by Hunter Alan
‘Were there any postscripts to the business?’
Perkins, scowling at nothing, jerked his head.
‘Postscripts . . . ?’
‘You know. Perhaps a whisper that there were people who knew more than they’d said.’
‘Well yes . . . actually.’ Perkins said moistening his lips. ‘There was a letter, an anonymous letter – not to us, to the boy’s father. Said the writer had evidence that would have altered the verdict – made us a lot of trouble with Amies. He threatened to go to his MP.’
‘What does that look like to you?’
‘There’s always people writing letters like that.’
‘To me it looks as though Cockfield were showing sales resistance to Shimpling, and Shimpling put on the screw and brought him to heel. Which means that Cockfield’s support for Hastings’s alibi is dubious, leaves us with only Ashfield to credit.’
‘I just can’t believe it of Alderman Cockfield!’
‘He’s human, isn’t he?
‘I know . . .’
It was a glimpse of a world, a world different and apart from the metropolis. One where values were static and unrelative, where easy cynicism was out of place.
Where a CID inspector like Perkins could sit blushing like a shamed child, when someone cast aspersion on a Somebody to whom he allotted automatic innocence . . .
And was Gently so superior because he questioned all innocence, all values?
‘Anyway, I’ll have a talk with this chemist. He may be fireproof though the others aren’t.’
‘He’s a decent fellow,’ Perkins blurted eagerly. ‘There’s never been anything against him.’
‘One other thing. I want you to ring Groton and to pitch him a yarn about poachers.’
Perkins was too much bowled out to ponder the ethics of this manoeuvre, though no doubt he would remember and be unhappy about it later. Now he rang Groton, who was at home, and simply repeated what Gently’d told him.
‘There was some poaching over your way last night . . . did you hear any shooting around midnight?’
A simple trap – and Groton fell into it.
‘Yes . . . I heard shots around half-twelve.’
‘Mr Ashfield?’
‘He’s in the dispensary. I’ll ask if he can see you. What name, please?’
She was an austere woman with facial hair and a flat figure. She was one of three, none of them beauties, none of them much under fifty, who were kept busy behind the glass counter, serving the brisk Saturday trade.
When Gently had come in there’d been scarcely standing room in the shop, and he was pushed up against a tall cabinet containing displays of cosmetics.
The air smelled of stale bath salts with whiffs of camphor and more subtle odours, besides a scent of ground coffee proceeding from the basket of one of the shoppers.
For they were country women. Each one of them carried a stuffed bag or basket, seemingly unconscious of the weight, since their burdens were never set down. Yet they dressed well, were apparently affluent. Some of them wore jewellery that wasn’t Brummagem. And they were cheerfully paying down crinkled notes for expensive scent, lipsticks, hair-lotions.
At the end of the shop, behind mirror panels, was the cubicle marked DISPENSARY, from which came a shuffle of feet and occasional clinks and now and then the sound of voices.
Two fans turned overhead. The shop furnishings were modern and expensive. The assistants, though dour, were efficient, could identify items sketchily described.
A good business . . .
Shimpling would have noticed, if he’d dropped by for some after-shave lotion.
‘This way, sir.’
Was it an accident that the three assistants were such dragons? Policy perhaps; the pretty young ones would come and go too quickly.
This one smelled strongly of menthol lozenges and had a definite tuft on her chin; one of the others had a chopper-like profile, the third a cast in the left eye.
‘Mr Ashfield.’
They’d gone through the mirrors into a small, square compartment. Two sides were fitted with benches and a sink and a doorway on the right had stairs descending to it. On shelves above the benches were packed glass bottles, some clear, some dark blue, and the benches were littered with porclain dishes, glass beakers, a mortar and pestle. Made-up prescriptions, each wrapped in white paper, stood neatly grouped on a small desk.
Then there was Ashfield.
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’
He had a high-pitched, whining little voice. He was a small man. He had a perfectly round skull with dark hair oiled and smeared back over it.
‘What do you want? I’m rather busy. You must understand this is a busy day.’
He was wearing white overalls but had a spotted bow tie. Because his neck was so short the tie came right up to his chin.
‘Mr Kenneth Ashfield?’
‘You heard my name.’
‘Chief Superintendent Gently, CID. I’m investigating the death of Peter Shimpling. I believe you can help me.’
‘You can believe what you like, can’t you?’
Angry, peppery brown eyes. Darting aggressively at Gently, yet swinging past him all the time. He had rounded cheeks and good straight teeth which appeared triumphantly after each clipped speech.
Or was it perhaps apprehensively . . . since the eyes never backed him up?
‘I’d sooner believe the truth, Mr Ashfield. Had you any acquaintance with Shimpling?’
‘You don’t believe in the truth. Belief is superfluous. You either know something, or you don’t know it.’
‘I’d like to know if you were acquainted with Shimpling.’
‘Truth, too, that’s superfluous.’
‘That may be—’
‘Truth is a lie. A mere intellection, divorced from being.’
‘This isn’t getting us very far . . .’
‘I disagree! I find it stimulating. From your point of view I did know Shimpling, or I didn’t know Shimpling. Equally true.’
The toothy smile, a brush from the eyes, then the eyes sliding away. Ashfield was working up a momentum from which it was plain he didn’t intend to be diverted.
‘Again, from your point of view—’
‘Who appoints your assistants?’
‘What?’
‘Your assistants. They’re devilishly plain. One can’t admire your taste in women.’
Ashfield was thrown for a moment. His eyes darted about, his smile pulled into a snarl. Then:
‘That’s a case in point, don’t you think? Plain is pretty, equally true.’
‘But you don’t have to engage plain assistants – surely it’s unusual in your trade?’
‘Unusual and usual—’
‘On the cosmetic counter – wouldn’t a pretty girl be more the thing? Say a blonde with lots of oomph, that’s who you’d expect to find there – a girl who knows how to make up, how to wheedle men into buying presents.
‘And how much pleasanter for you – especially when she’s here after hours! I’d say you needed a blonde in the shop. Don’t tell me you never had one?’
This time Ashfield was really stumped; he went quite still and staring. As though he were trying over words, he made a series of small grunting noises through his nose.
‘Yes, a blonde,’ Gently said. ‘You find them doing this job everywhere . . . good for business, good for the boss! I was quite surprised not to see one here.’
‘Look! If this is all you’ve come for—’
‘I didn’t come to talk metaphysics.’
‘Then exactly why—’
‘I thought I made it plain. I want to know if you’d met Shimpling.’
‘Why pick on me?’
‘Your name was given me.’
‘In what connection—!’
Gently shook his head. ‘First, I’d like you to answer some questions, then we’ll come to the background.’
He heard a step and looked round quickly. A w
oman was standing at the foot of the stairs. She was a bold-faced person with grey hair, though her age could not have been more than forty.
She stared at Gently, then at Ashfield. Ashfield flickered his toothy smile. The woman was tall and thick-bodied and dowdily but not inexpensively dressed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were alone, Kenneth. I’ll wait till you’re free.’
‘I—’ Ashfield began.
The woman turned and softly remounted the stairs.
Gently winked at Ashfield.
‘The missus? he asked.
‘What if she is?’
‘Nothing . . .’
‘Why do you say that?’
But his darting eyes weren’t looking at Gently.
CHAPTER TEN
‘BUT OF COURSE you did know Shimpling?’
Ashfield didn’t immediately reply. He went across to the desk, opened a small drawer, took out a tablet and swallowed it. Some of the fizz had gone out of him. He stood looking into the open drawer. His oiled hair gleamed metallically under the fluorescents that lit the dispensary.
When he turned, it was to sit down.
‘Suppose I did. What then?’
‘In what capacity did you know him?’
‘As a customer. He bought stuff here.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I met him out. He used to hang around the bars. He was an interesting talker. Not that I ran into him much.’
‘He had a woman living with him.’
‘So I’ve read in the papers.’
‘She was a blonde.’
‘I’ve read that too.’
‘Didn’t you meet her?’
Ashfield burped.
‘We can check,’ Gently said. ‘I just thought you’d maybe save us the trouble. My guess is this woman got a job here. I may be wrong. You can tell me.’
‘And . . . if she did?’
‘She’s very attractive. She’s a pro and knows her business. She’d get under any man’s skin if she was around for a while. But my guess is she wasn’t around long . . . didn’t see the week out, perhaps. How long did it take?’
‘How long did what take?’
‘Getting you in front of a camera.’
Ashfield made his grunting noises, showing his teeth at the floor. Now that his head was tilted forward the bow tie had vanished completely.
‘This is your story. I’ve admitted nothing!’
‘But that’s how it went, wasn’t it? Shimpling took a look at you, weighed the prospects, then attacked the weak spot.
‘You’ve a jealous wife. Don’t worry . . . I don’t intend to raise my voice! And you, maybe you’re a bit starved – keep your wool on, I’m not blaming you! You wouldn’t dare to hunt it up, but if it were served on a plate . . . and that’s what happened, didn’t it? I’ll bet she was never out of this dispensary . . .
‘Then she’d tell you he was away and that you could come out to the bungalow, perhaps even invent an excuse which would satisfy your wife. But, at a certain point in the proceedings fizzh! off goes a flashbulb – and you’re down in the book for twenty-five pounds a month.
‘We even know what you paid. Why bother to deny it . . . ?’
Ashfield looked ill. ‘For God’s sake, stop it! She may be listening on the landing. All right, she’s jealous – I give you that . . . couldn’t we have talked somewhere else?’
‘How did you pass off Shirley Banks?’
‘Keep your voice down! I don’t admit anything,’
‘If there’s nothing in it—’
‘If there is or not, she’ll believe it if she hears.’
Gently shrugged. ‘I don’t want to make trouble for you . . . I’ll treat the whole business as confidential. But why not admit it? It’s over and done with. Being blackmailed isn’t a crime.’
‘If I had been blackmailed I’d have gone to the police!’
Gently shook his head. ‘Not you. Shimpling was a tradesman when it came to blackmail, he made his way the easy way. What was twenty-five pounds a month? You could lose that comfortably in expenses. It was degrading, no doubt, and you’d liked to have clobbered him, but it was cheap compared with the alternative.
‘If there’d been a case, in a town like Abbotsham, how could it ever have been kept from your wife?’
‘Not so loud! So if it’s over and done with, why do you come raking up muck?’
‘Shimpling was murdered.’
‘What if he was?’
‘You’re part of the pattern of that murder.’
Ashfield got up, crept over to the stairs, stood listening several moments. But he would scarcely have heard a movement from that direction above the noises from the shop.
He came back and went to the sink, where he poured himself a glass of water.
A curious, monkeyish little man, with the quick, neat actions of an animal . . .
‘You can’t drag me into this. It’s too absurd. Where’s the motive? If I was paying only twenty-five a month, would I have killed a man for that?’
‘Who said you killed him?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I said you were part of the pattern.’
‘What pattern?’
‘As I see it, a conspiracy of Shimpling’s victims.’
‘A conspiracy!’ Ashfield gulped water. ‘I’d say that’s even more absurd! How would they know about each other?’
‘Perhaps you can tell me.’
‘Well, I can’t!’
He was driving himself now, trying to get back on his rails. From the sink, glass in hand, he was giving Gently those explosive glances.
‘You don’t know anything. You have a theory. You’d like to fit me into your theory. Somebody saw me talking to Shimpling – that’s the basis of it, isn’t it?’
‘Twenty-five pounds.’
‘Or twenty! Or thirty! Anyone can make up a figure. Figures are a lie about reality – you don’t impress me by quoting figures.’
‘Let’s quote some facts, then.’
‘You don’t have any!’
‘Here’s a small one to go on with. You think you’ve an alibi for the night of the murder, but you haven’t. It’s just gone phut.’
‘I’ve . . . it’s what?’
‘Gone phut. It could have been you set on the tiger.’
‘Haven’t I told you—’
‘Not so loud! You might have drawn the unlucky card.’
‘This is crazy!’
He began pacing up and down, still with the glass in his hand. For a short man he had long legs, which gave him a pouncing, bobbing motion. Animal-like . . . was it just possible that Ashfield was the second cat-man? His skull was as round as a Spanish orange, went bobbing, bobbing back and forth.
‘Is that what you think? That we got together and sentenced this Shimpling fellow to death – then drew lots as to who should do it – who should play games with a tiger?’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘None of you have motive enough separately. But put you together! And with Groton among you, a customer who’d tried these tricks before . . .’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘How do you know?’
‘I mean, you’re wrong all along! Good God, do you think I’d have had anything to do with it – killing anyone – if I’d known?’
‘If you’d known what?’
‘If I’d been mixed up in it – this conspiracy you talk about. What Groton would do is another matter. But me! I wouldn’t – I just wouldn’t.’
‘Yet you were mixed up in it.’
‘No!’
‘Tell me where you where on the night of the murder.’
‘I was out of town, at Weston-le-Willows. With Alderman Cockfield and Dave Hastings.’
‘Mixed up in nothing.’
‘Haven’t I said so?’
‘Apart from the giving and getting of alibis.’
‘You’re crazy
if you think—’
‘They’re both of them in it, and so are you. Those are the facts.’
‘No – no!’
The glass was slopping over with the vehemence of Ashfield’s denials – yet still he was subduing his voice to little above the level of a whisper. What a woman she must be, the one up the stairs!
A cat-man? Somehow Ashfield wasn’t quite fitting the part . . .
‘Listen – I can’t help what you know about me or anyone else. I had nothing to do with that tiger, nothing to do with Shimpling’s death. If it were poison – look at those bottles! You might have suspected me then. I could have dosed his malted milk or slipped a ringer in his vitamin pills.
‘I could have done – if I’d wanted to! And wouldn’t that have been easier? Would it ever have got to letting loose tigers if I’d been consulted in the matter? It’s common sense. I’d nothing to do with it. All the rest doesn’t matter.
‘I don’t have to admit anything – you can see how it was for yourself.’
‘Yet someone did set the tiger on Shimpling.’
‘Not me! That’s the truth.’
‘But you can guess.’
‘Why should I guess?’
Gently nodded . . . it was a good question!
‘At the best, you’re sticking your neck out for a charge of accessory after the fact. While if you help us . . .’
‘I’ve admitted nothing.’
‘Twenty-five pounds.’
‘How will you prove it?’
They were facing each other now, Ashfield with his head tilted upwards. All the pepper had gone out of his eyes; they were suddenly fixed and frank. Then they jumped, slipped sideways. There was some little commotion in the shop. A voice said:
‘That’s all right, miss – Ken knows me!’
And the door opened. It was Cockfield.
This morning Cockfield was dressed in a bright mixture Irish tweed with a squash hat to match and a canary-coloured waistcoat with medal buttons. He looked surprisingly brisk after his carouse. He had a white carnation in his buttonhole. You’d have taken him for a wealthy farmer who’d brought a herd of bullocks to the stock market. His big face, which the hat suited, shone with cheerfulness and confidence.