by Hunter Alan
He drove, pipe in mouth, letting the Rover amble at forty. After Hawkshill, where he left the A-road, he met no traffic other than cyclists.
He arrived at Cockfield’s chalet at seven. Three cars were already parked there. Along with the maroon Daimler and Hastings’s Jaguar stood a spotless Volkswagen . . . Ashfield’s, of course.
Gently parked the Rover beside it, slammed his door loudly, went up the steps.
Before he could ring, Cockfield opened to him.
Cockfield held a glass in his hand.
‘Was there anyone else who ought to have been here?’
Surely it was quite an obvious question! Gently asked it casually while re-lighting his pipe, rather as a chairman might check his committee.
But nobody was rushing to give him an answer, Cockfield, Ashfield or Hastings. Instead they’d drawn together in a group and were eyeing Gently as though he would bite.
Cockfield had changed from his squire-like tweeds into a suit which suggested half-mourning. His moonish face had a droop in it, reminding Gently of Perkins.
Hastings, also holding a drink, had his mouth set sullenly; Ashfield stood with feet planted apart, a short, shiny-pated bulldog.
What did they think? That Gently had brought three warrants in his pocket?
‘Come on . . . no need to be shy. We haven’t been here fitting microphones. I could have hauled you down to Headquarters if I’d wanted to play games.
‘What about Herbert Drinkstone?’
No reaction to Herbert Drinkstone!
‘Or Joe Leyton? Or the ladies?’
Just three defensive stares . . .
‘At least you can offer me a drink. I’ll have a Scotch and soda.’
It was an appeal Cockfield couldn’t resist and he went silently to the drinks cabinet. The other two, as though this were a signal, let their eyes slant away from Gently. Ashfield remained standing. Hastings chose a chair and sat.
Gently took the drink.
‘Skaal!’
Cockfield made a token gesture.
Gently said: ‘Perhaps it’s time I brought you people up to date. Shimpling’s dead. He was killed last night. We’re holding Groton for the murder. Groton destroyed all Shimpling’s material, nobody has anything to fear from that.
‘Also, we’ve a statement from a Miss Banks, sometime known as Mrs Shimpling, in which she names all the people Shimpling was blackmailing in Abbotsham. But, of course, she’s an unreliable witness and her testimony would need holstering.
‘It’s on the cards we wouldn’t waste the ratepayers’ money on that . . .’
He sipped the drink, looked at each of them.
‘Any comment?’ he inquired.
Hastings was gripping his glass tightly. He said: ‘You wouldn’t be kidding us . . . not about Shimpling?’
‘No kidding. He was killed.’
‘Then you know about Sammy?’
Gently nodded. ‘Not to prove, of course. We couldn’t offer evidence of identification. But between you, me and these four walls, it was Sammy the tiger ate – wasn’t it?’
Hastings glanced at Cockfield, who grunted.
He said: ‘Shimpling’s dead, and you’re holding Groton . . . ?’
‘That’s it.’
‘For murdering Shimpling?’
‘We’re holding him on another charge, temporarily.’
‘And he’s made a statement?’
‘No statement.’
‘But he will make a statement!’
Gently shrugged. ‘I don’t think he will, and it’ll only be relevant as it concerns the charge.
‘Obviously, he may talk a lot of stuff about Shimpling and the tiger, and what he says will be passed on to the local police for action. But there again, proof is everything, and where is that proof to come from?
‘I haven’t found any yet, and I doubt whether Abbotsham will be luckier . . .’
They were all staring at him again, but now the stare was rather different!
Hastings said: ‘Are you trying to tell us you intend to drop the case?’
Gently waved his glass. ‘That’s up to the locals. I’m off on a fishing trip tomorrow. Naturally, I’ll leave them certain advice about the conduct of the case.’
‘Then what are you saying?’ Cockfield burst out. ‘Stop bloody well playing at cat-and-mouse with us. I’ve had enough – we all have. This isn’t so damn funny, I can tell you.’
‘What I advise them,’ Gently said, ‘rather depends on you gentlemen.’
‘How on us?’
‘I shall have to be satisfied about the facts of what happened.’
Cockfield glared at him. ‘You mean a confession.’
‘Confirmation, let’s say.’
‘You want us to incriminate ourselves.’
‘It would be your three words against mine.’
‘This is a trap!’ Ashfield snapped. ‘I warned you how it would be. He has his reputation to think of – he’ll stop at nothing to put us inside.’
‘I’m simply making you an offer,’ Gently said. ‘That’s the Abbotsham way, isn’t it? Give me the facts off the record, and perhaps you’ll hear no more about this.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps!’ Ashfield scoffed. ‘You’ve already admitted you’ve no proof.’
‘I didn’t admit I couldn’t get proof . . .’
‘Yes, after we’ve given ourselves away!’
‘Hold it, Ken.’
Hastings laid his hand on Ashfield’s arm.
‘Letting him get your goat is dangerous – and there’s a lot in what he says.’
‘He thinks we’re fools!’
‘No he doesn’t. He’s right about saying we’re three to one. If he tried to use anything we told him we could swear blind he was a liar.’
‘But we might give him a lead—’
‘How should we? Outside our testimony, where is there proof ? He knows that, it’s why he’s here. And if it will stop him digging, I’m for telling him.’
‘Let him dig.’
‘I don’t think he wants to.’
Cockfield said: ‘I don’t know if I trust him. But it’s a fact he’s come here alone. He can’t use what we say as evidence.’
‘Skaal!’ Gently said. ‘Drink up.’
Cockfield’s glass twitched involuntarily.
‘All right,’ Ashfield said. ‘Go ahead. But just remember I warned you when you’re standing in the dock.’
Hastings gave him a wry smile. ‘It’s a place I’ve stood in before,’ he said.
Now they were all sitting down, making a semicircle round the coffee table. Gently had Hastings on his left, between himself and Cockfield.
Through the window in front of them they could see the evening sunlight slanting on the lawn, the boathouse, and across the river, over the trees, hung red and ghostly the harvest moon.
Had there been moonlight a year ago, when three of these men had sat round this table? Had they noticed it, the colour of it, and found it dreadfully apposite?
But by the time the car left, the blood on the moon would have faded away . . .
‘I’m going to tell this in my own way – I’ll only identify Groton and Sammy.’
Hastings looked at Gently questioningly.
Gently nodded. ‘That’ll do.’
‘There were five of us – six of us – being blackmailed by Shimpling. Who else he was biting we don’t know. There were only five of us in the plot.
‘At first we didn’t know about each other, but then one of us, Groton, decided to hit back. He had it in mind to murder Shimpling and his plan required accomplices. He knew that Shimpling would have other victims. He hired a detective to run them down. He got on to Sayers and the three others and put up the tiger plot to them.’
Hastings hesitated awkwardly.
‘Well, it was a good plot!’ he said. We didn’t like it, but it was a way out, and one of us was getting desperate.
‘The objection made was about the woman, but j
ust at that time she left Shimpling. So we agreed – two to do it, two to give them an alibi. Groton couldn’t be in it, of course, he’d be the first person the police would check.
‘Groton briefed us about the tiger and the way to release it from the truck. Sayers was one of the two who were to do it – he knew judo, he could tackle Shimpling. He wasn’t keen, but he was the obvious choice . . . and he was the other man’s friend.’
Gently said: ‘You’d know him well, of course.’
Hastings jerked: ‘None of that! What you guess is your affair, but I won’t be cross-questioned.’
Gently shrugged. ‘Sayers no doubt had a number of friends in Abbotsham . . .’
Hastings looked at him, was silent a moment. Then he went on flatly:
‘We set it up for a night when Groton had a meeting in London. Sayers and the others were ostensibly spending a weekend in the country. At half past ten Sayers and the other man drove to Groton’s farm to pick up the truck. Groton had left the tiger loaded in it and the doors of the body taken off.
‘They drove it by back ways to Shimpling’s bungalow. They arrived there at twenty past eleven. They stopped short of the bungalow and Sayers went ahead to reconnoitre. He opened the gates and signalled to the truck. The truck was driven on the verge, then backed to the gates. Sayers gave a thumbs-up sign to the driver, went up the drive, knocked, got set . . .’
Hastings screwed his eyes shut.
‘Ted,’ he said, ‘fill my glass for me.’
Cockfield scrambled up, took the glass to the cabinet, brought it back full of whisky. Hastings drank.
He said: ‘I wasn’t watching. I was all tensed up with what I had to do. Sammy was fast, a black-belt man, he was going to chop him, get clear . . .
‘When I saw the light showing I was to back in, raise the grille. I did that.’
He took a great throatful of whisky.
‘God,’ he said, ‘it was fiendish! Groton had starved the bloody tiger. It was out in a flash, roaring and tearing.
‘I could see it holding the bloke down and ripping away at his shoulder, blood spewing in all directions . . . then its head was raised, chewing.
‘Oh God, the sound of that flesh being torn . . .
‘And Sammy, he should have been back in the truck.
‘Then I looked again, it was at his throat . . . the head came up.
‘Sammy!’
Hastings sobbed, crammed the glass to his mouth.
‘That’s enough, Dave!’ Cockfield cried. ‘We can pick it up from there.’
‘No.’ Hastings shook his head. ‘Let me finish.’
He sat holding the glass in both hands, holding it high, near his mouth.
‘I deserve it,’ he said. ‘I bloody deserve it. I was the one who talked you over.
‘But it was inhuman . . . terrible! When I think of it I want to scream. And I’ve seen some grim things . . . every doctor has his scars.
‘What sort of a devil can Groton be? He knew. He knew!’
Hastings tipped the glass again.
‘My nerve went,’ he said. ‘I had a blackout, something like that, I can’t remember things till I got back here. I must have driven the truck to the farm, picked up my car, driven to Weston. But the next I remembered is being back here, trying to tell them, drinking.
‘If anyone claims they’ve done things during a blackout, remember that. It can happen.’
He sat back, resting the now-empty glass against his chest. His eyes were slitted, as though seeing something they craved to shut out.
‘He put the wind up us,’ Cockfield said. ‘Just to see him gave you a scare.’
Ashfield said: ‘His hair was lifting – not on end: simply lifting.’
‘I take it he didn’t go back,’ Gently said.
Cockfield said: ‘Not so likely! We poured a bottle of Scotch into him and left him blotto on the sofa.’
‘Then it was you two.’
Cockfield nodded.
‘Did you . . . take a gun with you?’
‘A four-ten. It’s all I keep here. It wouldn’t have made the brute sneeze.’
Gently said: ‘It would have needed guts.’
Cockfield looked at him owlishly.
‘When there’s only one thing to do you bloody do it,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘What for? You know what happened as well as I do.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Gently said.
Cockfield sat looking at him.
Ashfield said: ‘You don’t rattle me. We went to the bungalow and buried Sammy. It was bloody as hell, blood everywhere, soaking in blood, like a slaughterhouse. The bones were sticking out of his legs, half his face was eaten off . . .’
Ashfield stopped. He’d gone grey.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ he said weakly.
He got to his feet, stumbled out, and they could hear him retching in the toilet.
‘Satisfied?’ Cockfield said.
Gently hunched a shoulder. ‘Was he sick that night?’
‘You bloody swine,’ Cockfield said. ‘He was sick as a dog. And so was I.’
‘Who carried the body to the wheelbarrow?’
‘Me. He was outside with the gun.’
‘What did you do about your clothes?’
‘Burned them. Then we got as drunk as David.’
‘Why didn’t you go back and clean up properly?’
Cockfield shuddered. ‘We always meant to. But we put it off, kept putting it off. I’ll be sick too if you don’t shut up.’
‘What did you find when you searched the place?’
‘Nothing. He must have taken it with him.’
Cockfield gulped, put a hand to his mouth. But he didn’t follow Ashfield to the toilet. Hastings, looking at nobody, rose and went to fill his glass.
Outside, the moon was clear of the trees but was still a medallion of angry red.
Ashfield came back and drank some soda water, sat down, looked very unwell.
Hastings said through his teeth: ‘Is that everything – have we done enough confessing?’
Gently drank a little, said: ‘There’s a matter of twenty thousand pounds . . .’
Cockfield said: ‘Forget about it. Sammy left his money to Dave. Sammy didn’t have any relatives. We’ve seen the will. It’s pukka.’
‘You’ve seen a will?’
Hastings said: ‘There was a copy in Sammy’s box. It was drawn by Dale and Perks. It’s at the office. I can show it you.’
‘But . . . it will hardly have gone for probate?’
‘How the devil could it have done?’
‘And you have the money?’
‘We couldn’t leave it there. The bank would have started investigations.’
Gently nodded. ‘A problem, admittedly! And the Inland Revenue . . . what about them?’
‘Look,’ Hastings said, ‘I haven’t touched the money, and the Inland Revenue can stick itself.
‘Sammy was concerned with famine relief, he used to make donations to Oxfam. At Christmas last year they collected a bonus – an anonymous twenty-one thousand pounds. Tax, death duties unpaid. And to hell with the whole bag of them!
‘Are you a friend of the Inland Revenue?’
Gently shook his head. ‘Not my department.’
‘Well, that’s where Sammy’s money has gone.’
Gently stared at his glass, said nothing.
Cockfield said: ‘So where do we stand now?’
Gently sighed, rose, held out his glass. He touched Hastings’s, touched Cockfield’s, made a token wave towards the chemist.
‘What’s this?’ Cockfield demanded.
‘A toast – to the guardian angel of Abbotsham.’
‘To who?’
‘Drink your whisky.’
Over his glass, Cockfield watched Gently suspiciously.
* * *
Dutt was still in the lounge when Gently returned to the Angel, but now he was w
atching a TV sportsflash of James Greaves getting a hat-trick. Perkins was with him. Perkins was showing no outward interest in James Greaves. He was sitting bolt upright in an easy chair and murmuring soundlessly, it may have been prayers.
When Gently approached he leaped up, but all he could blurt was:
‘You’ve got back, then . . . !’
After which he stood pitifully, mouth gaping, eyes pleading.
Dutt, who’d also looked round, contented himself with a quick nod, then jerked his eyes back to the screen before he could miss half a pass.
Gently’s pipe was going. He puffed affably. He glanced at the screen for a moment.
He said: ‘One day you’ll have to pull in friend Cockfield for drunken driving.’
‘D-drunken driving?’
‘I watched him this evening. He was all over the road.’
‘But just . . . driving . . . ?’
‘That’s enough, isn’t it? He’s had one bad accident already.’
Really it was too bad! Perkins was almost wringing his hands. He jiffled and gaped and rolled his eyes, began a dozen sentences that never came out. Then he managed to stammer:
‘And the inquest . . . Monday . . . ?’
‘Put in evidence of how it was done.’
‘That Sayers—’
‘Not Sayers, you ass! Do you want to give the game away?’
‘Then who – how . . . ?’
Gently closed his eyes. Did he have to teach them how to cover up? Here he was handing it to them on a plate, and still it didn’t seem enough . . .
He drew Perkins aside.
‘First, show the remains aren’t Shimpling’s! If you as much as whisper “Sayers” I’ll come back here and strangle you personally. Then show that a crime was attempted against Shimpling by the deceased and persons unknown, and offer your opinion that the deceased met his death while committing that attempt. That’s all. Nothing else! Let the coroner vapour about Groton if he wants to.
‘Privately you can tell him you’ve no proved evidence of the identity of the deceased, and that offering an opinion on it might injure innocent people.
‘Which it may – hard fact! Stick to that, and you’re home.’
For a moment Perkins gaped glass-eyed at nothing. Then he swung round, grabbed Gently’s hand and began to pump it with fervent violence.