The Gimmel Flask

by Douglas Clark

  “So you brought them along for the ride, to use the modern idiom? Quite right. Would you mind acting as unpaid duty steward, Constable Berger? The drinks are in the wine cupboard. Glasses up top, liquor down below.”

  Berger got to his feet.

  “Ask everybody what they will have. You’ll find it all there.”

  While Berger busied himself, Green said: “We are on the job, Mr Benson: This isn’t purely a social call.”

  “I didn’t suppose it was. You have the air of men who are about their business. My only query is, what is the nature of your business? And how can I help? If we could dispose of that, we might find the evening deteriorating into a social chat.”

  “Deteriorating, sir?”

  “In the sense that we might discuss the trivia of life instead of an urgent and distressing problem.”

  Again Green spoke up. “Distressing?”

  “Most assuredly distressing. A community such as this riddled with corruption like a diseased body, and a man murdered. To anybody who is fond of Limpid, the thought of it is distressing.”

  “You say you are fond of Limpid, sir,” said Reed, surprisingly. “Were you fond of Mr Hardy? Was anybody fond of Mr Hardy?”

  “I, personally, disliked him intensely, sergeant. So, I imagine did a lot of people. But you must remember that the vast majority probably never came into contact with him.”

  “Why did you dislike him so much, sir?”

  “Now I am going to be completely irrational. I simply didn’t like the look of the fellow. At first, that is. We are all guilty of snap judgements. First impressions we call them, and once formed, they take a lot of eradicating. Those judgements are based, particularly on first meeting, on visual impressions, and if the visual impression one receives is unlikeable, then one finds the person unlikeable. Actions—later actions—may, of course, cause one to alter one’s opinion, but we are all guilty of prejudice, and even reasonable actions in one whom we dislike may be viewed with a jaundiced eye. We see a good deed as having an ulterior motive; an expression of fine or moral thought as so much hypocritical humbug. The list is endless. And I freely admit to prejudice, except that I call it experience and judgement. I should be a fool if I were not prejudiced against, say, a certain make of motor car that I had found unsatisfactory not just once, but two or three times. And the same goes for people. I form judgements. We all do, if we are to claim any sense of differentiation. So it was with Hardy. I formed a poor opinion of Hardy and, though it cost me a deal of money, I felt a certain amount of satisfaction when I found my judgement of the man confirmed by his actions.”

  Reed was still intent on steering the conversation. “What actions were they, sir? Would you care to tell us?”

  “By all means, if they are of interest to the others.”

  “Sir,” said Berger, seriously, “it is very important to us to know all we can about the murdered man. I listened to a lecture by Superintendent Masters a few months ago, and he told us that in his experience the actions of the victim or his character caused his death as often as not.”

  “He didn’t say earned or deserved death, I hope?”

  “No, sir. Caused. He stressed that point. The murder victim is not always entirely innocent of murder was what he said. The young detectives turned to Masters. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”

  Masters grimaced. “I’m flattered that my words should have been remembered so well that they can be quoted months later. Your memory has not played you false, young man.”

  Benson smiled. “I’m very pleased to learn that our police force has such a realised philosophy. And I will certainly gratify the sergeant’s request as to why I found Hardy an unlikeable man—by giving one example of his business ethics.

  “I have owned this flat now for a few years, but I have known it and liked it all my life. In my young days it was owned by a couple who were older than my own parents, a Mr and Mrs Patch. He was the local registrar, among other things. I think he was the Board School Officer who chased up truants, and he was clerk to one of the nearby parish councils at an honorarium of, I believe, twenty pounds a year. It seems a small sum, these days, but he made all together a good living and he and his wife were happy here. She, dear soul, taught me at Sunday school when I was six or seven, and we took a liking for each other then. Always when I came home, from school, university or on leave from abroad, I would visit her, and she would expect it of me.

  “The husband died quite a long time ago, but Mrs Patch continued to live on here alone until about eight years ago. Then she got the offer of a home with some niece whom I never met but who was apparently genuinely fond of the old lady. So she decided to sell this flat. She asked Hardy to do it for her. He put a couple of advertisements in the local paper and a card in that window of his. He even sent two or three people to look round in those first few weeks, but after that, nothing. It was nearly eighteen months later that I came back to Limpid. I was, by then, a widower. I was hoping to get somewhere suitable to live. Naturally, as always, I called on Mrs Patch. She told me she had tried to sell her flat. Of course, I was overjoyed. The place wasn’t like it is now, but as I said, I’d always liked it. So I offered to buy it, there and then. It was a private treaty between friends. I instructed my lawyer to give Mrs Patch the price she asked. Hardy did not come into it. But as soon as he learned of the sale, he demanded his fee. Mrs Patch had not paid him a deposit—a practice which I believe is now creeping in with agents—and I realised Hardy was out of pocket to the tune of a few pounds, so I went to see him. I thought I would give him the money to cover his expenses, though I considered that his business was in the nature of a gamble. He offers to sell. If he succeeds, he’s paid. If not, he loses a little. But Hardy demanded the full percentage. I spoke to my lawyer about it. He gave me as his opinion that because Mrs Patch had not actually withdrawn the flat from Hardy’s list, although Hardy had not actively tried to sell, technically she was liable for the fee. I didn’t want Mrs Patch to suffer, so I settled the account. But Hardy knew my opinion of him. To treat an elderly widow according to the strict letter of the law, having made no effort on her behalf, was in my opinion the action of a crook. So you see, his subsequent actions reinforced the opinion I originally formed of him, and that was that I found him unlikeable. Or as I said at first, I disliked him.”

  “Intensely?”

  “If I were to qualify it, yes. Intensely. I found him to be a man who submerged the decencies of life beneath the exigencies of business—which I saw, in his case, as the mere making of money for the sake of making it.” Benson looked round. “But I feel I must be boring you, or preventing you from arriving at the real purpose of your visit.”

  “Not in the least—to either point,” said Masters courteously. “As Constable Berger said, we like to know the background. To get under the skin of a case.”

  “Every time?”

  “Not every time. Quite often a murder case is no real problem. Quite a lot of killers make little attempt to hide their crime. They’re usually amateurs, you know. Murder is their first and only crime—the result of an overwhelming fit of rage, jealousy, or madness of one sort or another. At other times, murder is of the violent type. A criminal’s crime. Then we don’t seek atmosphere. We feel our way through the underworld of villainy, where the answer to everything is a sawn-off shotgun. But here, in Limpid, which gives you, as you enter it for the first time, a feeling of serenity and a sense that in such surroundings crime is out of place, out of context, one has to orientate oneself to deal with the problem. Crime is unexpected here. One does not anticipate meeting it. It surprises even people like us who have come here expressly to solve it. And so we have to adjust to the atmosphere and the people. It is as though we appeared in a different play each night. Yesterday a market place in Rome, today the Forest of Arden, tomorrow a castle in Denmark. Different sets, different words, different plots, different approaches.”

  “Constable,” said Benson, “more beer, if you wo
uld be so kind. I greeted policemen at my door—albeit men of repute—and I find I am conversing with philosophers. But I feel I should disabuse your minds, gentlemen. There is a saying round here: ‘Farm labourers never open their windows.’ And it is a true saying. They don’t. The downstairs windows of labourers’ cottages are cluttered with ferns and potted geraniums and the occupants sleep in their small stuffy bedrooms without a breath of air.”

  “Perhaps they get too much fresh air.”

  “Perhaps. But Limpid is only a gaggle of labourers’ cottages. We never open our windows—figuratively. We have a serene, picturesque, fresh look outside, but we have our fair share of foul air inside. There is a stench in Limpid.”

  “So we have discovered.”

  “Are you on the point of opening any windows?”

  “We’re scratching away at the paint,” said Green, accepting a refill from Berger. “But before we can start pushing up the sashes, we need to know a little more. You’ve done what you might call police work, Mr Benson.”

  “I’ve certainly helped to police an area—a slightly different task from the one you are engaged on.”

  “Still, you’ll be aware—from your reading, perhaps—that when there’s a murder, it’s profitable to look pretty hard at the victim’s relatives and close associates.”

  “I had heard that.”

  “Hardy had two partners. We’ve learned this and that about the young one, Lamont, but Williams seems to be unknown. We haven’t heard of him. We’d appreciate a word from you about him if that’s possible.”

  “I can give you an impression only, not fact.”

  “As long as you’re not disguising opinion as fact, we shall know how we stand.”

  Masters sat back. He was quite happy with the way his team was playing this game. He had often resolved crime by listening to gossip. Indeed, the whole informer system which the police relied on so heavily was only a form of culling gossip from a selected few. The grass comes in many guises, from the street-corner tout to the man of culture rare—like Benson. The tout picks up titbits; the Bensons observe and distil opinions. They are both useful when passed on.

  “Williams doesn’t make the splash that Hardy did. Nor is he so brash as Lamont. A more subtle man, I would say. He is the sort of man who has succeeded in his calling by academic ability, whereas Hardy has been a lucky opportunist and a blusterer. Hardy has needed the trappings—his seat on the council, his large house and so on—to prove to himself that he has succeeded. Williams, I believe to be a man who can assess himself more rationally.”

  “You mean his bank balance is enough indication of success. He doesn’t have to splurge to prove it?”

  “That could be one way of putting it. We hear a lot these days of the two cultures—the sciences and the humanities. I deplore the division, because so much human endeavour must fall outside of both. I believe the house agent to be an example of this. Can one really drop such a man into either category? Some may argue that it is possible, but whereas I tend to class Hardy and Lamont with the rather more deplorable class of second-hand car salesman, I view Williams as an entirely different creature. I would not call him a cultured man, exactly, but semi-cultured perhaps.”

  “I’ve got it, sir,” said Berger. “If we think of people as pearls, there are the genuine ones at the top end, the paste ones at the bottom end, and the cultured pearls in the middle. Williams is a cultured one.”

  Benson laughed, Masters smiled, and Green said: “By the lord Harry, we’ve got a thingumitite with us . . . a sort of visionary. Young cops with fantouche ideas!”

  Berger reddened. “Sorry, sir. It just came into my mind.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Benson. “If that’s the pattern you’ve built from my words, so be it.”

  Masters said: “Would it surprise you to know that Williams is a crook?”

  “Not in the least. But if true, I’d say he wouldn’t be a crude crook like Hardy. I’ve used the word subtle in describing him.”

  “Accurately, I think, sir. This afternoon you advised me to consult the companies’ register. I had that done. The Goodwerry set-up has two directors, one of whom is Yorkwall, the other Williams.”

  “Williams? Not Hardy?”

  “Williams.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  Benson frowned in concentration for a few moments. Masters watched him carefully: saw the puzzlement begin to disappear, and when the older man looked up, asked: “Subtle, Mr Benson?”

  “If my interpretation is correct, yes, very subtle. Do you think he conceived the plan? To leave out the H.W.L. offices in order to leave Hardy free to protest so strongly that the plan was, apparently, defeated by fair democratic means?”

  “Has it his touch?”

  “It certainly hasn’t Yorkwall’s.”

  “Would he then have made sure Hardy protested vigorously? Put pressure on him of the ‘if you don’t do something about it we’ll be next’ variety?”

  “Why not? If he could conceive the original plan, he could certainly contrive to encourage Hardy to act. After all, not only would Hardy lose financially were his office to go, but here was a chance for him to appear as the defender of the oppressed.”

  “Quite. Has it also occurred to you, Mr Benson, that by collecting three thousand signatures protesting against the bogus proposals you were aiding and abetting Williams in his deception?”

  “It has. But I plead the best of intentions.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment. But you have spoken of foul air in Limpid. How long have you known it to be here?”

  Benson was not quite as ready to answer. When he did, it was not a direct reply.

  “What you are asking, Superintendent, was whether I ought not to have suspected or even anticipated some such illegal move before I acted in defence of Theraby.”

  “You must agree you could not have arrived at all your conclusions concerning goings-on in Limpid since Hardy died on Sunday.”

  “True. I believe I have known all was not well for a considerable time. But I suppose I have been too idle to expose what I honestly thought of as sharp practice rather than illegal practice. Hardy’s death was the penny that dropped. It brought the slot machine into focus and I was able to see for the first time the full import of what had been going on. I honestly believe that is the true answer.”

  “In that case I will accept it unreservedly.”

  “I appreciate your assurance.”

  “Now that’s all fine and dandy,” said Green, “but what about this character Lamont? I’ve heard about his wife and his extravagances. I’ve even met him in the flesh. I’d say he was a one-time whizz kid gone to seed, but I’d like to know his background.”

  “As to that,” said Benson, “the answer is short. He came into the auctioneering and surveying world at a rather late age. He was well into his twenties when he joined Hardy and Williams. His parents put him in there after he had failed at a number of things. I think he realised it was his last chance. Not that he is without intelligence. It is simply that he does not use it to the best advantage.”

  “What had he done before he joined Hardy and Williams?”

  “I wasn’t resident in Limpid then, but I understand he tried his hand at starting up a potato crisp factory, growing mushrooms, and clerking with the Electricity Board. There were probably other ventures. In fact I’m almost sure there were. His parents rescued him each time, until they had had enough.”

  “You told me he had approached you about antiques from time to time.”

  “He has, and I formed the opinion then that he was a fairly intelligent fellow, capable of learning, but incapable of adopting the right approach to what he set out to achieve. He wanted to learn about antiques in order to make money. I believe he realised that he was in a unique position to find valuable pieces if only he knew how to recognise them. He also believed, I feel sure, that he could sell them without anybody being the wiser, without paying tax as a regular deal
er would be required to do. No doubt he would have got away with it if he had adopted an intellectual approach. To be a man who knows about antiques—as with all other subjects—one must study the items, research them, learn to recognise differences, similarities and, by and large, to regard the pieces as a serious adjunct to life. Somebody once said that a collector must be a perceptive person attuned to the aura of the past and interested in adding a new dimension to his present. And it is only within this frame of knowledge and confidence that a collector can hope to know what is good and what is not. Antiques—in a true collector’s view—should be loved and admired and not considered solely as merchandise. Lamont, I fear, had no time to learn how to recognise what was good and what was not; he merely wanted to know which pieces to buy in order to resell at a profit.”

  “A right philistine, in fact,” said Green.

  “As you say.” Benson pushed himself up out of his chair. “Perhaps I could show you one or two of my prizes.”

  “Yes, please,” said Masters, “but just before you do so, Mr Benson, could I ask you one more question.”

  “Please do.”

  “How does rumour in Limpid say Hardy died?”

  “Everyone knows that he was poisoned.”

  “But there are scores of poisons. Which one does Limpid say was used?”

  “Ah! Now you have caught me out, Mr Masters. I have heard a number of substances mentioned. Theraby, for instance, says that as he died so quickly he must have ingested strychnine, while others tell more or less horrific tales of insecticides having got into the food. But as yet, to my knowledge, opinion in Limpid has not settled on the culprit.”

  “And what in your view was the substance used?”

  “I just don’t know. Don’t tell me you haven’t discovered which substance was used?”

  “The pathologists discovered that information for us very quickly.”

  “What was it?”