Gently in the Sun (7 page)

‘How many cafés are there on the Castra Road?’

‘There’s three besides me, one nearly into Castra.’

‘Have they names and signs?’

‘Only that one – the Blue Owl. The rest of us just stick up “call” or something.’

‘I want you to think back very carefully, Mr Blaydon.’

Gently rocked forward on the back of his chair.

‘This is very important and a lot may depend on it. Would you have seen that Citroen if it had first passed the other way – not appearing to slow down or take an interest in your café?’

Blaydon frowned for a moment or two in careful obedience, but the answer was plainly on the tip of his tongue.

‘I’d have seen it of course, but I might not have noticed it. There were still one or two cars going back into town.’

‘You didn’t, in fact, notice it?’

‘Can’t say I did.’

‘Or any other car in particular?’

‘No, they were just cars.’

Gently let his chair sink slowly and reached for another sandwich. The case was still an inch or two ajar with regard to Mixer.

The identity parade was held in the canteen, this being the largest room at Starmouth Borough Police H.Q.
Copping had supplied eleven stand-ins, five of them were policemen; at that time of night it was the best he could do, though at any time it would have been difficult to match Mixer. Gently watched the
proceedings
without enthusiasm. It was an open-and-shut case as far as the robbery was concerned. Neither witness was hesitant and Hannent swore at Mixer – the watchman’s head was still bandaged, so his enthusiasm was understandable. The only interest now remaining was in Mixer’s proficiency as a liar.

They returned to the super’s office for the final act of the drama, Symms leading the way and Mixer urged on by Copping and Dutt. As usual the fellow was perspiring heavily, his mouth gaping open and his small eyes blinking. More than ever one wondered what a woman could see in him … especially such a woman as Rachel Campion.

‘Alfred Joseph Mixer, company promoter, of West Hampstead, Middlesex?’

He grunted some reply through his beak-like nose.

‘It’s my duty to warn you, Mixer – I daresay you know the formula. You’re not bound to make a statement but if you do it will be taken down, and later it may be used in evidence. Have I made that perfectly clear?’

The super, quite visibly, was enjoying this part of the business. He had a relish for the details which bordered on the comic. Sitting upright behind his desk, he eyed the unhappy Mixer wolvishly; but he was being the classic model of an official accuser.

‘I’m charging you that, on the morning of
Wednesday, 7th August, in the company of three other men …’

In strictly regular phrasing the charge was rolled off. Mixer listened without reaction, unless it was the twisting of his hands. All the time his mouth hung open and his breath was sucked in hoarsely.

‘… and that you then entered the premises of Messrs. Svandal at 54 Hammond’s Quay, and removed from there furs to the value of thirteen thousand two hundred and thirty-six pounds … have you anything to say in answer to this charge?’

‘I wasn’t there and I didn’t do it.’

Mixer’s croak didn’t pretend to conviction. His eyes were wandering uneasily to Gently, as though seeking the answer to an unexpressed question.

‘Would you like to tell us where you were?’

‘I wasn’t in Starmouth – not then, I tell you.’

‘When weren’t you in Starmouth?’

‘Not when you says I was!’

‘On Wednesday morning?’

‘No – I left before then.’

In his corner the shorthand constable was deftly whisking it down. Copping, hovering beside the desk, rocked gently on his heels. He was studying Mixer through half-closed lids.

‘I left there before twelve … quarter to, it might have been. Then I just drove around a bit … it was hot, like it is now. I just drove around to keep cool.’

‘On your own, of course?’

‘Yes … no! I had a bit with me.’

‘A woman, do you mean?’

‘That’s right, a bit of stuff. Said her name was Doris or something like that. On the bash, she was. I give her a quid for nothing.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘Somewhere … a caff.’

‘And you brought her back to Starmouth?’

‘No … she didn’t live there.’

‘Where did you leave her then?’

‘I dunno … where she told me!’

It was thinner than workhouse skilly, and Mixer must have been aware of it. The super was toying with him with a feline satisfaction. He didn’t need to break the rules. It was superfluous to cross-question. One had only to keep Mixer moving to plunge him deeper in palpable falsehood.

‘You say you did leave her somewhere?’

‘That’s right … a village.’

‘Which village was that?’

‘How should I know which village!’

‘Where did she tell you to go?’

‘Not to no particular village at all. “Turn left”, she says, “turn right” … like that. It’s no good asking me where we finished up.’

‘What time did you leave her?’

‘I dunno … two, at least.’

‘It took you over two hours from Starmouth?’

‘I didn’t say that, did I?’

‘Where did you go, then?’

‘I went back to the Bel-Air at Hiverton.’

‘You found your way back from this village, did you?’

‘I – never you mind!’

Mixer broke off at last, vanquished by the sheer futility of it. Nobody was going to believe this, not even if he produced the woman! He licked his lips and stared sullenly at the floor. What he wanted badly was time to think the story over.

‘That’s all I’m going to say till I’ve seen my solicitor!’

The super shrugged. ‘I’ll want you to sign the statement.’

‘I’m not going to sign nothing.’

‘That’s entirely up to you. Either way it’s evidence and will be put in at court.’

Mixer’s eyes flicked back to the bulky form of Gently. Why had he been half-hoping that the Yard man would intervene? At the moment he’d got his back to Mixer and was fumbling with a package: he seemed to have washed his hands of the cockney, to have abandoned him to the Borough Police.

‘I’m innocent, I tell you!’

Mixer’s voice rose, thrilling with injury.

‘I ain’t done nothing particular – nothing! It’s my hard blinking luck, that’s all it is! I’m the last person on God’s earth – the last … the last …’

His voice trailed away as Gently swung towards him. Held mutely in the inspector’s hands was Simmonds’s painting of Rachel. A panel of flashing colour, it seemed to pulsate under the harsh neons. The wanton body of the woman glowed forth like a living question mark.

‘That bloody little git!’

Mixer’s face had gone pale with rage. His words came strangledly, incoherent with violent passion.

‘
He
did that – didn’t he – that’s one of his! And she – she let him … a little git like that!’

He raved in his anger, indifferent of who saw it. His hairy hands were clenched, his eyes bolting from their sockets. Of a sudden he made a spring at the painting, but Gently was too quick for him. Dutt, coining up behind, laid uncompromising hands on Mixer’s
person
.

‘I’ll do for him, God help me – I don’t care if I swing for it!’

He was foaming at lips which had turned a leaden colour.

‘In the tent – that’s one thing! This … and him such a ponce! The next time I swear – when I get my hands on him! And she let him do it … she let him do it!’

It ended almost in a sob. Mixer shuddered with a great violence. He sagged forward in the sergeant’s grip and seemed as though he might have fallen.

‘So you weren’t jealous of her!’

Gently reversed the terrible painting.

‘She was just your secretary – the one you liked to have around! And was that why you kept an eye on her? Was that why you assaulted Simmonds? Or is it usual for you to behave that way when it comes to a secretary?’

‘You know why I didn’t tell you!’

Mixer writhed in the suppressing arms.

‘You’d have been on to me like a ton of bricks – I wouldn’t never have stood a chance! I got a record, haven’t I? I’m the bloke you’d try to pin it on. Put yourself in my place and ask yourself the question!’

‘So you admit that she was your mistress?’

‘My girl – that’s what she was!’

‘And you knew that she was unfaithful?’

‘Can’t you understand what it was like?’

Gently nodded. ‘I know something about her – she could turn the head of any male. It wasn’t just Simmonds, was it? He was simply the unlucky one. There were others from time to time, men you guessed about but never caught. That’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it – she had a lot of lovers?’

‘Not the way you put it!’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘She was a good girl, that’s what – a good girl. Can’t you see it? If a bloke made a pass …’

‘She wouldn’t turn it up.’

‘On account of that was her way – she couldn’t bring herself to say no!’

Gently made an impatient gesture but Mixer wouldn’t be put off. He struggled closer to the detective, thrusting his ugly face towards him.

‘I’m not lying to you – it’s the way she was made! It didn’t mean nothing, see? She just couldn’t help herself. And I’m honest with you – I was gone on her! Rachel was all the world to me. And she played the game … she did, I tell you! I’m not no bleeding catch, but because I was gone on her …’

‘Was entertaining Simmonds playing the game?’

‘She couldn’t help it – it was just her nature.’

‘And your nature to be jealous?’

‘I ain’t made of marble!’

‘Yet you left her alone all Tuesday evening.’

Mixer drew back a little, his eyes searching Gently’s. Twice his tongue went round his lips before he ventured on a reply.

‘So I told Maurice to keep a watch on her.’

‘Maurice? You mean the bartender?’

‘He’d got the evening off – I gave him some money to stop around.’

‘Wasn’t he the one who gave you an alibi?’

‘He didn’t mean no harm by that.’

‘In fact, what time did you get back to the Bel-Air?’

‘It was half past two and that’s the God’s honest truth!’

Gently nodded again, this time more slowly. The super, at his desk, was pencilling notes on a pad.

T
HERE WAS NO
sign of the weather breaking on the Friday morning, and Gently, fresh from his shower, selected another of his amazing shirts. This time it was the film-stars’ turn to have an outing. He spent a minute or two studying the effect in his wardrobe mirror. In front it was Miss Bardot in company with Miss Loren. Behind it was Miss Mansfield with Miss Dawn Addams. They had been portrayed, most probably, during just such another heatwave: they were sensibly dressed for it in light summer clothing. A garnish of palm trees assisted the composition, and the whole was carried out with a commendable vivacity.

When one was at Hiverton shouldn’t one make a gesture?

Dyson had rung him early with compliments about the Starmouth business, but his lab report, touching the beach pyjamas, was next door to negative. Gently had himself rung Pagram at the Central Office. His colleague had sounded unhopeful and apologetic.

‘We’ve worked back three addresses without
turning
much up … she had a grandmother in Camden Town, if that’s any help to you.’

‘Is the grandmother still alive?’

‘Give us time! We’ve only just heard of her.’

‘You haven’t got her surname?’

‘No, it’s very hearsay evidence. One of Campion’s ex-landladies had it from another of her lodgers. Apparently he used to know Campion when she was living with her grandmother – we’re trying to get on to him, but his tracks are a bit ancient.’

‘Nothing about any parents?’

‘Not yet, but we’ll keep trying. The local records, incidentally, went up in the blitz; just one of the little things that make life easier.’

‘What about her boyfriends?’

‘There again we’ve had no luck. Since she joined up with Mixer she seems to have kept her nose clean. Before that, as you might expect, it’s all rather vague.’

Gently told him about the warehouse raid, in which direction he had some hopes. If Mixer’s gang was pulled in, an event not unlikely, then something might be elicited from one or another of them.

‘I’ll follow that up, naturally … by the way, have you seen the
Echo
yet? In case you’re at a loss, they’ve just solved the case for you.’

Gently had hung up and gone to collect the papers he’d ordered. Over coffee and rolls in the breakfast room he and Dutt browsed through them. Gently’s braces and cheerful shirt figured on several front pages, but, as Pagram had hinted, it was the
Echo
which provided the highlight.

The
Echo
reporter had scooped Simmonds.
Following
closely in Gently’s footsteps, he’d dragged the self-same story from Simmonds’s lips.

It was all there except for mention of the thrashing. Detail for detail, it was what Simmonds had told Gently. Nor did one need to be a mind-reader to divine what the reporter thought about it – the murderer was Simmonds: it only awaited
confirmation
.

Facts, every one of them, and set down without comment; but how much could be inferred from facts put side by side like that!

In addition there was a picture of Simmonds standing at his easel, and a reproduction of a Rachel drawing which hadn’t been in the satchel.

‘Bloody little fool!’

Gently threw down the paper in disgust. Now the artist had really put his foot in it – there’d be no mercy for him from press or populace. Why hadn’t the imbecile had the sense to keep his mouth shut? Instead, he’d poured it out to one of his worst enemies.

The rest of the papers had taken the Mixer angle and done their best to squeeze something out of it. They had got on to Blaydon and noticed the time factor: once again there was no comment, but a naïve juxtaposition of facts.

But this was prosaic stuff beside the disclosures of the
Echo
. From now on it was going to be Simmonds who featured in the headlines.

The manager interrupted them, his manner almost guilty:

‘Those are two of my best rooms … do you think it might be possible?’

Gently had poked round Rachel’s room already, following in the footsteps of the scientific Dyson. The local man had performed prodigies in the matter of print taking; he had also established that two
cigarette-ends
had been the property of the inmate. Mixer’s room they had searched on their return from
Starmouth
. It contained nothing remarkable except some pornographic literature.

‘Tonight, probably …’

He left Dutt with the papers. Just once more he wanted to look round that room of Rachel’s. In a very little while it would own her personality no longer, like the scent of cut flowers, it would have vanished away.

He unlocked the door, to be met by the close smell of a shut-up room. Its windows faced seaward and admitted the morning sunlight. He went across and lifted the sash. The view comprised the lawn and tennis courts. Beyond them, over the marram hills, lay the dark, pacific sea; one could sit here counting the ships or watching the activities of the guests below. Mixer, of course, had had a similar prospect. His room was next door, though it didn’t communicate.

‘Fifteen-love!’

The youngsters were out already, bounding
elastically
around the courts. One could sense their exhilaration in the cool of the morning air. Over the lawn strode Colonel Morris, swinging a big Malacca cane. A moment later appeard the Midlands couple with their children and carrying towels. The inevitable record had just begun playing: it was a rendering of ‘Long Black Nylons’.

And the room? That was simple enough, one took it in at a glance. A bed with shiny panels, wardrobe and dressing table to match, a bedside cabinet, three Lloyd Loom chairs, a cheap Indian carpet, and a candlewick bedspread. By the bed stood her array of shoes, on the dressing table a silver-backed brush. In the wardrobe her clothes, gay, but not too expensive. In the cabinet cigarettes and Mlle. Sagan’s latest novel.

He took out the photographs and stood them up against the mirror. A little of that personality had started to filter through! The photographs had lied, or at best told half the truth. They had emphasized her sensuality and missed the human warmth behind it. She had been a friendly person … wasn’t that what stood out? Friendly, perhaps generous, perhaps even with a strength of character – allowing for a weakness, a failing not to be countered. Hadn’t they each tried to tell him that in their separate, different ways?
Simmonds
, cleaving to the unexpected response, Mixer, grateful for her contradictory faithfulness? Yes … a strength of character, an ability to go her own way. Sensual, promiscuous, but level-headed as well. A born and bred cockney, she was first of all a realist: she had accepted her life and produced something like a glow from it.

Wasn’t that the true attraction, setting aside her physical beauty? Wasn’t that what fascinated men even more than all the rest?

‘Thirty-fifteen!’

Down below the game waxed furious. Racquets in hand, those waiting their turn stood by shouting advice and comment.

‘Come into the net, Barry!’

‘Whee! What a backhander!’

She had seen it all, heard it all, but now it went on without her. The essence of tragedy lay in other people’s indifference.

Gently swept up the photographs with a sudden surge of violence. Who would have wanted to have
killed her? What had she done to deserve that? Mixer didn’t fit the picture – he was jealous, but he understood her. Simmonds? He was a better bet – a twisted little egoist. But there again, she’d been kind to him. She was a blend of mother and mistress. If Mixer had been killed that would have been another story … as it was, what could have prompted a murderous fit in Simmonds?

He heard a movement by the door and glanced quickly towards it. Just too late a white jacketed figure glided silently out of view.

‘Here … you! Come back a moment.’

Reluctantly Maurice reappeared. His expression was a little sheepish but otherwise he seemed at ease.

‘Come in here – I want to talk to you.’

Maurice entered with his neat, graceful step. At close quarters one saw that he was not so young; there were fine lines meshing the corners of his eyes, a few white hairs amongst the sleeked dark brown.

‘Take a chair, will you?’

‘I should be in the kitchen.’

‘Never mind that. You can refer them to me.’

Maurice shrugged delicately and took a chair beside the window. Rachel’s bag was lying on it but he removed the obstruction without curiosity.

‘I suppose you know why I want to see you?’

Gently himself sat on the broad wooden sill. The bartender’s face was directly facing the sun: it was a perfectly calculated deployment for interrogation.

‘It’s about Mr Mixer, isn’t it?’

‘You didn’t take long to guess.’

‘Well, there you are – I knew it’d come out. It stands to reason that you wouldn’t be satisfied.’

‘Yet you told us a lie, didn’t you?’

‘I did my best for him.’

‘How much did he pay you?’

‘Fifteen quid altogether.’

This was frank to a point – Maurice seemed rather to enjoy talking about it. His grey eyes nudged Gently’s with a sort of confidential cynicism.

‘It was a fiver to start with – did he tell you about that? I was supposed to keep an eye on her while he was away in Starmouth. Then the next morning he sent for me and coughed up two more. That was to tell you he got in at a quarter after midnight.’

‘And you told us – just like that!’

‘I’d taken his money, hadn’t I?’

‘Didn’t you realize that he might be Miss Campion’s murderer?’

‘We didn’t hear about it till later, and then it was too late. Anyway, I reckoned that you’d soon have the truth out of him.’

There was no abashing the bartender by representing his iniquity to him. He obviously looked on Gently as a fellow
cognoscente
. Mixer had been tossing fivers about – good! Maurice had been in their way. It wasn’t in human nature to have behaved any differently.

‘And suppose I charge you with obstructing the police?’

‘Go on! You wouldn’t make a fuss about a little thing like that.’

Gently grunted but didn’t press him. The time for that, perhaps, would come. He pulled out his pipe and filled it with deliberate slowness. The smoke curled bluely in the still, hot air.

‘Tell me about Tuesday evening.’

‘Tuesday?’ Maurice grinned at him. ‘It’s a long story, that is. How much do you want to hear?’

‘All of it.’

‘You’ll get your money’s worth. But it started before

Tuesday. In a manner of speaking it started when she first set foot in the place.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Can’t you guess? I like the ladies.’

‘You’re telling me that you?’

‘I wouldn’t pass up a girl like Rachel!’

There was no hesitation about it – quite the reverse, indeed. Maurice revelled in the telling of his amorous history. He winked at Gently and made gestures with his head. When he came to the tit-bits he fairly rolled his tongue round them.

‘I saw what she was the moment I clapped eyes on her – so could anyone else, if it comes to that. She’d got just that way with her – you know the sort? Every move, every jiggle … and what a body she had!

‘Her breasts were like melons and her thighs like trees, and sometimes she looked at you as though she wanted to eat you.’

Though he was properly behind the bar, Maurice had rushed to take up her baggage. He found her standing in front of her mirror and taking the fastenings out of her hair.

‘I nearly dropped a clanger. Mr Mixer was round the corner. She opened her bag to give me a tip, and I could see right down … you get me? Luckily I heard him coming – but don’t tell me she did it by accident!’

After that he was more cautious, though his lecherous mouth was watering. He watched and spied and made sheep’s eyes at Rachel. She, too, had noticed him and gave him contemptuous encouragement. His sheep’s eyes were caught and answered, and once or twice she was more provoking.

‘Got me to run her bath and came in wearing next to nothing … another time the bar was empty. She leaned on the counter and gave me a proper old eyeful.’

But the moment came when the teasing was made up to him. Perhaps Rachel felt sorry for the tricks she had played. One evening she retired early, saying that the sun had given her a headache. Within twenty minutes she rang the bar asking for aspirins and water.

‘Didn’t Mixer suspect anything?’

‘No, he was stuck into the
Record
– I’d just fixed him up with a nice long Scotch. Rosie took the bar for me – she’s all right, is Rosie – and I went up the back way to keep it nice and unobtrusive.

‘Guess how I found her? Stretched flat across the bed there! The light was out, of course, but it wasn’t properly dark.’

‘How long were you away from the bar?’

‘Half an hour or forty minutes. I daren’t stay longer, and perhaps it was just as well. As it was … you understand me? I needed a brandy to pull me round.
Rosie laughed her head off to see me looking so pale.’

‘Where was Mixer when you got back?’

‘Right there where I’d left him. He’d drunk another couple of whiskies but he hadn’t left the bar. And for the rest of the evening …’

‘When else did you make love to her?’

‘There wasn’t never another chance until Tuesday, worst luck.’

Gently relit his pipe while Maurice gabbled on. There was something absurd about this oversexed little man. He had the obscenity of a dog making public his amours: he couldn’t be reticent, he had to talk about it too.