Gently by the Shore csg-2

by Alan Hunter

  ‘I see nothing simple about it, McParsons. It has all the marks of being deliberately contrived. First this hypothetical American meets you just as you’re about to put to sea — and when you’re alone. Then, for reasons the most vague, he elects to spend a night on the North Sea immured in a herring-bunker rather than show himself to the crew. And finally he takes his leave when, once more, there are no witnesses. It’s pretty thin, McParsons. It’ll be cut to ribbons in court. If I were you I’d stop trying to shield whoever it is behind this racket and try to be helpful — we shall get them in the long run, you can depend on that.’

  ‘Then for Gord’s sake get them, Supereentendent, and dinna waste any mair time! Ye’re noo the ain half sae anxious aboot it as I am sittin’ here.’

  ‘So you’re sticking to your story?’

  ‘Aye — onless ye can puit me up tae some lees whilk will suit yer better.’

  The super glanced down at the file with something which might have been a low sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said dangerously, ‘if you insist on having it that way… describe the man!’

  ‘The Amurrican body?’

  ‘Precisely, McParsons.’

  ‘Weel, I doot I’m noo a policeman to be forever noticin’ the crinks and crankles o’ folk…’

  The super snorted. ‘Don’t strain your imagination.’

  ‘I willna, Supereentendent… it’s me memory I’m jowin’ the noo.’

  ‘For instance… was he clean-shaven?’ mumbled Gently, apparently studying his stubby fingernails. The Scot turned quickly towards him.

  ‘Noo yer mention it, he wasna — he had a beard fra the temples doon.’

  ‘He would have, wouldn’t he?’ demanded the super derisively.

  ‘And his suit… Scots tweed?’ suggested Gently.

  ‘Na, man, it was ain o’ they Yanky-doodle jobs, a’ tap and noo bottom.’

  ‘Dark?’

  ‘Na… aboot the colour o’ pipe-ash.’

  ‘He was a youngish man?’

  ‘Ower forty, ain or twa.’

  ‘And he spoke with an educated accent?’

  ‘Noo this cheil — he was Amurrican by adoption, ye ken… he spoke a fair smatterin’ o’ Sassenach, but he hadna it fra his mither.’

  Gently felt once more in his breast-pocket for one of his doctored prints.

  ‘Had he a beard like this one?’

  McParsons rose excitedly to his feet. ‘But yon’s the man — the verra spittin’ image! Sae ye kent him — ye kent him a’ the while — it’s jist a try-on, a’ this chargin’ and fulin’ — ye’ve got yer hands on him a’ the while!’

  Gently’s gaze strayed mildly to the thunderstruck super. ‘I’d like to get Hull on the wire… it may be a longish call.’ He turned back to McParsons. ‘You wouldn’t remember what ships docked at Hull on that Tuesday… from the continent, say?’

  ‘Fra the Continent? Och aye! There was that Porlish ship they made a’ the fuss aboot aince — we ganged roon to ha’ a luik at her. But concairnin’ the body on yon photygraph-!’

  ‘Thank you, Skipper,’ murmured Gently distantly, ‘the body on the photograph is undoubtedly your next port of call.’

  They were obliging, the Hull City Police, without being able to do much more than fill in a few details. They knocked up numerous people (including constables) from the first and important hours of their slumber. No, they had no record of a man of Max’s description. No, their life was not being blighted by an irruption of counterfeit hundred-dollar notes. Yes, the Polish liner Ortory had broken her Danzig-New York run at Hull on the Tuesday week last. She had docked at noon and sailed again at 19.30 hours: she had discharged seventy-five crates of Russian canned salmon and picked up a Finnish trade delegation on its way to Washington. Yes, they would get on to the dock police if Gently would hang on for a while.

  ‘So he was a Pole, was he?’ brooded the super, sniffing meanly at the Navy Cut contaminating the aseptic night air of his office.

  Gently shook his head. ‘A Bulgar from Sofia.’

  ‘You know that for a fact?’

  ‘Not really… but I’m prepared to accept it as a working hypothesis.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Just a hunch. I don’t think someone I know could bear to tell a lie about it… provided he wasn’t implicating himself.’

  ‘And who is this someone?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a bit vague at the moment…’ returned Gently evasively.

  The super grunted and toyed with a retractable ball-point which seemed to be a novelty with him. ‘So he was a member of this TSK… they were sending him to the States guyed up like a Yank and loaded with counterfeit… is that the angle?’

  Gently nodded through his smoke.

  ‘What was he supposed to do when he got there?’

  ‘Oh… they’d have put him ashore quietly before the ship docked.’

  ‘And then?’

  Gently shrugged. ‘Sabotage seems to be their line… he was probably going over to organize it.’

  ‘He must have been well up in the party,’ mused the super, ‘it was a position of trust… what do you suppose went wrong?’

  ‘That’s something we’re not likely to know.’

  ‘A double-cross inside the party, maybe.’

  ‘You’re probably safe in saying that…’

  There was a dulled, small-hour silence broken only by a scratching in the uncoupled phone and a sizzle from Gently’s pipe. From the nearby harbour came the mournfully alert toot of a siren, twice repeated.

  ‘Of course you’ll get on to the Special,’ muttered the super drowsily.

  ‘Dutt’s getting them for me… he was attached to them a time back.’

  ‘They may know something… then there’s the US Federal… could be something they’re looking for.’ The super jerked himself to attention. ‘Look here… there’s something that puzzles me. If this fellow was so worried about his health, why didn’t he seek political asylum when he skipped the Ortory? That would have been his obvious move. There was no need for all this chasing around and stowing-away aboard fishing-boats.’

  Gently gave himself a little shake. ‘There’s the missing suitcase

  … if it were stuffed with hundred-dollar bills it seems a fairish reason for keeping things private.’

  ‘But they were counterfeit!’

  ‘He may not have known that.’

  ‘You mean his party sent him off on this mission without telling him?’

  ‘It would seem to square with what we know about the methods of these parties…’

  The super nodded sapiently. ‘But the person who swiped that suitcase must have known they were phoney, because he hasn’t been passing them.’

  ‘You can’t bank on that either… the TSK weren’t planning to spend them in Starmouth. What puzzles me is the way that bedroom was frisked. You don’t have to tear a bedroom apart to find a suitcase…’

  They were interrupted by the entry of a constable with a tray from the canteen. It bore a plate of corned-beef sandwiches and two mugs of hot coffee. Gently gladly grounded his pipe in favour of the more substantial fare — there was an almost psychic quality about corned-beef sandwiches and hot coffee at that hour of the morning. He chewed and swilled largely, and the super kept in strict step with him.

  ‘May have hidden the stuff about the room,’ mumbled the super, flipping a crumb from his moustache.

  ‘Then why was he always carting the suitcase about with him? Everyone’s agreed about that.’

  ‘Could have been a blind.’

  ‘Why should he bother?… the stuff would be safer by him.’

  ‘He seems to have left it behind in the last instance, at all events,’ grunted the super beefily.

  ‘There may have been a purely incidental reason for that…’

  Dutt came in, looking peeked and heavy-eyed. ‘Special is going into it, sir,’ he said laconically. ‘I gave them a p.p. as good as I could remember and all the information
we’ve got to date.’

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Gently, shoving him a charitable sandwich.

  ‘Nothink, sir. They never does.’

  ‘Did they confirm the identity of the charm?’

  ‘Only after I’d got on to ’em, sir, and told them it was hanging up the case. You never knew such a lot for keeping their traps shut.’

  Gently drank the last of his coffee and looked sadly into the empty mug before returning it to the tray. ‘Maybe they don’t know much

  … maybe they aren’t going to until the day-shift turns up. Did Sergeant Dack get any results with that photograph?’

  ‘Yessir. A lot of beautiful prints.’

  ‘Any on record?’

  ‘He thought there was, sir — would’ve sworn blind about one lot. He said they matched up with the prints of a con man who specialized in flogging licences to manufacture Starmouth Rock.’

  ‘And did they, Dutt?’

  ‘No, sir. They was yours.’

  Gently shook his head modestly. ‘You compared them with the ones out of the bedroom?’

  ‘Yessir. No resemblance.’

  ‘And sent a set off to town?’

  ‘Automatic, sir.’

  ‘Have another sandwich, Dutt.’

  ‘Thank you, sir… this night work makes you peckish.’

  The telephone scratched its gritty throat and began to emit adenoidal language. Gently picked it up and murmured kindly to it. The dock police had been roused and briefed. They had pulled in, or rather out, the two men who had been on duty at the pier where the Ortory had docked on the day in question. No. 1 was applied to the line and upon invitation gave an efficient description of what occurred.

  ‘And no civilian disembarked from the time she docked to the time you went off duty at five?’ queried Gently encouragingly.

  ‘Only one, sir, and he came down with three or four of the ship’s officers… they seemed to be inspecting the cases of salmon which had been unloaded.’

  ‘The salmon? Would that have been unloaded by the ship’s crew?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was in this instance.’

  ‘Down a separate gangway?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And loaded on to trucks?’

  ‘No, sir, not directly. They built it up on a pile on the pier and it wasn’t till the evening when it was taken away.’

  (‘That’s it!’ whispered the super, listening on an extension, ‘he bribed the sailors to get him off… they built a hollow pile for him to hide in.’)

  ‘This civilian who came to inspect the cases… when did he come ashore?’

  ‘Just before I was relieved, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean by “inspected”?’

  ‘Well, sir, they appeared to be counting them… they got one or two off the top to see how many were underneath.’

  ‘You noticed nothing unusual take place?’

  ‘No, sir. They just did their check and then stood about talking and looking about them for a minute or two. After that they strolled up the pier to the office and went inside.’

  ‘The civilian too?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the civilian and the officers.’

  ‘Can you describe the civilian?’

  ‘Middle-aged, about five-nine, medium-build, dark, dark-eyed, slanting brows, long, straight nose, small mouth, rather harsh voice.’

  ‘Distinguishing marks?’

  ‘I thought he had a scar on one side of his face, sir, but I only caught a glimpse of it as he came down the gangway. The rest of the time it was turned away from me.’

  ‘Ah!’ breathed Gently and propped himself up at a better functional angle with the super’s desk. ‘Now… this is important… did the civilian return on board with the officers?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. My relief came just then and I went off duty. He’s in the office now, sir, if you’d like to speak to him.’

  There were some confused ringing sounds at the other end and No. 2 took over. Gently repeated his question.

  ‘Well, sir… I regret to say I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Didn’t notice? Didn’t the other fellow tell you there was a civilian ashore?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, he did. But soon after I got on the pier there was a row amongst some of the Polish seamen and it sort of took my mind off the others.’

  ‘What sort of a row was that?’

  ‘I don’t know what it was about, sir. Half a dozen of them came ashore and started shifting some of the cases that had been unloaded. Then all of a sudden a row broke out and a couple of them started a fight. I went up and separated them, but they kept on shouting at each other and making as though they’d let fly again, so I had to stand by and keep an eye on them. In the end one of their officers came up and sent them on board again.’

  ‘And during that little diversion the party in the pier office slipped aboard?’

  ‘I suppose they must have done, sir… they weren’t there when I checked up later.’

  ‘So if the civilian stayed ashore you wouldn’t have noticed?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir… I’m very sorry…’

  (‘Cunning lot of bastards!’ interjected the super with reluctant admiration, ‘you can see they’re professionals!’)

  Gently took in a few more inches of desktop. ‘Give me the other bloke again,’ he said. The other bloke was given him. ‘What else was going on at the pier while the Ortory was there?’

  ‘What sort of thing, sir?’

  ‘Any loading or unloading going on?’

  ‘There was a Swedish vessel unloading timber on the other side, sir.’

  ‘And that meant a bit of traffic up and down the pier?’

  ‘Quite a bit, sir. They were trucking some of it.’

  ‘Was it going past the pile of cases from the Ortory?’

  ’Yes, sir, just behind it. Some of the trucks parked there to wait their turn.’

  Gently nodded towards the slow-mantling dawn. ‘And the Finnish Delegation?’ he asked, ‘what time did that embark?’

  ‘Just after lunch, sir… might have been half past two.’

  They sat drinking a final mug of coffee with the electric light growing thin and fey under its regulation shade. The super was looking sleepily pleased with himself, as though he felt he had a good case to go before the ratepayers, both in forgery and homicide. After all, nobody could hang Special Branch business round his neck… concern he might show, when secret agents bumped each other off on Starmouth Sands, but he was only nominally responsible…

  ‘I suppose the bloke who did it is miles away by now,’ he murmured into his coffee. ‘If he shows the same ingenuity getting out of this country as he did getting into it…’

  Gently shrugged slightly, but he didn’t seem to be listening.

  ‘And even if they get him I don’t suppose we can make a murder rap stick…’

  There was a tap on the door and the duty sergeant entered.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said to the super, ‘but PC Timms has just turned in this here. It was given to him by the publican of the “Southend Smack”. He changed it for a Teddy boy in his bar last night, but later on somebody tells him about some duff ones going about, so he’s handed it in to be on the safe side.’

  The super extended a nerveless hand. The duty sergeant placed therein a certain bill or note. And from an unexpected backyard at no great distance a cock crowed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday sun falling steadily on the platinum beaches, on the lazy combers, on the strangely subdued streets. On the well-spaced, comely mansions of High Town. On the quaint, huddled rookeries of the Grids. On the highly-polished bonnet of a police Wolseley as it halted on the crisp gravel of Christopher Wylie’s retired drive. On the more sober bonnet of PC Atkins as he knocked on the door of No. 17 Kittle Witches Grid.

  ‘I knew he won’t come to no good, that kid of Baines’s,’ said a frowsy matron to the newspaperman as they watched a goggle-eyed Bonce being marched
away. ‘I said so as soon as I saw him in that fancy get-up of his. Did you ever see such frights as they look? And then for him to be mixing with that young Wylie… I said it would be his ruination.’

  ‘Going about the town at all hours and taking up with all sorts,’ said the cook at Wylie’s, relinquishing her vantage-point at the larder window, ‘they should’ve let me had the handling of Master Jeff — I’d have let him mix with riff-raff like the Baineses, I would!’

  ‘I dunno,’ returned the kitchen-maid dreamily, ‘I rather liked him in that silly suit of his.’

  The cook snorted. ‘Well, you can see where it’s got him now, my girl!’

  In the ill-lit parlour of No. 17 John George Baines, dock labourer, sat in his shirt-sleeves staring sullenly at the News of the World. His wife, a bold-faced woman, was slapping together the breakfast plates at a table covered with oil-cloth and two juvenile Baineses were scuffling and screaming on the floor.

  ‘It wouldn’t have happened,’ snapped Mrs Baines for the twentieth time, ‘it wouldn’t have happened, not if you’d kept a proper hand on him…!’

  ‘Oh, shut your mouth, woman… it’s your fault if it’s anyone’s.’

  ‘You’ve never give him a good hiding in your life!’

  ‘And who was it encouraged him with that bloody suit — trying to be up to His Nibs…?’

  More silent was the breakfast-room in High Town. No sound fell upon the ears of Christopher Wylie, except the sobbing of his wife Cora. He stood with his back to her, staring out of the expensive oriel window, staring at his cypress and monkey-puzzle trees, his impeccable gravel drive.

  ‘I’ll get on to the chief constable,’ he muttered at last, ‘we’ll get it straightened out, Cora… there can’t be anything in it.’

  ‘Oh, Chris… I’m so frightened… so frightened!’

  ‘It’s all a mistake… we’ll get it straightened out. The lad’s due for his service in October…’

  Up the long High Street marched PC Atkins, the Sunday-silent High Street with its newspaper-men, milkmen and a few early-stirring visitors in holiday attire. Beside him slouched Bonce, looking neither to right nor left. Behind him frisked Nits, a chattering, excited Nits. Halfway along the High Street PC Atkins paused to address the ragged idiot. ‘You run along home, m’lad, and stop making a nuisance of yourself… off with you now, off with you!’ Nits backed away apprehensively while the constable’s eyes were on him, but as soon as the march recommenced he was dancing along in the rear again…