by Alan Hunter
‘Oh, by the table most of the time.’
‘You are speaking of the large table that stands roughly in the centre of the room, not far from the safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were on the near side and your father on the far side?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you had your back to the inside door?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘During that interview, did you hear anything that might lead you to believe there was somebody outside that door?’
‘I can’t think of anything.’
‘Would you have noticed, for instance, if your father looked at it in a particular way, suggesting that he had heard or seen something?’
‘I wouldn’t have noticed.’
Gently paused for a moment. ‘From where you were standing, you could see through the outer door into the garden, also the outer gate, also part of the summer-house through the small window?’
‘I suppose I could, but I didn’t notice them much.’
‘Can you say whether the outer gate was open or closed?’
‘It seemed to be closed, but when I went out I found it was slightly ajar.’
‘You saw nobody in the garden at any time?’
‘No.’
‘Nor in the summer-house?’
‘No.’
‘You would not have noticed if the summer-house door was opened or closed?’
‘Yes, I did. It was standing half-open.’
‘Was there anybody in the timber-yard when you went through it?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Or any vehicle?’
‘None.’
Gently spread out his stubby fingers and placed the tips together in strict sequence. ‘Your sister,’ he said, ‘she does not appear to have many acquaintances.’
Peter shrugged and shook his head. ‘It is my father’s fault… she does not know anybody except a few people she meets at church.’
‘What sort of people are they?’
‘Oh… elderly, not very interesting.’
‘Has your sister any admirers to your knowledge?’
Peter’s long face twisted in a wry smile. ‘There was a young fellow once. He was called Deacon… he worked in a solicitor’s office. But my father soon put a stop to that. It happened several years back.’
‘Your father had a plan for marrying you to a Dutch girl. Had he any such plan for Gretchen?’
‘No! That would have cost money… in Holland she would have required a dot. With me, of course, it was different.’
‘If she had a lover, would you expect to be in her confidence?’
‘Well… that’s hard to say. Gretchen is very strange and very religious. She tells me most things, but not all. If it were anything serious I think she would tell me.’
‘Have you ever had any suspicions, say of members of the household
… or the staff?’
‘None at all. But I have been away two years.’
‘Would you be surprised to hear that Gretchen had, in fact, a lover?’
Peter stared hard at Gently. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think so. Her religion… it is the sort that would easily turn to something else… a substitution for it.’
‘Would you say it was true that she was very much afraid of her father?’
‘Everybody was afraid of my father.’
‘But Gretchen, perhaps, especially?’
‘In her position, I suppose she was…’
The shorthand constable closed his notebook and Gently, unable to smoke in the super’s office and out of peppermint creams to boot, stretched himself and sighed largely.
‘He’s clever,’ said Hansom, ‘he’s dead clever. And he can tell a story.’
The super tore off his sheet of doodlings. ‘It’s the sort of statement an innocent man might make if he were honest… and a guilty man if he were clever. It doesn’t seem to have helped you much, Gently.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Gently permitted himself the ghost of a smile. ‘At least we’ve got an indication that there was some other person in the house, besides those we know of.’
‘But that’s all you’ve got, and you’ve been hammering away at it all through the questioning. The really important point, that somebody was at hand during the quarrel, you’ve drawn a blank on.’
‘There’s the chair-marks and the finger-prints,’ mused Gently.
The super made impatient noises. ‘You know how much that’s going to impress a jury. As part of a chain of evidence it would stand up, but taken on its own it would only furnish an opportunity for sonic forensic fireworks by the counsel. Look here, Gently’ — the superintendent adopted a friendly tone — ‘let’s have young Huysmann back and charge him properly, and forget all this other business. I know you think he’s innocent, but he’s got himself into a mess and it’s up to his counsel to get him out of it, not us. We’re just here to get the facts and we’ve got them…’
Slowly Gently shook his head. ‘We haven’t got them… not all of them. For one thing there’s the money, and for another there’s the gentleman who tried to bounce masonry on my head…’
The super’s jaw moved out a good half-inch. ‘Very well, Gently, have it your way,’ he snapped, ‘but by God, you’d better be right! I’m giving you forty-eight hours before I charge young Huysmann: after that, you’re on your own.’
Gently met the super’s eye with a look of mild reproof. ‘I do wish you people would realize that I’m on your side,’ he said.
Alan Hunter
Gently Does It
CHAPTER NINE
E VEN HIS OWN Chief seemed just a little bit against him, thought Gently, dropping the receiver on a long telephone consultation. Chiefy had seen the papers and left instructions for Gently to ring him. ‘I know I can trust you, Gently,’ he had said, ‘and you can’t tell me anything about the attitude of provincial superintendents. But for heaven’s sake bear in mind that you’re unofficial and don’t stir up trouble. If the local gendarmerie think they’ve got a case, well, just let them keep right on thinking — if they haven’t, they’ll find out soon enough when it gets to court.’
Which is as good as telling me to drop it, thought Gently…
He looked down at the dusky city with its ten thousand lights, with the moving jewels that were cars and the sauntering shop-windows that were buses. In the market place they were busy packing up, flowers and vegetables were being dispatched on hand-carts to the subterranean vaults under the Corn Hall. Down London Street came a news-boy with the Late Night Finals: No Murder Charge in Huysmann Case, Final! Final! The day was over, the business was done. Now it was time to pack up, to have tea, to slacken the tireding wheels of commerce. And then there was the pictures or the Hippodrome…
Gently walked down by the Guildhall and crossed over to the brightly lit foyer of a small cafe, the Princess. It had a bowl of fruit in one window and a dish of cakes in the other, and both seemed, to a hungry Gently, well up to chief inspectorial standards. He went in. It was a pleasant, intimate place with oak beams and nooks and a large fireplace in which slumbered a mature fire and a wireless turned down low spoke of football in the midlands. He selected a small, nooky table within fire-range and glanced down the menu.
A tall pretty waitress came to him.
‘Mixed grill,’ said Gently, ‘with two helpings of fried onion. What are the sweets like?’
‘The fruit salad is very good, sir, and there’s clotted cream today.’
‘Cow cream?’ asked Gently cautiously.
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Ah!’ said Gently, ‘well, have it all ready. And I’ll finish up with biscuits and Stilton and white coffee. And by the way, I like a lot of Stilton…’
The wireless programme had changed to music, South American, with subtle, nostalgic rhythms. Gently expanded himself towards the benevolence of the fire. Forty-eight hours and then he was on his own
… with full police non-co-operation
. Of course, the break might come sooner. The fact that Peter hadn’t been charged right away might set things moving. It would certainly worry somebody. But if it didn’t, what then? It didn’t need the super to point out that Gently was butting his head against a wall. The wall was only too obvious. It loomed up everywhere. Try as he might, he always came across it at last, solid and indestructible, surrounding the blank on the map with unswerving determination. But the very fact that it was there, that it kept occurring, was significant: if Gently couldn’t get beyond it, at least he had become familiar with its direction and extent.
And the key-stone in the wall was Fisher. It was Fisher who had to crack. Take away Fisher, and the whole obstinate construction would collapse and reveal its secrets, whatever they were. All Gently’s mature instincts told him that — break Fisher, and the rest would fall into place. But if Fisher kept his nerve and did nothing foolish…
The waitress came back smiling with an interesting-looking tray. Gently called for rolls and went stolidly to work on his mixed grill. He ate seriously and with enjoyment. Food was one of those dependable pleasures, like smoking.
He thought of Gretchen. Had he been right with that shot in the dark, about her being pregnant? It had shaken Fisher, at all events, and confirmed Gently’s belief that he was her lover. But why should he have expressed fear? If it was his plan now to marry Gretchen and succeed to the old man, surely to have got her pregnant would have been a step in the right direction? But he was afraid that it was so, and that Gently should know it… why? Was there something in Hansom’s far-fetched notion after all — had the murder of Nicholas Huysmann been the concerted act of his daughter and his chauffeur?
Gretchen, he thought again. Gretchen. Perhaps his best chance lay there. But Gretchen wouldn’t talk any more than Fisher… and in her present situation, to bring any sort of pressure to bear on her was distasteful. Yet… could Hansom have hit it?
The music lilted some far-off tune of Gently’s youth, something connected with people and places unspeakably remote. He laid down his knife and fork. The waitress, who had been watching, came forward directly and removed the plate, wondering why Gently shook his head. Several people came in at that moment and stood looking for tables. Secure in his nook, Gently looked them over. Townspeople going to a show and having tea out… and then his eyebrows lifted the merest shade. One of the newcomers was Susan.
But Susan was on her own. Also, she seemed to be in a little ‘state’ about something. She ignored the waitress who wanted to fit her in a large table and with a toss of her sweeping blonde locks made for a smaller one near Gently’s own.
‘But we are keeping that table for two of our regulars, madam…’
‘There’s no “reserved” notice on it, is there?’
‘It is their usual table, madam…’
‘A pot of tea and some cakes.’
The waitress shrugged and moved away. Gently indulged in a smile. Someone had let Susan down, he thought, she’s all dressed up with nowhere to go… is Mr Leaming the culprit? He took delivery of his fruit salad and ate it thoughtfully. How much did Susan know about Fisher and Gretchen? She seemed to be a good deal in Gretchen’s confidence, one way or another… in fact, most of the clandestine comings and goings in the Huysmann house revolved round Susan. Gently eyed her interestedly over his peaches and cherries. She was dressed to go somewhere, without a doubt. She wore a rather expensive black creation that clung to her challengingly, nylons and a red swagger coat which also looked expensive. Her face was made-up heavily but with taste. She wore a silver bracelet, pearls and a diamond ring which might have been genuine. She was quite something, if the sulky expression of her face hadn’t spoiled it all.
Gently ate on through his cheese and biscuits and drank his coffee. Why had Leaming turned Susan up — if it was Leaming, and it was unlikely to have been anyone else? Lover’s quarrel, perhaps? Susan trying to exceed her market value? Or was it something more interesting and relevant?
He lit his pipe and moved over to Susan’s table.
‘Good evening, Miss Stibbons. Are you expecting someone?’ he asked paternally.
Susan looked up from an eclair. ‘Oh! Good evening, Inspector… no, I’m not expecting anybody.’
Gently sat down in the vacant chair. ‘I like this restaurant,’ he said, ‘it’s comfortable and friendly. Is this your evening off, Miss Stibbons?’
Susan gave a little shrug. ‘I get most evenings,’ she said.
‘You don’t know how fortunate you are. In my business we’re supposed to be on duty twenty-four hours a day… though of course, there’d be a riot if anyone tried to enforce it. But we get enough dumped on us at one time or another. Were you going to the pictures?’
‘I was,’ said Susan, aggrievedly.
‘I believe the picture at the Regent is quite good. I heard one of the men talking about it.’
‘That’s the one I was going to see.’
Gently took out his watch. ‘You’ve still time, if you hurry.’
Susan shrugged again. ‘I’m not going, now…’
Gently puffed a few smoke-rings. ‘I should,’ he said. ‘It’ll cheer you up no end.’
‘I don’t want to be cheered up.’
‘Oh come, now, it can’t be so bad as that. What happened, Miss Stibbons?’ Gently leaned forward like a tender father preparing to make all well.
‘I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t anything I said.’ She looked up at him, her blue eyes charged with injured innocence. ‘He just told me he’d finished with me — just like that!’
Gently tut-tutted. ‘But there must have been a reason?’
‘There wasn’t, Inspector, no reason at all. He picked me up like he always does and we came up here to have a drink at Backs. He was quiet-like, but I didn’t take much notice — he’s often like that.’
‘What happened then?’
‘When we came out there he suddenly went all stiff — you know — but I hadn’t said anything at all! He stood there for a bit by the car and then he suddenly said, “It’s been nice knowing you, Susan, but it’s all over now. We’re through,” he said, “this has got to end right here.” And then he got in the car and went off, and left me flat!’
Gently shook his head sympathetically. ‘Perhaps he didn’t mean it. Mr Leaming’s got a lot on his mind just now.’
‘But he did mean it! He knows I wouldn’t stand for that sort of treatment — and I’m not going to!’ She forked viciously at a meringue.
‘He may have had an appointment.’
‘He didn’t say anything about appointments.’
‘Well… these things happen. I wouldn’t take it to heart. There’s always someone else round the corner, you know.’
‘He may find that out before long.’
Gently smiled encouragingly. ‘This business has upset a lot of things, my dear, and affected a lot of people. Take Miss Gretchen, for example.’
Susan mangled a section of meringue and thrust it into her mouth. ‘Miss Gretchen’s all right,’ she said, creamily.
‘From a material point of view, I suppose she is.’
‘It turned out just right for her. I don’t know what she’d have done if it hadn’t happened, and that’s a fact.’
Gently turned the less-attacked side of the dish of cakes towards the waiting fork. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked casually.
‘Well… she was always kept at home… she didn’t understand.’
‘What didn’t she understand?’
‘You know how it is.’
Gently puffed some smoke at a bulb which gleamed dully behind its mock-parchment. ‘In trouble, is she?’
‘You’ll see, if you’re here long enough.’
‘How long is that?’
Susan frowned prettily over some green marzipan. ‘’Bout October, I shouldn’t be surprised. Somewhere about then. I warned her, you know, but it was too late then — I didn’t know about the first once or twice. After that,
of course, there wasn’t much point in being careful.’
‘Is she really in love with him?’
‘What — with Fisher?’ Susan sniffed scornfully. ‘I shouldn’t think so. He goes around with anybody — he tried to get me, but I wasn’t having any… she was just having him because she couldn’t get anybody else.’
‘Has this business made any difference?’
‘Oh, she won’t speak to him now. She won’t have anything to do with him. If you ask me, he isn’t going to be chauffeur at our place much longer.’
‘How does he take it?’
‘He doesn’t care.’
‘I wondered if he’d started getting ideas.’
Susan grinned, cat-like. ‘I daresay he had some, but they won’t be coming off. Miss Gretchen can pick and choose now… even though she is in trouble.’
‘Ah well… it’s a strange world.’ Gently thumbed the bowl of his defunct pipe and relit it. ‘When was the last time they saw each other?’
‘You mean the last time they…?’ queried Susan innocently.
‘Yes.’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Wednesday, eh?’ Gently brooded.
‘That’s the night Mrs Turner goes to the pictures. She doesn’t know anything about it, of course. Miss Gretchen went to bed early and I was there to let him in through the kitchen.’
‘Saturday one of his days?’
‘Afternoons on a Saturday — I’m out myself after tea.’
‘I don’t suppose you saw anything of him last Saturday?’
Susan wrinkled her brow. ‘I thought maybe he’d slipped in while I was out of the kitchen… I felt sure he’d be up there with her. But then, you see, she’d gone out on her own and he stopped at home… well, I suppose they had a row. Anyway, she’s finished with him now.’
The cakes were finished and the coffee drunk. Susan eased back into her chair and explored her painted lips with the tip of an angelic tongue. ‘I like to have a talk,’ she said confidentially, ‘it makes you feel better.’
Gently said: ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Oh… I don’t know.’
‘I was thinking of going to the pictures myself. There’s still time.’