Gently by the Shore

by Alan Hunter

  ‘If they’re terrorizing her now they could have terrorized her before.’

  ‘I don’t think so … not Frenchy. She isn’t one to terrorize easily. I imagine Louey would need a corpse at his back before he could get much change out of her and the job she had to do would be better done in the spirit of co-operation than in the spirit of coercion.’

  ‘Well then – she was paid.’

  ‘But she didn’t have any money.’

  ‘Of course not!’ snapped the chief super, ‘her boyfriend would have had it.’

  ‘She doesn’t admit to any boyfriend, not even to get herself bailed.’

  The chief super drew a deep and ugly breath. ‘It isn’t getting us anywhere!’ he bawled. ‘Does it matter two hoots how they got her to do it? The fact is that she did do it, and precious little help it looks like being to us!’

  Gently shook his head in respectful admonishment. ‘It means there’s a link somewhere … something we don’t know about. There’s a link between Louey and Frenchy, and as a result of that link Frenchy was prepared to act the decoy, without pressure and probably without payment …’

  ‘Perhaps this Louey fella’s the boyfriend himself,’ suggested the colonel.

  ‘He’s too clever … and women aren’t his weakness. No. It’s something else.’

  ‘I really can’t see that it’s important, Gently,’ weighed in Sir Daynes.

  ‘It isn’t!’ barked the chief super, ‘we simply sit here wasting our time while the chief inspector amuses himself by …’

  He broke off as a tap came at the door. It was Sergeant Dutt’s homely visage that appeared.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir …’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘It’s something for Chief Inspector Gently, sir … he wanted to know directly a certain party left the premises.’

  ‘Well, cough it up – don’t stand there like a dummy!’

  Dutt transferred his stolid gaze to his superior. ‘It’s Frenchy, sir …’

  ‘Frenchy!’ Gently rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘I just arrived back, sir, and they tell me she was bailed aht half an hour ago.’

  A faraway look stole into Gently’s eye. ‘And who was it, Dutt … did you get the name?’

  ‘Yessir. It was a Mr Peach, sir.’

  The faraway look lengthened till it embraced some islands of the distant Hebrides. ‘Peachey!’ murmured Gently, ‘my old friend Peachey! I always had a feeling we should find him sewn into the lining of this case … somewhere!’

  It rained still, as though it had never thought of stopping that side of Michaelmas. The picture-houses, theatres and pavilions were packed solid with moist audiences, the cafes had never had such a day, the lessees of dance-halls and amusement arcades were indulging in dreams of a late-autumn holiday at Cannes or Capri … Only the beach was having a bad time of it. Only the beach was dark and deserted and desolate to behold. Soft, unnoticed, another flood-tide crept upwards towards the hectic Front. It washed round the piles under the piers, looked up at its auld enemy, the cliffs, and made to list a few more degrees a certain post which some policemen had set up in the shingle.

  But there was nobody there to see it, except a crouching halfwit. The rest of Starmouth kept tryst with their bright lights. Rain it might and rain it did, but the electric rash burned on, the music wailed, the rifles spanged, the audiences laughed and the great Till of Starmouth rang its steady chorus.

  Artie in the bar was getting quite irritable with his customers, and he could afford to be. They didn’t want away once they were there. And it was a gay crowd that night, on the eve of the races. Several old faces had turned up which had been missing for quite a while … it was just like it had been before that b. Inspector Gently set foot in the place, as the sporty individual observed. Even Louey seemed in a festive mood. He had been out twice in the course of the evening and each time it had been drinks all round. It was communicative, that mood of Louey’s. For better or worse it affected the company in the bar. But now the clouds which had momentarily gathered about the gigantic brow had faded away, the sunshine had returned, the bar was its old happy self again …

  Or it was till nine-thirty. Nine-thirty-three and a half, to be precise. At that exact moment a bulky figure in a fawn raincoat and a despairing trilby pushed through the swing-doors and looking neither to right nor left, shouldered its way across to the door opposite and disappeared again.

  It was done so quickly that it might have been an optical illusion. Ferrety-face Artie had to shake his head to convince himself he wasn’t seeing things. The sporty individual, halfway down his eighth Scotch, screwed up his eyes in a search for assurance that he was stone-cold sober.

  ‘That bloke just now … it was him, washn’t it?’

  Artie nodded absently and moved down towards the door, as though hopeful of hearing something above the din outside.

  ‘But whatsh he doing here … I thought Louey said it was OK?’

  Artie waved him down with his hand and got still closer to the door. The whole bar held its breath in a sort of hushed watchfulness. In the comparative calm a tincased version of ‘Cherry Pink’ seemed to vibrate the plastic-topped tables with its singeing vehemence.

  ‘I don’t undershtand …’ burbled the sporty individual, ‘something’s going on, Artie … I don’t undershtand.’

  Artie didn’t either, but there wasn’t very long to wait. At nine-thirty-seven, or a trifle before, the door reopened with a suddenness that nearly pinned Artie to the wall. Out waddled Peachey, red in the face. Out marched the bulky figure, his hand tucked affectionately under Peachey’s arm. Again no time was wasted. Again no looks were cast to right or to left. The brief procession headed forthrightly through the swing-doors and vanished like a dream, though in this case one part of the dream was left standing in the doorway by the bar. It was Big Louey. And his gold tooth wasn’t showing at all …

  Outside Dutt was waiting in a police car. Peachey was bundled in and Gently gave an address to the driver which didn’t sound like Headquarters. A short drive brought them to a dark and empty street where but few lamps shone islands of radiance on the gleaming pavement. Dutt alighted and stood by the door.

  ‘Get out,’ ordered Gently to Peachey.

  Peachey gulped and gave a frightened look up and down the street.

  ‘This isn’t the police station! I d-demand to be taken to the police station!’

  ‘Get out!’ snapped Gently and Peachey scuttled forth like a startled rabbit. Gently followed him and after tossing a word to the driver, slammed the door resoundingly behind them. He indicated the house by which they had stopped.

  ‘In there.’

  ‘B-but I’ve g-got rights … you c-can’t do this!’

  Gently poked a steely finger into his plump back and Peachey forgot about his rights with great suddenness.

  There was nothing alarming about the house, however. The door opened on a well-lit and comfortable-looking hall containing a hat-stand and an aspidistra on a side-table and the room into which Peachey was marshalled bore all the appurtenances of respectable boarding-house practice. Gently took off his hat and raincoat and hung them familiarly on the hat-stand.

  ‘See if Mrs Davis has got the tea on, will you?’ he said to Dutt, ‘and ask her if she’s got some biscuits … I like those shortbread ones we had the other night.’

  Dutt departed and Gently joined Peachey in the lounge. Gently seemed in no hurry to begin business. An electric fire was glowing in the fireplace and, standing with his back to it, he slowly filled and lit his seasoned briar. Peachey watched every move with pathetic attention. Twice he seemed about to recall his flouted rights, but each time, catching Gently’s mild eye, he thought better of it. The horrid ordeal ended when Dutt re-appeared bearing the tea tray. There were three cups and Peachey was even indulged with two lumps of sugar.

  ‘And now …’ mused Gently, seating himself with his teacup, ‘now we can have our little ch
at in peace and comfort … can’t we, Peachey?’

  ‘You haven’t g-got no right!’ broke out the parrot-faced one unhopefully.

  Gently clicked his tongue. ‘No right, Peachey? Why, we’re treating you like an old friend – bringing you to our nice cosy lodgings, instead of that bare old police station! Now sit yourself down on one of Mrs Davis’s best chairs, and try to be a bright lad … you need to be a bright lad, don’t you, Peachey?’

  Peachey blinked and swallowed, then lowered himself into a chair. Gently drank a large mouthful of tea and set his cup down near the electric fire.

  ‘You’re here for a reason, Peachey. Two reasons, as a matter of fact. The unimportant reason is because there’s a pack of wolves down at Headquarters who would just love to tear a little boy like you into small pieces. The important reason is that I want to talk to you off the record – no charges, no taking it down, nothing being used in evidence. Anything you tell me here is in confidence and it won’t appear again till you’re ready to give it in a sworn statement … you get the idea?’

  Peachey’s close-set eyes seemed to get closer together than ever. ‘I-I’m not going to m-make a statement … I don’t know nothing to make one about!’

  Gently shook his head paternally. ‘Don’t say that, Peachey. You don’t know how useful that statement’s going to be. At a rough guess I should say it would make eighteen months’ difference to you, besides a slimming course with the pick and shovel. You wouldn’t be too handy with a pick and shovel, would you, Peachey?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re t-talking about!’ Peachey gulped, his cup and saucer beginning to chatter.

  ‘Come, come, Peachey! You’re amongst friends. There’s no need to be bashful. Almost any time now we’re going to run you in for living on immoral earnings and I’m sure you know what that means. If you go before a beak, it’ll be six months in one of our more comfortable establishments; if you go up with an indictment, it’ll be two years with the pick-and-shovel boys.’

  ‘B-but it isn’t true!’

  ‘We’ve got the goods, Peachey.’

  ‘I’m a b-bookmaker’s clerk – you know I am!’

  ‘Six witnesses, Peachey, and two of them your neighbours in Sidlow Street.’

  ‘It’s a f-frame, I tell you!’

  ‘And three past convictions, all neatly filed at Central Records … no, Peachey. You’re due for a holiday. And just between us you’ll be lucky if it stops there, won’t you?’

  The parrot-faced one put down his cup, which he was no longer in a condition to support. He made a pitiful effort to get out a cigarette, but the packet fell from his hands and its contents distributed about the floor. Dutt helped him pick them up. They got him lighted at the second attempt.

  ‘As I was saying,’ resumed Gently meditatively, ‘you’ll be lucky, won’t you? You’ll need all the goodwill that’s going if you’re not going to be roped in for complicity in the murder of Stephan Stratilesceul … did you know his name? At “Windy Tops”?’

  He paused for artistic effect and Peachey shrank down in his chair several degrees.

  ‘Of course, it may be that in making a statement you would incriminate yourself … there’s always that to be thought about. We shall quite understand your keeping silent if you were in fact an accomplice …’

  The goad was irresistible. Peachey squirmed as though it had galled him physically. ‘I didn’t know – I swear – it wasn’t nothing to do with me!’

  ‘Nothing to do with you? How can you, Peachey! When it was Frenchy who got him out to “Windy Tops” in the first place.’

  ‘I tell you I didn’t know … they didn’t say n-nothing!’

  ‘You mean they didn’t tell you they were going to kill him?’

  Peachey sucked hard on a cigarette which was coming to pieces between his lips.

  ‘You might as well come clean, Peachey. It’s off the record.’

  Peachey gulped and sucked, but he had dried up again.

  Gently sighed. ‘Let me see if I can reconstruct it. They had a conference, didn’t they? Streifer had traced Stratilesceul to his lodgings in Blantyre Road, but he was rather at a loss to know how to deal with him. It wasn’t just a question of killing the man and recovering the money. Streifer could handle that well enough on his own. No – what was important about Stratilesceul was certain information he could give … with a little persuasion, perhaps … about other untrustworthy members of the TSK Party. Am I right?’

  The cigarette was definitely a spent force, but Peachey kept on working at it.

  ‘That was the problem, then – to get Stratilesceul in a place where he could be duly persuaded, and afterwards, as a mere formality, put to death. It wasn’t an easy problem to solve. Stratilesceul wasn’t laying himself open to being kidnapped. As far as he knew, he had shaken off the pursuit, but he was still taking precautions – like lodging in a crowded boarding-house and sticking to the frequented parts of the town. I dare say there were several plans made. The length of time it took to do the job suggests it. But they all fell through for that very simple reason – they could never get him where they could lay their hands on him.

  ‘So we come to the final conference – Louey, Streifer and Little Peachey … because you were in on it, weren’t you, Peachey? And Louey sits on a striped chair behind that very nice desk of his, thinking, thinking. At last he says to Streifer: “You’re familiar with Stratilesceul’s confidential record?” – And Streifer nods with that quiet little laugh of his. “Is there nothing in it that might serve our turn?” – Streifer shrugs and says: “He’s fond of women.” “Women!” says Louey, showing some gold, “any particular sort of women, or just women in general?” “Blonde women,” says Streifer, “nice big blondes.”

  ‘At that Louey really smiles. “We’ve got the very thing … haven’t we, Peachey?” he says, “a nice big blonde who’ll do just what we ask her! Why, I dare say that if we play it right we can get friend Stephan delivered to the very door …” And what did Little Peachey say to that? He said: “Yes, Louey, of course, Louey, anything you say goes with me, Louey—’’’

  ‘I didn’t know!’ shrieked the tormented Peachey, ‘they never said anything about killing him in front of me!’

  ‘You didn’t guess?’ rapped Gently. ‘You thought it was just going to be a social evening?’

  ‘They said he’d hidden the money, that’s all. They said they wanted to get him to find out what he’d done with it!’

  ‘So you’re entirely innocent – and Frenchy’s entirely innocent?’

  ‘She didn’t know neither!’

  ‘Just a couple of little lambs! And where were you when Frenchy was doing her dirty work?’

  ‘I don’t know – I was in the bar!’

  ‘You were in the bar – then you didn’t get Louey’s car out of the garage?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then two witnesses we’ve got are liars?’

  ‘I wasn’t near the garage!’

  ‘And you didn’t pick up the reception committee and take them to “Windy Tops”?’

  ‘… I was in the bar!’

  ‘And you didn’t wait there with them to give a hand tying up Stratilesceul?’

  ‘I didn’t – I didn’t! When they’d got him in there they sent me back with Frenchy … we never knew nothing … nothing at all.’

  ‘So it was just one big surprise when you saw it in the papers.’ Gently reached down for his cup of tea and tossed it off fiercely. ‘And when you found out, what did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing!’ floundered Peachey, his little eyes roving from side to side as though in desperate search for escape.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing! You knew the murderers – you’d been tricked into helping them – unless you spoke up quick you were in it along with them – and yet you did nothing. Is that your tale for the jury?’

  ‘I ain’t going before a jury!’

  ‘Oh yes you are, Peachey, somewhere along the line.�
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  ‘But you said it wasn’t evidence!’

  ‘It will be when you’ve sworn it.’

  ‘I ain’t going to swear it – never – no one can make me.’

  ‘They won’t have to, Peachey. You’ll do all the swearing that’s necessary when you go up on a murder rap.’

  ‘But I never did it – you know I never did it!’

  ‘I shall feel a lot more certain when I’ve got a statement on paper with your signature underneath.’

  Peachey shrivelled up in the chair like a punctured balloon. ‘I ain’t going to swear,’ he whispered, ‘I ain’t – I ain’t!’

  ‘Then it’s two years’ hard at the very least.’

  ‘I ain’t going to swear, not though it was twenty.’

  Gently shrugged his bulky shoulders and handed his cup to Dutt, who silently refilled it. Gently drank some and gnawed a shortbread biscuit. ‘Of course, you know we’ve got Streifer,’ he muttered casually amongst the crumbs.

  ‘Str-Streifer?’ Peachey unshrivelled a little.

  Gently nodded and bit another piece.

  ‘But Streifer is g-gone …!’

  ‘We took the trouble to bring him back again … your grapevine can’t be as good as it was.’

  Peachey’s small eyes fixed on the pattern of Mrs Davis’s best carpet, but he made no other contribution for the moment.

  ‘He’s safe and sound,’ continued Gently, ‘you don’t have to worry about him any longer. And if a certain little bird would sing his song we could put Louey in with him. Louey in jail,’ he added helpfully, ‘would be just as harmless as the average mortal.’

  The pattern still had Peachey fascinated.

  ‘And with a little further assistance, Peachey – all confidential, you understand, no names published, no questions asked about how a certain individual came by his information – we could arrest and imprison or expel quite a fairish bag of unfriendly-minded persons. In fact, we could make this country a healthy place for little Peacheys to come back to after a six-month vacation … couldn’t we?’

  For a moment the small eyes lifted from the carpet and rested just below Gently’s chin. Then they sank again, sullenly, and the dry lips bit together.