Gently by the Shore

by Alan Hunter

  ‘But boss!’ interrupted the anguished Peachey.

  Louey pinned him with an unanswerable eye. ‘Who was it, Peachey – who was the man with the scar? The inspector isn’t asking these questions out of idle curiosity, you know …’

  Poor Peachey gaped and gasped like a hooked cod.

  ‘But wait a minute!’ boomed Louey, ‘half past nine – that must have been about the time I sent you for my whisky. Inspector’ – his eye dropped Peachey as a terrier drops a rat – ‘you were in the bar yourself just then, I believe. Did you notice Peachey come out, by any chance?’

  Gently nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Of course! Perhaps you can tell us at what time?’

  ‘About half past nine … more or less.’

  ‘Half past nine! Then it seems that Peachey wasn’t in the office when this man of yours was alleged to have left. Is that what you wanted to tell me, Peachey – is it?’

  Peachey gulped apoplectically. ‘That’s right, boss! I wasn’t there to s-see nobody!’

  ‘And nobody looked in before that … none of our regulars about their accounts?’

  ‘No, boss – no one at all!’

  Louey extended a gigantic hand towards Gently. ‘Sorry, Inspector … it doesn’t look as though we can help much … does it?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Gently expressionlessly, ‘it doesn’t, does it?’

  ‘Of course, this man may have looked in while the office was unoccupied.’

  Gently shook his head. ‘Let’s not bother about that one, shall we?’

  The grey eyes smiled approval again and Peachey sagged down into his chair, breathing heavily. Louey lit his cigarette, slowly, thoughtfully.

  ‘You know, I’ve given this business a certain amount of thought, Inspector … one can’t be indifferent, with the Press making so much of it … and there are certain points which seem to stand out.’

  Gently hoisted an inquiring eyebrow, but said nothing.

  ‘I admit in advance that I’m the merest amateur … naturally! But it’s just possible that being outside it, away from the … tactical problems? … I’m in a more favourable position to study the strategy.’

  ‘Go on,’ grunted Gently.

  Louey inhaled deeply and raised his head to blow smoke above Gently’s face.

  ‘There’s this man … what is he doing here? A complete stranger – nobody knows him – the police don’t know him (at least, I presume they don’t?) – turning up one day at a popular English seaside resort – and disguised. What would bring him here? His motive is past guessing at. Why should anybody kill him when he got here? The motive is just as obscure.’

  ‘Robbery,’ suggested Gently, puffing some Navy Cut into a haze of Russian.

  ‘Robbery?’ The gold tooth showed lazily for a moment. ‘You’re forgetting, Inspector, he was reported to have been killed in cold blood. His hands were tied. Does that seem like robbery?’

  ‘It seems like more than one person being involved.’

  ‘Exactly … and that’s my point! It wasn’t the crime of an individual. All the facts are against it. The more you juggle with them, the more emphatic they become. It was an organized killing, an act carried out by a group of some description … who knows?’

  The grey eyes slid up and fastened on Gently’s, holding him, commanding him.

  ‘A political killing, Inspector. The execution of a traitor … that’s my reading of the situation. Your man was a fugitive. He chose Starmouth for his haven. But the organization he had betrayed found him out and exacted justice … doesn’t that seem to fit what we know?’

  Gently blew an exquisite ring.

  ‘I think it does … better than any other interpretation. I hope I’m wrong – for your sake, Inspector. I believe these political killings are planned with a care which makes detection onerous and arrests unlikely. But the odds seem to lie that way … at least to my amateur way of thinking.’

  The smile strayed back into the magnetic eyes and Louey part snuffed, part sucked a tremendous inhalation of smoke.

  ‘I’d like you to know I appreciate your difficulties,’ he concluded, spilling smoke as he talked. ‘My admiration for your abilities won’t be lessened, Inspector … what can be done by the police in these cases I am sure you will do.’

  Gently nodded towards a peak in Darien. Then he reached for the photograph, pulled out his pen and drew on the matt surface a clumsy circle divided by a line. Without looking he handed it to Louey. The big man took it and stared at it.

  ‘Is this something I should know about?’ he inquired softly.

  Gently lofted a careless shoulder. ‘You were wearing it on your ring last night.’

  ‘My ring?’ Louey extended his hand to display his solitaire.

  ‘The one you were wearing last night.’

  Louey hesitated a split second and then laughed. ‘No, Inspector, you are mistaken … this is the only ring I wear. Tell him, Peachey, tell him … I wear this diamond to impress the clients … eh?’

  The miserable Peachey contrived to nod.

  ‘They like to do business with a man of substance … it’s paid for itself over and over again.’

  Gently turned towards him. There was a glint of excitement in the masterful, smiling eyes.

  ‘So you see, you were mistaken, Inspector … you do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Gently, ‘I see it very plainly indeed.’

  He didn’t have far to go outside before he was joined by Dutt. The sergeant’s cockney visage had a glum expression which told Gently all there was to know …

  ‘No pigeon, Dutt … the dovecote was empty.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Not a flipping feather.’

  ‘I got the impression it might be. Everyone was so pleased to see me. A pity, Dutt. I get more and more interested in that laddie.’

  ‘We could put out a portrait parley, sir. He shouldn’t be difficult to pick up.’

  ‘I wonder, Dutt. My feeling is that he’s a bit of a traveller … it’s the docks and airports that’ll need an eye kept on them. On the other hand …’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘If he’s the bird I think him, it’s a matter of some curiosity why he’s hung around here so long already.’

  ‘You mean you know who he is, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put my hand to my heart, Dutt. I’m of a suspicious character, like all good policemen. And then again … it doesn’t do to overestimate. There’s one thing, though: I want a sound sure ruling on the origin of that circle with a line through it.’

  ‘You mean that little charm, sir?’ queried Dutt, brightening.

  ‘I do indeed, Dutt – that little charm.’

  ‘Well, sir, I can tell you that right off the cuff … it came to me as I was standing there watching, sir. I knew I’d seen it before, like I said when we found it.’

  ‘Go on, man … stop beating about the bush!’

  ‘It’s the sign of the TSK Party, sir – I come across it when I was attached to the Special.’

  Gently halted under the blaze of one of the multicoloured standards that afforested the Front. ‘And what,’ he inquired, ‘do we know about TSK Parties, Dutt?’

  ‘Not a darn sight, sir,’ replied Dutt, ‘not if you put it like that. It’s a sort of Bolshie outfit – they reckoned it picked up where the old Bolshie boys left off. They didn’t even know wevver Joe was backing it or not – sort of freelance it was, if you get me. That Navy sabotage business was TSK. We had some US Federal men attached to us – they’ve had a lot of trouble with them in the States.’

  ‘The States!’ echoed Gently, ‘It’s always the States. Have you noticed, Dutt, how the American eagle keeps worrying us as we go about our quiet Central Office occasions?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE FLAP WAS still on at headquarters, in fact it had stepped up considerably during Gently’s absence. There were lights on where they were usually off at such an hour, cars parked that ought to have b
een garaged and policemen due off duty, still buzzing around like (as Dutt rather coarsely described it) ‘blue-arsed flies’. Gently, going down the corridor, was nearly bowled over by an impetuous Copping clutching a file.

  ‘We’ve picked up the boyo who passed that note!’ exclaimed the Borough Police maestro, sorting himself out. ‘He’s a skipper from up north – he’s lousy with them – and what a yarn he’s spun! They must think we’re cracked, trying to pull gags like that. But the super’ll give him a going over he won’t forget in a hurry!’

  Gently sniffed a little peevishly. ‘Don’t think I’m frivolous … I’m still trying to keep my mind on the crime before the last. Did your man get some prints?’

  ‘Oh, the prints! He got a couple of sets that didn’t tally with anything we’ve got.’

  ‘A couple?’

  ‘That’s right … one lot on the suitcase and one on the window-frame. They turned up in other places, too, but those were the best impressions.’

  ‘He compared them with Mrs W’s and the rest, of course?’

  ‘We know a little bit about the job …!’

  ‘And you’ve sent them to town?’

  ‘Right away, as per instructions.’

  Gently fished out his wallet and extracted from it the doctored photograph. ‘I want this printed now … is your man still around? He’ll find mine on it amongst some others, but he needn’t bother about them …’

  Dutt was despatched with the photograph and Gently accompanied Copping to the super’s office. That austere abode, always impressive, was now fairly crackling with forensic atmosphere. The super sat behind his desk as stiff as a ramrod. At a discreet distance a sergeant was ensconced at a table, taking down some details. At the same table sat a constable with a shorthand book and three pencils. On the door was a second constable, uneasily at ease. The focus of all this talent, a fresh-complexioned middle-aged man, had been arranged on a chair in the geometrical centre of the office: he sat there with a nervous awkwardness, like a member of an audience suddenly hoicked up on to the stage.

  The super nodded to Gently as the latter entered and motioned him to take a seat. ‘You’ll excuse me, Inspector … I’m rather busy. I’d like a conference with you later, if you don’t mind waiting.’

  Gently inclined his head and sat down at the less congested end of the office. Copping delivered the file and appended himself to the end of the super’s desk.

  ‘Dalhoosie Road,’ spelled out the sergeant. ‘McKinky & Mucklebrowse Ltd, Potleekie Street, Frazerburgh. I think that’s the lot, sir. It checks with the ship’s papers.’

  The super stiffened himself a few more degrees. ‘Now, McParsons … I want you to listen very carefully to what I have to say. I’m charging you with being in possession and uttering a counterfeit United States banknote, and also with being in possession of four similar notes. Do you wish to say anything in answer to this charge? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.’

  McParsons screwed up his weather-beaten face. ‘But I tellt yer the whorl lot, sir – I gi’ed ye all the evidence to prove I’m an honest man … what more do yer want noo?’

  ‘It isn’t evidence,’ snapped the super, ‘we didn’t take it down and we’re prepared to forget it. Think carefully, McParsons. You’re in trouble, quite a lot of trouble, and the tale you told me down at the docks won’t impress a jury – I can assure you of that. My advice to you is to forget it. The truth will help you a lot more, especially if it enables us to arrest the counterfeiters.’

  ‘But losh, man, it was the truth! I canna make up tales out of my heid.’

  ‘Stop!’ interrupted the super sharply. ‘All you say now is evidence.’

  ‘Then Gordamighty, let it be so – I’ll noo complain o’ ye puitin fause words into my mouth. It’s jist the way I tellt it, nae more and nae less, so yer may as well scratch it doon on yer paper – it’s all the evidence Andy McParsons can gi’ ye.’

  The super drilled at the same Andy McParsons for ten acetylene-edged seconds before replying … quite a feat, thought Gently, who was a connoisseur of superlatives. Then he snapped off a ‘Right!’ which seemed to suggest every bit of ten years and opened the file Copping had brought. The pages rustled accusingly.

  ‘Starmouth Branch of the City & Provincial Bank … US banknote of one hundred dollar denomination, etc, etc … paid in by Joseph William Hackett, licensee of the “Ocean Sun” … see preceding report. Hackett on being questioned deposed that he changed the note for a seaman, a stranger to him … sparely built man, about five feet ten, aged about fifty, dressed in navy-blue suit and cap, fresh complexion etc … Scots accent. Detective Sergeant Haynes questioned Andrew Carnegie McParsons, Skipper of the steam-drifter Harvest Sea, at the yard of Wylie-Marine, where the said steam-drifter was undergoing a refit … denied all knowledge, etc—’

  Gently coughed loudly and the super broke off to throw him a sharp stare. ‘You had something to say, Inspector?’

  ‘The name of the yard,’ murmured Gently apologetically, ‘could you repeat it, please?’

  ‘Wylie-Marine, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you. I thought it sounded familiar.’

  The super snorted and returned to his recitation.

  ‘Afternoon of the fifteenth Hackett reported having seen aforementioned seaman in the neighbourhood of the yard of Wylie-Marine … proceeded to the same yard … Hackett picked out McParsons … McParsons admitted changing the note and was taken into custody … four similar notes of one hundred dollar denomination found in McParsons’s possession.’

  The super paused again and smoothed out the nicely typed report sheet.

  ‘Now,’ he said bitingly, ‘we come to your story, McParsons.’

  ‘But ye’ve had it a’ready,’ replied the disconsolate skipper, ‘hoo often maun I tell it to yer?’

  ‘What you told us before you were charged will not be used as evidence. If you want to make a statement, now is the time.’

  ‘Och, aye … ye’re all for doing it by the buik, I ken that. Well, jist pit doon I had the notes fra ain Amurrican body … I see fine yer dinna believe a word of it.’

  The super signalled to the shorthand constable. ‘Begin at the beginning, McParsons. If this story of yours is to go on record we want the whole of it.’

  McParsons sighed feelingly to himself. ‘Aweel … ye’ll have your way, there’s noo doot. It was on the Tuesday then, the Tuesday last but one … we’d been in Hull a week, y’ken, wi’ the boiler puffin’ oot steam fra every crook an cranny … the engineer had puit in his report lang since, but auld Mucklebrowse is awfu’ canny aboot runnin’ up bills for repair … then awa’ comes a wire to the agent tellin’ us to puit out for Wylie’s, me ainself to stay wi’ the ship and the crew to take train back to Frazer. Sae we jist tuik aboard ain or twa necessaries and hung waitin’ there for the evenin’ tide. Noo the crew bodies was all ashore takin’ their wee drap for the trip and Andy McParsons had jist come awa’ fra the agent’s, when along happens this Amurrican I tellt ye of … “Captain,” says he (and morst respectful, the de’il take him!), “is that your ain ship lyin’ there with steam up?” “It is,” says I, “sae long as the rivets stick in the boiler.” “Then ye’re aboot goin’ to sea,” says he. “Aye,” says I, “jist as soon as the laddies get back, which’ll noo be a great while.” “And you’ll be goin’ a long trip?” says he, gi’en a luik ower his shoulder. “Jist drappin’ down the coast,” says I, “we’ll be sittin’ tight in Starmouth before breakfast-time.”

  ‘Noo ye maun believe this, Supereentendent, or ye maun not – it’s a’ ain to the truth – but I hadna been gabbin’ five minutes with this smooth-spaken cheil when he was jawin’ me into stowin’ him awa’ in the Harvest Sea. “But wit’s the trouble?” says I, “is it the police ye have stuck on yer sternsides?” “Naethin’ of that, I swear,” says he, “it’s a private matter, an like to be the
dearth of me if I canna get clear of this dock wi’out walkin’ back off it. I’ll pay ye,” says he, “it’s noo a question of money – but for the luve of the A’mighty let’s gae doon into the cabin,” and the puir loon luikit sae anxious I hadna the heart tae refuse.

  ‘Weel, the short and the lang o’t was we struck a bargain – twa hundred dollars and nae questions asked. I couldna take less, says I, since the crew maun be squared on tap, and in ony case it was a wee bit inconvenient tae get it in dollar notes, and sich big ains at that. “Och, but the crew mauna ken!” says he, “ain body’s ower muckle – I canna bide more.” “Then I doot the deal’s off,” says I, “for de’il a bit can ye be stowed awa’ in sich a corckle-shell as this wi’out the crew being privy, not,” says I, “unless we pop yer into a herring-bunker, where ye’ll be wantin’ a stomach lined wi’ galvanized sheet to say the least o’t.” “Let it be sae,” says he, “I’ve sleepit in places as bad or worrse.” “Mon,” says I, “if ye’ve nae been jowed around in a herring-bunker on the North Sea ye havena lived up till noo, sae dinna gae boastin’. Take yer ease in the cabin, where yell nose a’ the fish ye’ll be wantin’ if there’s a wee swell ootbye.”

  ‘But listen he wouldna, sae it was agreed he should ship in a bunker – though had I kent then whit I ken noo it’d been into the dorck wi’ him, and nae mair argument – and he paid up his twa hundred dollars … not mentioning some wee discount business on three ither notes (I’d ta’n a bodle o’ cash fra the agent and it rubbed against the grain tae say nay, ye understand). “Keep an eye lifted for strangers,” says he, as I clappit him doon under the hatch, “dinna let a soul aboard ither than the crew bodies.” “Dinna fash yersel,”says I, “I ken fine how to earn twa hundred dollars.”

  ‘Weel, there ye have it, Supereentendent. We drappit down here owernight and fetchit up at Wylie’s before the toon was astir. I paid aff the crew bodies and saw them awa’ to the station, then I lifted the hatch and huiked out the cargo. He wasna in the best o’ shape, ye ken – it gi’es me a deal o’ consolation thinkin’ o’t – but I gar him ha’ a wash, whilk he did, and a swig at the borttle, whilk he didna, and betwixt doin’ the ain and not doin’ t’ither he was sune on his legs agin and marchin’ off doon the quay. And that’s the spae, evidence or testament of Andy Carnegie McParsons, the truth of whilk is kenned by him on the ain part and his creator in pairpetuity, whatever doots may occur in the more limited minds of his accusers.’