by Hunter Alan
A voluptuously-curved brass plate was mounted on the multiple flutings of the porch.
It read:
DAVID HASTINGS
Property Agent
Late S. M. L. Sayers
Late Alistair Upley
A massively panelled door stood open, held by a green glass doorstop.
They went in.
Through swing doors was an office bisected by a long counter. A girl seated behind the counter was entering duplicated sheets in a big box-file.
The walls were fitted with sections of peg-board each of which was covered with photographs of properties and behind the counter hung framed architects’ plans and elevations.
Everything was new and up to date. The office smelled faintly of plastic file-envelopes.
The girl was pretty and smartly dressed and came forward with a smile.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’d like to see Mr Hastings.’
‘If it’s about a property on the books—’
‘No. We want to see him personally.’
‘In that case . . . have you an appointment?’
‘No. No appointment.’
‘What is your name, sir, please?’
Gently paused. ‘George Gently.’
She picked up a jade-green phone and spoke into it deferentially. As she listened her eyes flickered, took in Gently, fell away.
‘If you’ll go up the stairs, sir . . . Mr Hastings will see you.’
They went up a plastic-treaded stairway with mahogany banisters. At the top was a wide landing, freshly painted in light colours, and across it a door with frosted-glass panels on which was gilded: David Hastings.
Gently knocked. They entered. A man had risen to his feet. He’d been sitting behind a big sapele-wood desk, but now he came round it towards them.
‘Mr . . . Gently?’
‘Chief Superintendent Gently.’
‘Yes! I felt there couldn’t be two of you.’
‘You’re David Hastings?’
‘Who else?’
‘I’m investigating the murder of Peter Shimpling.’
Their eyes met. Hastings was a tallish man with sloping shoulders and an elegant figure. He wore a quiet, stylish lounge suit that accentuated his narrow waist.
He had dark hair and bluish eyes and unobtrusively handsome features; his small beard was pointed sharply and his moustache trimmed close.
His eyes had a tired sort of humour.
‘You think I can help you with that in some way?’
‘That’s why we are here.’
‘You surprise me, but never mind. Close the door and find yourselves seats.’
He went back to the desk and picked up the phone.
‘Anne, I’m busy till I ring again . . .’
Then he sat down, crossing his feet, letting his hands fall naturally on his lap.
‘Go ahead.’
‘First, look at these.’
Out came the photographs again. Hastings spread them across the desk and looked at each of them amusedly.
‘Do I know these people?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘That fellow there is my double.’
‘Just your double?’
‘People have them, you know. Who is he – what’s he done?’
He stared steadily at Gently, the bored twinkle never faltering.
All the other chairs in the room were low ones, and the desk sited with its back to the window.
‘He’s a man I want to talk to,’ Gently said. ‘His name is Miles Cheyne-Chevington. He was a doctor who supplied cocaine to prostitutes. He was struck off the Register in 1960.’
‘I remember the case,’ Hastings said.
Not once did his eyes waver.
‘But surely it was brought on framed evidence, and the verdict given was Not Guilty?’
Gently said nothing.
Hastings tapped the photograph. ‘And now you think he might be me?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘But of course.’
‘Can you prove your identity?’
‘Can you disprove it?’
Gently said: ‘If you are not that man you can easily help me by proving your identity. You can produce your birth certificate, for instance, your stamp card, your passport.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Why shouldn’t you? That’s the question I’ll ask myself.’
‘It might be I don’t like impertinent inquiries, even from a chief superintendent.’
Hastings smiled. He’d given the flick without the smallest edge of animosity – almost professionally, like a counsel who had a lunch date with his opponent.
‘Right,’ Gently said. ‘Let’s look at some facts. The Cheyne-Chevington trial was three years ago. Three years ago you bought this business. Where did you come from, to Abbotsham?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You don’t want to tell me?’
‘Is it compulsory for me to tell you?’
‘We can check on these things, Mr Hastings.’
‘Then why bother me with them, Superintendent?’
Again, no animosity! Just a lawyer-like non sequitur . . . Didn’t he realize he could never win this sort of game with the police?
‘You say you remember the Cheyne-Chevington case.’
‘Clearly. It had good coverage in the gutter-press.’
‘Then you’ll remember that Shimpling was involved in it – was, in fact, the principal witness?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You don’t know Shimpling?’
‘I don’t remember setting eyes on him.’
‘Not in this office?’
Hastings hesitated. ‘I have a lousy memory for faces.’
‘Did you or didn’t you?’
Hastings said smoothly: ‘Now you jog my memory, I believe I must have done. That bungalow of his was on our books. It was a property we inherited from Sam Sayers.’
‘I’m glad you remember that,’ Gently said. ‘Even though your memory for faces is so bad. In fact, Shimpling bought the bungalow through you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you’ll tell me about the transaction?’
For the first time Hastings dropped his eyes, but it was only for a moment. As though he’d looked away to give himself a pause to recall something remote . . .
‘Of course, I’m a property agent, not a solicitor . . . you do appreciate the difference? I merely bring people who want to sell into contact with people who want to buy.’
‘Meaning?’
‘My interest in a transaction is limited. It ends when I collect my commission. In the circumstances it would be academic to retain a complete file of records.’
‘Are you telling me you’ve no record of this transaction?’
‘I think it very unlikely. At a pinch I might look up the entry made when the commission was received.’
‘They, you’ll know who conveyed the property.’
‘I’m not so certain of that.’
‘And you’ll know who were the vendors.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten long since.’
‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘No records, no memories. About what one would expect to find if there were no conveyance either.’
‘No conveyance . . . ?’
‘Between Shimpling and the vendors.’
Hastings laughed politely. ‘I’m not with you . . .
‘Isn’t it plain? You don’t have any records because Shimpling never did buy the bungalow.’
Hastings’s eyes went suddenly flat, then just as suddenly regained their expression. He leaned back and made a humouring gesture with his hand.
‘But that’s ridiculous! I drew a commission. There’s no doubt about the sale—’
‘Listen to me! You’ve made a mistake, and now you can see where it’s led you.
‘If you’re Hastings you can produce those records and tell us who conveyed the property to Shimpling. If y
ou can’t, as far as I’m concerned you are Miles Cheyne-Chevington.
‘Because if Shimpling didn’t buy that property, there’s no doubt how he obtained it. By blackmail. By blackmailing you. And the conveyance will show that you were the purchaser.
‘Now – do we get the records, or do we assume you are Cheyne-Chevington?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t remember—’
Gently shook his head. ‘You remember! A body has been dug up in that property – that would have set your memory working.
‘The body of a client is dug up in a property you sold him less than three years back. Wouldn’t you have been thinking about it, talking about it, remembering every detail of the business?’
‘That may be so, but nevertheless—’
‘You pretended just now that you hadn’t. It was only when you guessed we knew that you’d handled the property that you decided to “remember”.’
‘Let me remind you—’
‘No! Do we get the records, or don’t we?’
Silence. David Hastings sat fingering his neat beard. He had a mobile, thin-lipped mouth, and now the corners of the mouth were dragged.
Behind him, on each side of the sash window, hung coloured elevations of a house and a bungalow, but on none of the walls hung the professional certificate of a man who’d entered the business regularly.
Not that Cheyne-Chevington wouldn’t have certificates . . . only they weren’t to do with selling property!
‘Any comment?’
Hastings shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Think what you like.’
‘Right. I think you’re Cheyne-Chevington. And I’m going to ask you some other questions.
‘What dealings have you had with Hugh Groton?’
‘Who says I’ve had any dealings with him?’
‘A person of your description was seen at his farm a short time before the tiger escaped. This man inspected the tiger and its cage, then sat in Groton’s car talking to him. Groton parks his vehicles in the same shed and the man may also have inspected Groton’s truck.’
‘I don’t buy tigers or trucks.’
‘Were you that man?’
‘I was not.’
‘But you know Groton.’
‘I’ve seen him around.’
‘But do you know him?’
‘I’ve . . . drunk in his presence.’
‘Where – how often?’
‘How the devil should I know? There’s one or two bars that everyone uses, the Angel, the Two Flags, places like that. I’ve never had more than a couple of words with him.’
‘A couple of words about Shimpling?’
‘Why should I talk to him about Shimpling?’
‘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.’
Hastings stammered: ‘What’s the use of looking at me?’
Gently shook his head. Then he rose to go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DUTT, 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.’