendent Walker beat the top of his desk with an ink-stained finger. ‘I don’t like Carruthers – I don’t get on with him. We had a difference of opinion over that Hickman business.’
‘He was right, wasn’t he?’
‘Of course he was right! I’ve never been able to get on with him since. But look here, Gently, this case looks like being complicated. I’ve got implicit faith in my own boys, but they don’t claim to be homicide experts. And you are. So what about it?’
Gently took out the last of his peppermint creams, screwed up the bag and laid it carefully on the superintendent’s desk. The superintendent whisked it impatiently into his waste-paper basket. ‘It’s this Huysmann affair, is it?’ Gently asked.
‘Yes. You’ve seen the papers?’
‘Only the stop-press.’
‘I’ve just got a report in from Hansom. He’s down there now with the medico and the photographer. Huysmann was stabbed in the back in front of his safe and according to the yard manager there’s about forty thousand pounds missing.’
Gently pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. ‘That’s a lot of money to keep in a safe.’
‘But from what we know of Huysmann, it’s probably true. He was a naturalized Dutchman who settled down here a good fifty years ago. He’s been a big noise in the local timber industry for longer than I can remember and he had an odd
sort of reputation. Nothing wrong, you know, just a bit eccentric. He lived a secluded life in a big old house down by the river, near his timber yard, and never mixed with anybody except some of the Dutch skippers who came up with his wood. He married a daughter belonging to one of them, a nice girl called Zetta, but she died in childbirth a few years afterwards. He’s got two children, a daughter who lives in the house and is very rarely seen out of it, and a son called Peter, from whom he was estranged. Peter’s known to us, by the by – he was the mate of a lorry-driver who got pulled for losing a load of cigarettes. He gave up lorry-driving after that and got a job with a travelling show.’
‘He’s a Wall of Death rider,’ said Gently, almost to himself.
Superintendent Walker’s eyebrows rose a few pegs. ‘How do you know that?’ he enquired.
‘Things just sort of pop up on me,’ said Gently. ‘That’s why they stuck me in the Central Office. But don’t let it worry you. Keep on with the story.’
The superintendent eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then he leant forward and continued. ‘Between you and me, I think Peter is the man we’re after. He’s here in town with the fair on the cattle market and according to the maid he was at his father’s house this afternoon and there was a quarrel. That was just before 4 p.m. and the body was found by the housekeeper at 5 p.m. At least, he was the last person to see Huysmann alive.’
‘As far as you know,’ added Gently mildly.
‘As far as we know,’ the superintendent corrected himself. ‘The weapon used was one of a pair of Indian throwing knives which hung on the wall. He was stabbed under the left shoulder-blade, the knife penetrating well into the heart. Hansom thinks he was kneeling at the safe at the time and the murderer had to push the body aside to get the money. The money was principally in five-pound and smaller notes.’
‘Are any of the numbers known?’ enquired Gently.
‘We’ve got a list of numbers from the bank for one hundred of the five-pound notes, but that’s all.’
‘Who was in the house at the time of the murder?’
‘Only the maid, as far as we can make out. The housekeeper had the day off till tea-time: she was out from 11 a.m. till just before five. Gretchen, the daughter, went to the pictures at half-past two and didn’t get back till well after five. There’s a chauffeur, but he went off duty at midday. The only other person with normal access to the house was the yard manager, who was watching the football match at Railway Road.’
Gently pondered a moment. ‘I like alibis,’ he said, ‘they’re such fun, especially when you can’t disprove them. But this maid, how was it she didn’t hear Huysmann being killed? People who’re being knifed don’t usually keep quiet about it.’
The superintendent twisted his report over and frowned. ‘Hansom hasn’t said anything about that. He got this report off in a hurry. But I dare say he’ll have something to say about it when he’s through questioning. The main thing is, are you going to help us out?’
Gently placed four thick fingers and two thick thumbs together and appeared to admire the three-dimensional effect he achieved. ‘Did you say the house was by the river?’ he enquired absently.
‘I did. But what the hell’s that got to do with it?’
Gently smiled, slowly, sadly. ‘I shall be able to look at it, even if I can’t fish in it,’ he said.
Queen Street, in which stood the house of Nicholas Huysmann, was probably the oldest street in the city. Incredibly long and gangling, it stretched from the foot of the cattle market hill right out into the residential suburbs, taking in its course breweries, coal-yards, timber-yards, machine-shops and innumerable ancient, rubbishy houses. South of it the land rose steeply to Burgh Street, reached by a network of alleys, an ugly cliff-land of mean rows and wretched yards; northwards lay the river, giving the street a maritime air, making its mark in such nomenclatures as ‘Mariner’s Lane’ and ‘Steam Packet Yard’.
The Huysmann house was the solitary residence with any pretension in Queen Street. Amongst the riff-raff of ancient wretchedness and modern rawness it raised its distinguished front with the detached air of an impoverished aristocrat in an alien and repugnant world. At the front it had two gable-ends, a greater and a lesser, connected by a short run of steep roof, beneath which ran a magnificent range of mullioned windows, projecting over the street below. Directly under these, steps rose to the main entrance, a heavily studded black door recessed behind an ogee arch.
Gently paused on the pavement opposite to take it in. A uniformed man stood squarely in the doorway and two of the three cars pulled up there were police cars. The third was a sports car of an expensive make. Gently crossed over and made to climb the steps, but his way was blocked by the policeman.
‘No entrance here, sir,’ he said.
Gently surveyed him mildly. ‘You’re new,’ he said, ‘but you look intelligent. Whose car is ZYX 169?’
The policeman stared at him, baffled. On the one hand Gently looked like an easy-going commercial traveller, on the other there was just enough assurance in his tone to make itself felt. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer questions,’ he compromised warily.
Gently brought out a virgin, freshly purchased packet of peppermint creams. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘have one of these. They’re non-alcoholic. You can eat them on duty. They’re very good for sore feet.’ And placing a peppermint cream firmly in the constable’s hand, he slid neatly past him and through the door.
He found himself in a wide hall with panelled walls and a polished floor. Opposite the door was a finely carved central stairway mounting to a landing, where a narrow window provided the hall with its scanty lighting. There were doors in the far wall on each side of the stairway, two more to the left and one to the right. At the end where he entered stood a hall table and stand, and to the right of the stairway a massive antique chest. There was no other furniture.
As he stood noting his surroundings the door on his right opened and a second constable emerged, followed by a thin, scrawny individual carrying a camera and a folded tripod.
‘Hullo, Mayhew,’ said Gently to the latter, ‘how are crimes with you?’
The scrawny individual pulled up so sharply that the tripod nearly went on without him. ‘Inspector Gently!’ he exclaimed, ‘but you can’t have got here already! Why, he isn’t properly cold!’
Gently favoured him with a slow smile. ‘It’s part of a speed-up programme,’ he said. ‘They’re cutting down the time spent on homicide by thirty per cent. Where’s Hansom?’
‘He – he’s in the study, sir – through this door and to the left.’
‘Have they moved the body?’
‘No, sir. But they’re expecting an ambulance.’
Gently brooded a moment. ‘Whose is that red sports car parked outside?’ he asked.
‘It belongs to Mr Leaming, sir,’ answered the second constable.
‘Who is Mr Leaming?’
‘He’s Mr Huysmann’s manager, sir.’
‘Well, find him up and tell him I want to see him, will you? I’ll be in the study with Hansom.’
The constable saluted smartly and Gently pressed on through the door on the right. It led into a long, dimly lit passage ending in a cul-de-sac, with opposite doors about halfway down. Two transom lights above the doors were all that saved the passage from complete darkness. A heavy, carved chest-of-drawers stood towards the end, on the right. Gently came to a standstill between the two doors and ate a peppermint cream thoughtfully. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and turned the handle of the right-hand door.
The room was a large, well-furnished lounge or sitting-room, with a handsome open fireplace furnished with an iron fire-basket. A tiny window pierced in the outer wall looked out on the street. There was a vase of tulips standing in it. At the end of the room was a very large window with an arched top, but this was glazed with frosted glass. Gently looked down at the well-brushed carpet which covered almost the entire floor, then stooped for a closer inspection.
There were two small square marks near the outer edge of the carpet, just by the door, very clearly defined and about thirteen inches apart. He glanced absently round at the furniture, shrugged and closed the door carefully again.
There were five men in the study, plus a sheeted figure that a few hours previously had also been a man. Three of them looked round as Gently entered. The eyes of Inspector Hansom opened wide. He said: ‘Heavens – they’ve got the Yard in already! When the hell are we going to get some homicide on our own?’
Gently shook his head reprovingly. ‘I’m only here to gain experience,’ he said. ‘The super heard I was in town, and he thought it would help me to study your method.’
Hansom made a face. ‘Just wait till I’m super,’ he said disgustedly, ‘you’ll be able to cross Norchester right off your operations map.’
Gently smiled and helped himself from a packet of cigarettes that lay at the Inspector’s elbow. ‘Who did it?’ he enquired naïvely.
Hansom grunted. ‘I thought you were here to tell me that.’
‘Oh, I like to take local advice. It’s one of our first principles. What’s your impression of the case?’
Hansom seized his cigarettes bitterly, extracted one and returned the packet ostentatiously to his pocket. He lit up and blew a cloud of smoke into the already saturated atmosphere. ‘It’s too simple,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t appreciate it. We yokels can only see a thing that sticks out a mile. We aren’t as subtle as you blokes in the Central Office.’
‘I suppose he was murdered?’ enquired Gently with child-like innocence.
For a moment Hansom’s eyes blazed at him, then he jerked his thumb at the sheeted figure. ‘If you can tell me how an old geezer like that can stab himself where I can’t even scratch fleas, I’ll give up trying to be a detective and sell spinach for a living.’
Gently moved over to the oak settle on which the figure lay and turned back the sheet. Huysmann’s body lay on its back, stripped, looking tiny and inhuman. The jaw was dropped and the pointed face with its wisp of silver beard seemed to be snarling in unutterable rage. Impassively he turned it over. At the spot described so picturesquely by Hansom was a neat, small wound, with a vertical bruise extending about an inch in either direction. Gently covered up the body again.