Gently with the Ladies

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘Not the belaying-pin.’

  Gently said flatly: ‘The belaying-pin?’

  ‘A trophy – a silver-plated belaying-pin – it hung on the wall in the lounge!’

  ‘It did, did it,’ Gently said.

  Fazakerly’s pale eyes fixed on him. For a moment there was no sound in the office, not even of two men breathing. Then Fazakerly’s face seemed to crumple.

  He said hoarsely: ‘So that’s it, isn’t it? Not you nor anyone will believe me now, not if the weapon was my belaying-pin.’ His eyes closed. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s coming home. That poor bitch.’

  Gently picked up the phone. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to do this.’

  ‘I thought there was a chance,’ Fazakerly said. ‘I didn’t know. It wasn’t in the paper.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Gently said, then he spoke into the phone. Fazakerly sat silently, his head in his hands, the abrasion livid on his pale forehead.

  Gently hung up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘There’s only one thing I can do for you. This chat of ours is off the record. You can start afresh with Inspector Reynolds.’

  ‘But what’s the point?’

  Gently shrugged. ‘You let your hair down with me. Maybe you’ve learned what not to say, it could be a little help.’

  ‘But you’re through with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Did you expect anything different?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I thought if I saw you, if I could tell you, you’d know it was true.’

  ‘I’m not psychic,’ Gently said.

  ‘Of course . . . but there must be a difference. Even with a lying bum like me, it must sound different when I’m telling the truth. When I’ve nothing to hide, when I’m right behind it, when I’m naked there with the fact. Something in my eyes, in my voice. God, there has to be a difference!’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll convince Inspector Reynolds.’

  ‘But you – you can’t tell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m sunk. Because being innocent is all I’ve got.’

  He let his head sink into his hands again, but raised it again a moment later.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What shall I get . . . fourteen years, something like that?’

  Gently sighed, but said nothing.

  There was a knock on the door.

  After they’d taken him away Gently strode over to the window and stood looking out at the yellowy Thames. A patrol boat coming up was making heavy weather against the brute force of the ebb. The dull sky of the past few days was still heavy over the city, but the boisterous wind of yesterday had fallen almost to a flat calm. Gently returned to his desk and picked up the phone.

  ‘Put me through to Records.’

  Ellis, the organizing brain of Records, was also a keen yachtsman.

  ‘Hullo . . . Ellis?’

  ‘Oh – Gently.’

  ‘Look, I want some yachting information. If someone took a yacht out of Rochester last Monday p.m., would yesterday’s wind have affected him much?’

  ‘What moron did that?’

  ‘Would he need to be a moron?’

  ‘There were gale warnings out for the whole coast. He was either a moron or an intending suicide.’

  ‘Well, he might have been an intending suicide,’ Gently said. ‘He was certainly under some stress. But either way, what would have happened after he’d sailed out of Rochester?’

  ‘Just a minute, I’ll do some homework.’

  There was a rustling and squeaking at the other end. Then Ellis said:

  ‘He couldn’t have left Rochester much before half past six. By then it was blowing Force 6 from the sou’west, and soon it was gusting Force 8, and by midnight it was blowing a full gale, and it didn’t ease for the next twenty hours.’

  ‘What would he have done?’

  ‘He might have put out a sea-anchor, and perhaps set a jib to keep him heading. He’d be just running before it, if that’s what you mean, there’d be no chance of him steering a course.’

  ‘Where would that take him?’

  ‘Oh . . . the Hook. Perhaps higher up, Ijmuiden way.’

  ‘Then, if he set a course back when the wind eased . . .’

  ‘With a bit of luck he’d lay Harwich.’

  Gently hung up and sat frowning. So Fazakerly was perhaps telling the truth about his sea-trip. But that proved nothing, as he admitted himself: he had no reason to lie about that. All the same . . .

  He grabbed up the phone again.

  ‘Get me Q Division, Inspector Reynolds.’

  While he waited he snatched up a ball-pen and began sketching a belaying-pin on his blotter.

  ‘Reynolds? Gently here. About Fazakerly.’

  But first he had to endure Reynolds’ congratulations. An earnest, moustached man from Battersea, he never missed a chance of paying Gently homage.

  ‘Yes . . . well, I want to ask you a favour. It turns out he’s connected with my in-laws. No, I think he’s guilty too, but I feel I ought to make the motions . . . What I want is you don’t charge him for the next twenty-four hours, right?’

  Reynolds hesitated, and Gently could picture the consternation on his solemn, Saxon face.

  ‘But if I don’t charge him, Chief . . .’

  ‘You’ll be able to hold him. You’ll need some time to check his story.’

  ‘Are you taking over, then?’

  ‘No, nothing of that sort. I’m just clearing my slate with the family. Please understand I’m not interfering, I’m only concerned with getting the facts.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Chief. I’ll do what you say.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll drop round after lunch.’

  Under the belaying-pin he printed in capitals:

  WITH REMISSION, SAY NINE YEARS.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AT DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS in Chelsea Reynolds greeted Gently with anxious eyes. He shook hands respectfully, but his first words were:

  ‘Chief, I’m afraid he’s for the high jump.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Gently shrugged.

  He pushed into the C.I.D. man’s office. Lying on Reynolds’ desk, with a label tied to it, was the silver-plated belaying-pin. Gently hefted it curiously. It was probably an antique which had been prettied-up to make a trophy, and it was inscribed: ‘Rochester Sail Cruising Club’, with a list of names, ending: ‘J. S. Fazakerly.’

  ‘Which end would he have held?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Well, there was blood and some hair on the sharp end. It was kept in a bracket on the wall, so if you snatched it down you’d be holding the knob.’

  ‘Would he have got some blood on himself?’

  ‘Perhaps, but she was wearing a turban hair-style. He says the clothes he was wearing are in a locker at Rochester. I’ve sent down to fetch them and pick up his car.’

  ‘His prints check?’

  ‘Oh yes. They’re identical with those we had from his gear. His right index finger matches the print on the weapon. I’ve some photographs here.’

  He handed Gently a bunch of glossies which were still cockled and smelling of developer. Gently leafed through them quickly, pausing to stare only at one. He handed them back.

  ‘Just one clear print – and the others partial and erased.’

  ‘Do you think he tried to wipe them off?’

  ‘He made a curious job of it if he did.’

  ‘What do you think, then?’

  Gently grunted. ‘I know what his counsel will suggest we think – that someone wearing gloves handled the pin. Do you have any answer to that?’

  Reynolds gazed at the photographs. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Yes – the housekeeper was wearing gloves. She was the one who found the body. She still had her gloves on when we got there.’

  ‘And she’d handled the pin?’

  ‘I’ll bet she had.’

  ‘But do you know it for a fact?’

  Reynolds shook his head impatiently.
‘I soon will do. I’ll send Buttifant round to ask her.’

  ‘Still,’ Gently said, ‘if she didn’t, that’s a point you’ll have to watch. And while I’m playing the Devil’s advocate, I’ll just ask you something else. You’ll have had a long session with Fazakerly?’

  ‘Of course, Chief.’

  ‘Did you let him smoke?’

  Reynolds wriggled his shoulders. ‘It’s an open-and-shut case. I didn’t see any need to be tough with him.’

  ‘But did you notice anything?’

  ‘Well . . . nothing special.’

  ‘In the way he lit his fag, or stubbed it out?’

  Reynolds gazed at him glumly.

  ‘Fazakerly is left-handed,’ Gently said. ‘And you’ve got a dab from a right-hand finger.’

  He picked up the pin again, weighing it, balancing it. It had plainly not been intended for use on a yacht. It was over a foot long and probably weighed three pounds: more likely it had been salvaged from one of the big barges. But it was lethal . . . oh yes! A tap from that would crack a skull. And however angry you were, when you picked it up, its weight would give you pause unless your intention was to kill . . .

  Yes: a killer’s weapon. You could rule out manslaughter.

  ‘Are you busy for an hour?’

  Reynolds shook his head lyingly. He could scarcely be anything else than busy, but one didn’t argue with Gently.

  ‘Let’s go over to the flat, then, and you can fill me in on the spot.’

  Reynolds bowed his head and opened the door. He didn’t even leave a message.

  Bland Street, Chelsea, was a short cul-de-sac ending with the block of flats called Carlyle Court. They had been built during the concrete phase of the ’thirties and had the air of a set from Things To Come. Slab fronts, in a medley of planes, concluded in small square towers roofed with copper domes, and the porch, a lofty Babylonian concept, carried giant bas-reliefs of wrestling women.

  Reynolds rang and they were admitted by an elderly porter in a wine-coloured uniform.

  ‘This is Dobson,’ Reynolds said. ‘He let Fazakerly in on Monday.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Half past three, sir,’ Dobson said.

  ‘You’re sure of the time?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, definitely. That clock up there had just chimed the half-past.’

  He spoke defensively, a faded old man with a waxed walrus moustache, standing peering up at Gently, his dulled eyes puckered and straining.

  ‘You know Fazakerly well, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Been here several years.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘Cheery, sir. Always had a kind word.’

  ‘Where did he leave his car on Monday?’

  ‘Out front there, like always.’

  ‘Like always?’

  ‘He was never in long, sir. Always out and about, that’s Mr Fazakerly.’

  ‘He parked his car, and you admitted him. Did you have any conversation?’

  ‘Well, just a few words, sir. You know how it is. Like if he’d had a good weekend, something like that.’ What sort of mood was he in?’

  ‘Cheery, sir. Never known him any different.’

  ‘Why didn’t you see him go out again?’

  ‘I must have been doing the boiler, sir.’

  Gently nodded. He was conscious of a faint fragrance pervading the thickly-carpeted hall, the walls of which, rising to the height of the second storey, were ornamented with alcoves and thick gilded grilles.

  ‘Who runs this place?’

  ‘Mr Stockbridge, sir. He’s the manager, he is.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’ll be in his office, sir. Down this corridor and on the right.’

  Gently led the way down the corridor, which had plastered walls with a coloured stipple, and found a slab door painted plum red and lettered: C. F. Stockbridge (Manager). He knocked, and a voice told him to come in. They entered a large room with no windows. Instead, it was lit by concealed lights from behind panels on each of the four walls. A man rose from a desk spread with papers.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I was wondering when you’d look in . . . tell me, when shall we get possession?’

  He was a dark-haired man in his forties, dressed in an expensive lounge suit. He wore an exquisite silk bow tie and had a red carnation in his button-hole.

  ‘You see, these places aren’t chicken-feed, and it’s my job to see they’re never empty. Frankly, Fazakerly couldn’t pay the rent, and you know what claiming on the estate is like . . .’

  He gave Gently a sharp glance.

  ‘Do I know this gentleman?’ he asked Reynolds.

  Reynolds murmured Gently’s name.

  ‘Ah!’ Stockbridge said. ‘More red tape.’

  He drew out a slim cigarette-case-cum-lighter and lit a cigarette without offering them round. The room, apart from the desk and a single filing-cabinet, was furnished more like a lounge than an office. Stock-bridge sprayed smoke over their heads, eyed Gently again, but said nothing.

  ‘How much is their rent?’ Gently asked.

  ‘The Fazakerlys? Two hundred a month. Perhaps you’ll understand now—’

  ‘When did they come here?’

  ‘When? Oh, they’ve been here five years.’

  ‘So you know them well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. It’s not my place to mix with the tenants. I see them, yes, we have a drink at Christmas. But I don’t know anything about their business.’

  ‘You knew which one held the purse-strings.’

  ‘Well, that was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? Mrs Fazakerly wrote all the cheques. It’s easy to spot a set-up like that.’

  ‘What sort of set-up, Mr Stockbridge?’

  ‘Where it’s the wife who calls the tune. Where the husband is just the boy round the place, a pet poodle in trousers.’

  He stared fiercely at Gently. In a flashy way he had good looks; dark eyes, a tanned complexion, white teeth which he showed frequently. Yet there was a spivvishness in his manner, perhaps in the nattiness of his clothes. You might have placed him as a car-salesman or a high-pressure estate agent.

  ‘And Fazakerly accepted this situation?’

  ‘I don’t want to run the fellow down. I felt sorry for him, rather. I’ve got no quarrel with Fazakerly.’

  ‘Did they ever have rows?’

  ‘Not in public, anyway. In fact, you rarely saw them out together. Fazakerly has his interests, sailing, photography. I doubt if he was in the flat very much.’

  ‘Had he other women?’

  Stockbridge shrugged. ‘Better ask him. He wouldn’t have a damn sight to run them on. And he wouldn’t and didn’t bring them here. Be no point in that, would there?’

  ‘There might have been someone here already.’

  ‘Possible. We don’t check on tenants’ morals.’

  ‘A neighbour.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Say, Mrs Bannister?’

  Stockbridge stared at him, shook his head.

  ‘But she was a friend of theirs, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Not of his. And anyway, you’d better forget that angle. Take it from me there’s nothing in it. He was no chum of Sybil Bannister’s.’

  He didn’t take his eyes off Gently.

  ‘I’m telling you what you know, aren’t I?’ he said. ‘I daresay it’s pretty notorious, but it’s inside the law. We couldn’t clamp down on them.’

  ‘They made it fairly obvious, did they?’

  ‘Let’s say you didn’t have to wonder too much.’

  ‘And Fazakerly accepted that too?’

  ‘Apparently. I don’t know what was going on.’

  He took a few quick draws at his cigarette, then turned to stub it out in a big silver ashtray. Though he was probably being quite frank he still gave a curious impression of insincerity.

  ‘Who were their other friends?’ Gently asked.r />
  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. She has a sister of course, I don’t know her name. Fazakerly would have his sailing pals.’

  ‘Where were you when it happened?’

  ‘Me? I was in the City. On the first Monday of each month I show my accounts at head office.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In Old Broad Street. The Associated Holdings and Development Co.’

  ‘You didn’t see Fazakerly that day?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since Friday.’

  Gently had no more questions. Stockbridge followed them to the doorway. His last gambit, like his first, was:

  ‘But when are we going to get possession . . . ?’

  They took a silent, gentle, plush-lined lift from the hall to the seventh floor, issuing out on a broad landing lit by a rooflight of thick green glass. The landing was treated as an anteroom and had green wall-to-wall carpeting, three chairs, formed from bended green glass, and a small table of like material. The walls were finished in green plaster with a pattern of whorls. There were two doors, also green, but the smaller of them probably served a closet.

  ‘Who are the neighbours?’ Gently asked.

  ‘There aren’t any, Chief . . . not up here. There’s a penthouse flat on the other side of the block, but of course that doesn’t connect with this.’

  ‘Who’s underneath?’

  ‘Mrs Bannister.’

  ‘Does she go in for this sort of décor?’

  Reynolds apparently thought this a joke, for he gave a conscious sort of snigger.

  He unlocked the larger of the doors. They went through into a long hallway. It too was lit by green glass rooflights and had the same submarine character as the landing. On the walls, in moulded glass frames, hung a series of Japanese prints of fish; fat, voluptuous, swirling monsters with sad eyes and gaping mouths. Glass furniture was ranged beneath them and at the end of the hall stood a glass fountain. It was in the form of a nymph who poured water from a glass pitcher into a glass rock-pool.

  ‘That was working . . . I switched it off. There’s a tank of green-coloured water. Everything’s the same except in Fazakerly’s room. She was a blonde, maybe that explains it.

  ‘She was more than a blonde,’ Gently grunted.

  ‘You should see the bathroom. And her bedroom.’