Gently Continental

by Alan Hunter

  STEPHEN

  But damn it, it might be something Trudi didn’t know about. There’s no knowing the way Frieda’s mind works—

  GENTLY

  No, Mr Halliday. It is something you know about. You are so certain the threat is to Trudi. A new element has come into her relationship with Frieda, and recently. What?

  STEPHEN

  I just don’t know!

  GENTLY

  Oh, Mr Halliday. It was Clooney, wasn’t it?

  STEPHEN

  I tell you—

  GENTLY

  Don’t bother to protest what isn’t true. The facts are really self-evident. Clooney was living here off the Breskes. They supplied him with pocket-money and board. It follows he had some hold over them, was privy to something to their prejudice. And he was friendly with Trudi but not with Frieda. There’s no point in denying any of this.

  STEPHEN

  You’ll say next that Frieda killed him—

  GENTLY

  Of course. You take the words out of my mouth. I am not likely to believe Frieda would want to poison her sister when Clooney presented such an obvious target. And when the sodium bic made no impression she turned to other, surer means. But she couldn’t have killed him herself. Who can we implicate along with her?

  STEPHEN

  You – you’re taking the mickey now.

  GENTLY

  Am I going too far?

  STEPHEN

  You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m just trying to shop Frieda.

  GENTLY

  I certainly do think that. And then I ask myself the reason. And I remember that Mr Halliday has no alibi, and that his interest is tied up with Trudi Breske’s.

  STEPHEN

  Oh my God!

  GENTLY

  For example, if Clooney is planning to squeeze the Breskes dry, then it is going to make a difference to what Trudi Breske brings to her future husband.

  STEPHEN

  You don’t – believe what you’re saying!

  GENTLY

  Why not? People kill for less.

  STEPHEN

  But good God man, I wouldn’t! Can you see me as a killer?

  GENTLY

  That’s stuff for the jury. I deal in facts. Just now you’re placed rather queerly, Mr Halliday. If you do know what hold Clooney had on the Breskes this would be a good time to tell me.

  STEPHEN

  But it can have nothing to do with, with the other.

  GENTLY

  Let me judge.

  STEPHEN

  No! I tell you . . .

  He hangs his head and tells Gently nothing, that is to say, in words. But who can ever tell nothing to this luminous-eyed, omniscient man? He knows too much. All combinations, all permutations of the facts are simultaneously present and under review in the quiet laboratory of his brain. Give him a word, and it fits. Give him a silence, it fits no less. Everything is there Advance or withdraw, you cannot escape from his net. Stephen Halliday, sinewily intelligent, with the spiritual toughness of a born surgeon, is lost, and knows he’s lost, and feels humility and strange admiration. Danger he doesn’t feel. He knows he’s innocent. And that too Gently is fully aware of.

  GENTLY

  So why don’t you tell me.

  STEPHEN

  I can’t. It’s a matter of loyalty, that’s all. If I knew anything about who killed him, do you think I wouldn’t tell you?

  GENTLY

  Your loyalty doesn’t extend to Frieda.

  STEPHEN

  Because, damn you, I’m scared of what she might do. I am scared. I can’t protect Trudi. And Frieda is kinked. You must know that.

  GENTLY

  Frieda must have a cogent reason . . .

  STEPHEN

  All right, all right, that’s understood. For a person like Frieda, a cogent reason. A reason like people have killed for less.

  GENTLY

  Which you’re not going to tell me.

  STEPHEN

  No. I promised. And it doesn’t matter. Because you know. You’ve asked the right questions and got the right answers and the proof is probably on the way. And if I can guess that, then Frieda can guess it, and if she’s going to act . . . don’t you see?

  GENTLY

  I see you have a melodramatic turn, Mr Halliday.

  STEPHEN

  God, you’ve got to take this seriously!

  GENTLY

  Poor Frieda. She works so hard.

  STEPHEN

  (Stares at Gently. Says nothing.)

  CHAPTER NINE

  HAD GENTLY ASKED the right questions? Certainly a right answer, or nearly a right answer, came tripping that moment across the Atlantic – bounced off Telstar, to be decoded and dispatched by one Cy, Cyrus Fleischer. Shelton received it, Walters next had it, Stody conveyed it to the cliff-top. Is Clooney listed as a missing person? Gently had asked; and Stody is able to pant, Yes.

  Yes: at least, a certain Albrecht Stenke has been so listed by New York Police, and Stenke matches at all points the description of (X) Clooney. He is aged fifty-two, same height, same colouring, very similar in feature, is of German origin, lived in the Bronx, was clerk in a real-estate company, American Homes, Inc. Furthermore, Stenke is married, though living apart from his wife (an explosive Polish lady who runs a cheap lodging-house in the Lower Bay dock area); he is addicted to scotch (says his landlady) and kinda dresses smart (same authority); and he quietly vanished from his usual haunts on or around 10 May. A match, a palpable match: for (X) Clooney read Albrecht Stenke. New York Police have Stenke’s fingerprints and shortly will put the matter beyond doubt. (X) Clooney has been dragged back from his anonymity, the chill void that settled round him: New York Police have pinned him down, given him habitation, a name.

  But – and this is the uneasy feeling that comes to Shelton after the first fizz has settled, and before the Great Man enters with Stody running before – has pinning (X) Clooney down really got them anywhere, with respect to throwing some light on his latter end, or has it merely given substance to the speculations which their previous research seemed to justify? There is so little fresh in this information! The name is changed, but what’s in a name? For the rest, the New York Police, in explaining Clooney, seem almost bent on explaining him away. He has no record, they say, no known criminal associates (they are apparently oblivious of that sinister trio, Pat, Toni and Abdul); he was solvent, had no worries, was generally liked, possessed friends; in fact, was knocking along through the world as well as most and better than many. They do not know why he vamoosed. He was a least-likely in that respect. They had checked with friends, firm, wife and not come up with a single clue. One day, 10 May, when it had not been even raining, this rather likeable clerk had packed a bag, cleaned out his account, and blown. It happened all the time, sure, but you could mostly put your finger on something, while with this character, nix, he seemed to have done it out of pure cussedness. Stenke had no relatives, the report says, he was admitted as a refugee in 1946. He worked as a labourer, as a waiter, as a musician, as a storekeeper, married Lydia Brodetsky, 1953, joined American Homes, Inc., 1955. All of which, though rounding the picture, suggests no great leap forward to Shelton.

  So much the more surprising, then, that the Great Man, carrying this report in his hand (and waving it, as a cabinet minister stepping out of 10 Downing Street might wave some document fraught with a nation’s joy, for the benefit of the reporters – and the reporters mob him with fizzing cameras) assumes, as he sails through their ranks, an expression, a twinkling eye of satisfaction, as though that report in his hand were the necessary key to the entire corpus of the mystery. He comes into the Aquarium and slams the door on the uproar of reporters. You’ve read it, of course? he says to Shelton. Yes, Shelton admits, I glanced through it. Get me the American Embassy, Gently says. We’ve nearly sewn this up, Inspector. All we need now is a line on those men who Klapper saw Stenke with in the restaurant. Pat, Toni and Abdul! So they were, t
hey did come into it! But how, where had Gently connected them – what divine frisk had his intellect taken? Shelton gets the Embassy, gets Fleischer. Gently talks, states his requirement. They’ll surely do that for him, Fleischer replies, yessir, back home they were probably on to it already. Especially the associates of these men I wish to know, Gently says, and if they are part of an organization, the names of the top men. No trouble at all sir, Fleischer assures him, the B’reau will certainly have that information. Oh and details of any job they may have pulled, Gently says, on or around 10 May.

  He rings off, sticks his pipe in his mouth, sucks some air through it happily. Shelton stares, Sally Dicks’s bosom heaves, Walters jiffies, Stody stands. What we need to do now, Gently says round his pipe, is to clear up the collateral circumstances at this end. Then, when the Americans send us that information, the decks will be clear and we can move. There are still two possibilities here and we must take care to eliminate one of them. I think that now we should have no difficulty in precisely establishing the deceased’s identity. The dabs will do that for us, sir, Shelton says, relieved to find himself in routine country. The dabs? Gently says, looking mildly at Shelton – so mildly that Shelton at once begins to colour and stammer. The dabs, sir – they’ll tell us whether Clooney was Stenke. I think that’s fairly certain, Gently says. But it will tie it up, settle it, Shelton stammers. I sincerely hope so, Gently says. Is Shelton really so abysmally stupid as he feels at this moment? Without doubt he has missed again some refined nuance of Gently’s thinking. It is important, must be important, that (X) Clooney is proved to be Stenke – and yet, the mat is pulled from under Shelton when he dares to assent to this point. Gently takes pity. We do not know who Stenke is, he says. And the pinch is that Shelton himself had begun to think along these lines! But Shelton had stopped short. He had merely said to himself, What’s in a name? Nothing, of course: but behind every name is an identity. He – he was a refugee, Shelton babbles. Just so, Gently nods. A German refugee admitted into the States after the war. Under the name of Stenke, which might have been Schmidt or possibly Schultz or Schickelgruber. The Nazi uncle! Shelton exclaims. That, Gently says, we must now establish.

  He glances speculatively around the Aquarium, which Shelton half-expects to offer information, then shakes his head, says, Not quite the setting we require. Setting for what? Does the Great Man intend to raise spirit messengers – perhaps the ghost of (X) Clooney himself, for a session of immaculate inquiry? But no – Ask Mrs Breske to step this way, he says to Stody, and she, least spectral of mortals, comes scowling in, floury of hand. I wish to talk to you and your daughters, Gently says. Is not convenient, spits Mrs Breske. I think it had better be convenient, Gently says. I could of course request your presence at Police Headquarters. But I baking am, Mrs Breske spits, I cannot spare myself from the kitchen – and Frieda is preparing afternoon teas – and Trudi you will not soon find. Notwithstanding, Gently says, I wish to see the three of you in five minutes, and also, because this office is small and not entirely private I suggest we have our talk in your parlour. Mrs Breske’s eyes pop, swell spitefully, but audibly she gives only her nasal buzz – though repeated three times, with a snatching of her head. Constable Stody will look for Trudi, Gently says, you will bring Frieda. In five minutes. Mrs Breske flings her squat body round and stumps out, scattering flour.

  So, according to fiat, they gather in that sea-watching room, where the exquisite huntsmen and their exquisite horses gambol over floor and furniture: Mrs Breske, no longer floury, but scowling still at all and nothing; Frieda, her daughter, lumpish Frieda, drab-faced, flat-faced, grey eyes neutral; and Trudi last, heavenly Trudi, Vienna’s, Austria’s, wonderful child, with some mischievous, delightful exploit only now fading from her smile. Mrs Breske marches to the rocking-chair, sits, is angry with it for rocking. Frieda makes the effort of going to a chair in the most distant and shadowy corner of all. Trudi sinks, sits, reclines, part-Recamier, part-tennis-girl, on that gilded, eighteenth-century sofa which must have cost Mrs Breske so dear. The others, Shelton, Walters, Dicks, melt variously into a room now growing small: Stody guards the door without: Gently sets his chair in the centre.

  GENTLY

  (Exhibiting Fleischer’s report.)

  I am happy to be able to tell you we have succeeded in identifying your late guest. His real name appears to have been Albrecht Stenke and he was resident in New York. He was a refugee of German origin who was admitted to United States citizenship. He has one next-of-kin, a Polish lady, whom he married after the war.

  Gently pauses, as though for reply, though in fact he has asked no question. He looks from Mrs Breske to Trudi, then through the shades to faceless Frieda. Mrs Breske breathes thick through her nose, Trudi drops her eyes before Gently’s. Frieda you would say was sitting very stiffly but you cannot quite make her out in her corner.

  GENTLY

  Stenke was living apart from Mrs Stenke and he was employed by a real-estate agency. He disappeared on 10 May and was the subject of a Missing Persons inquiry. The New York Police were unable to find him or discover any reason why he should disappear. According to your register he arrived in this hotel, as from London, on 24 May. (He gazes at the ceiling for a moment, the ceiling which is garnished with plaster fruit, then says, softly, as though with only personal curiosity), But why? Why come here?

  MRS BRESKE

  (Agitatedly.)

  Ach, Gott, why does anybody come here? The food, the wine, the music – we are everywhere in the books!

  GENTLY

  You have many guests from New York?

  MRS BRESKE

  Ach – so – from all places!

  GENTLY

  Can you name just one?

  MRS BRESKE

  There will be in the register—

  GENTLY

  We have checked your registers.

  MRS BRESKE

  (Buzzes.)

  GENTLY

  Perhaps Miss Frieda can explain this oddity? Because really it does seem to need explaining. Not many clerks suddenly vanish in New York to reappear in an East Coast hotel. In London, perhaps, you might find such a fugitive, or in one of the large towns in the north. But at Mrs Breske’s Hotel Continental! How can we believe it was accidental?

  FRIEDA

  He said he found our name in a guide.

  GENTLY

  No doubt he did. But why choose it?

  FRIEDA

  He was a German. What is there surprising about him choosing our hotel?

  GENTLY

  (Producing a book from his pocket.)

  Here’s a copy of that guide. It lists over three hundred hotels and restaurants run by Austrians or Germans. Nearly a third of them are in London. There are half a dozen along the coast. Two are within ten miles of your own. Why did Stenke come here?

  FRIEDA

  All right, then – it’s a mystery!

  GENTLY

  Surely not, Miss Frieda. There is such an obvious reason why Stenke came here.

  MRS BRESKE

  Ja, he is bad luck, that is why – always, for ever, he is bad luck!

  GENTLY

  You make my point, Mrs Breske. He came here because he knew you.

  FRIEDA

  No!

  GENTLY

  Is it worth denying, in the face of fact and probability?

  FRIEDA

  You can’t prove it.

  GENTLY

  I think I may. And in the meantime, I intend to assume it.

  FRIEDA

  It is a lie, we did not know him – never, never! – till he came here!

  GENTLY

  But he knew you, Miss Frieda. That is what I am saying.

  And this so strangely silences Frieda, who goes quite still in her shadows, though puzzled Shelton, who hangs on the phrase, cannot detect its sharp significance. Nor only Frieda: the open mouth of Mrs Breske declares her cognizance, while Trudi’s neck is beginning to mantle, her firm, fair fingers to pluck at
her sleeve.

  GENTLY

  Stenke once worked as a musician. And he had a nickname. Heifetz.

  MRS BRESKE

  He did not ever work here, not if he is called Paganini.

  GENTLY

  Paganini?

  MRS BRESKE

  Or Fritz Kreisler. A violinist is what I mean.

  GENTLY

  Who said Stenke was a violinist?

  MRS BRESKE

  Ach, did you not tell me they call him Heifetz?

  GENTLY

  But he was a violinist?

  MRS BRESKE

  How should I know what he is, that fellow? I do not talk to him, do not question him – he is another guest, you understand—

  GENTLY

  But surely you talked to him when he visited this room?

  MRS BRESKE

  Ach, Gott, who has been saying anything of the sort!

  GENTLY

  We have statements to the effect that he visited you, at least twice.

  MRS BRESKE

  This is lying – is not true—!

  GENTLY

  I don’t think our informants lied. I think Stenke – the violinist – the refugee – visited your room more than twice.

  MRS BRESKE

  No!

  GENTLY

  Why not? He was here a long time. You are in the habit of showing guests your furniture. And your photographs – wouldn’t they interest this refugee, this – Viennese, was he? – this violinist?

  FRIEDA

  And if he did visit my mother, what has that to do with anything?

  GENTLY

  Surely a great deal, Miss Frieda. It shows a considerable measure of acquaintance.

  FRIEDA

  Are you saying because of that she killed him? Went out and pushed him over the cliff?

  GENTLY

  Is that your theory?

  FRIEDA

  I – no!

  GENTLY

  Of course, we have to consider everything.

  MRS BRESKE

  I do not know – about my photographs – this is nonsense, all nonsense! So it is he comes here – all right! – still, I do not speak a lot to him.

  GENTLY

  Yet he must have had so much to tell you. So long it was since you’d met.

  MRS BRESKE

  But I tell you—!