Gently Sahib (14 page)

Was that what Abbotsham did to a man?

He blew smoke at the ceiling.

‘Sure he’s gone abroad?’ he asked.

‘What else can one think? Bournemouth is checking, but . . . Do you think we should inform Interpol?’

‘Not just yet! What have we got?’

‘Hargrave traced his account to the National and District.’

Hargrave, a square-shouldered, ruddy-faced man, sat glumly to the right of Perkins’s desk.

He said: ‘Sayers had deposit and current accounts, sir. He had over twenty thou in the deposit account. On twentieth September last year he wrote from Bournemouth asking to have his account transferred there.’

‘From what address?’

‘From a hotel, sir, The Stansgate in Marine Parade. He said he proposed to settle in Bournemouth and was looking over some properties.’

‘Have Bournemouth checked?’

‘Yes sir. But he was only at The Stansgate for a weekend. He came back afterwards to ask for letters, but didn’t leave any address.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, the bank rang their Bournemouth branch, sir, and the address they had was in Boscombe. But that was a furnished holiday bungalow which he only took for a month. By that time he’d emptied his accounts by cheques in favour of the Unit Finance Company. It was at one-month call, sir, and he drew it in cash in November. The UFC had an address at Southbourne. It was another furnished property.’

‘Well?’

Hargrave shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that’s it, sir. He left no address with the letting agent.’

‘He’s skipped abroad!’ Perkins moaned. ‘It’s obvious, that’s what it was building up to.’

‘He was covering his tracks,’ Gently said.

‘He didn’t have any connections over here. He’d have changed his name, bought a forged passport . . . probably he’s in the south of France.’

‘But he
was
at Bournemouth . . .’

‘In November!’

Gently puffed once or twice. He could have sworn that Hastings had lied to them about Sayers . . . in fact, what interest had he in telling them the truth?

If Sayers was the ‘third man’ in the business, the one who’d actually done the job, surely Hastings should have done his best . . . Yet at once he’d mentioned Bournemouth!

‘Let’s go over this again. A month after the tiger business Sayers is in Bournemouth. He appears only just to have arrived there and he stays at a hotel while he makes his arrangements. At once he writes to his bank – without waiting till he has a more permanent address – so that he has to return to the hotel to collect the bank’s reply.

‘Why do that? Presumably on the next day he finds and moves into the holiday bungalow – a project presenting no difficulty at that end of the season. So why not defer his letter till then? What was the hurry about?’

‘If he were short of money . . .’

‘How could that be? He wouldn’t have left Abbotsham empty-handed.’

‘He might have gone somewhere else first . . . perhaps he skipped straight away, in Shimpling’s car.’

‘Still, he’d have his cheque book with him, and his pals here would have slipped him money. And if he was scared of going back to Abbotsham, he should have been just as scared of writing to his bank.

‘But what was he scared of, anyway – when the killing hadn’t come to light?’

Perkins shook his head woefully. ‘It’s a bit of a mystery, that is . . .’

Gently blew a stream of smoke. ‘All right, then a bit of a mystery. It may mean something, may mean nothing. Next, having got his account at Bournemouth, he empties it by cheques made out to a trust company – which he could have done just as easily while the account was still at Abbotsham. Again, why?’

‘Perhaps . . .’

‘Of course – plenty of adventitious reasons! He may not have thought of the trust company dodge until he’d had the account transferred. Or again, the local bank manager would know him, might want to discuss the investment, while to the Bournemouth man he was simply a name and there wouldn’t be that bother. Plenty of reasons. All I’m emphasizing is that we have a need to suppose one.

‘After that it’s straightforward, if Sayers’s motive was to vanish. He’s shifted his capital into an investment which he can cash without questions asked. Once it’s cashed he’s broken the link; we can no longer trace him through his money. He reinvests it in another name, in another place, from another address.

‘Man and money are both gone . . .’

‘Would it matter if we traced him to Bournemouth?’

Perkins heaved a sigh from deep down. ‘He’s our chummie all right,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t have done all this . . . yet he wasn’t a bad sort of fellow. We’ll have to get him, fetch him back. He’ll be abroad, I’m certain. He took a Lads’ Club party to France one year . . . he’ll know all the ropes.’

‘Did he have a car?’ Gently asked Hargrave.

‘Sorry, sir . . . I haven’t checked yet.’

Gently reached for the phone, asked the board for Hastings’s office. It was the girl who answered.

‘I’m afraid Mr Hastings is out . . .’

‘Never mind, miss. Perhaps you can tell me – what sort of car had Sam Sayers?’

A black Hillman, she told him. Not new, not old. He’d kept it in the garage at the rear of the office. Yes, of course he’d taken it with him when he vacated the flat. How did she know? Because Mr Hastings had moved there and had begun using the garage.

Gently pushed the phone to Hargrave.

‘Get the registration number from the Licence Office, then put out a general call. It may lead us to something. When you’ve done that try the tax people and the National Insurance Office.

‘Probably they won’t know anything – but that’ll tell us something, too.’

Hargrave took the phone, began dialling.

‘Really, he was quite a decent sort . . .’ Perkins groaned.

‘Some murderers are,’ Gently snapped. ‘Anyway, Sayers wasn’t an angel.’

‘Just one slip . . .’

Gently hammered out his pipe, filled it again and relit it. Perkins winced and shut up. At least, he was beginning to know his Gently . . .

But suddenly he flushed crimson and started to forage among the papers on the desk.

‘My God . . . I forgot! Just before Hargrave got back . . . this came for you over the phone . . .’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘It went out of my head . . . all I could think about was Sayers!’

He handed the report to Gently with a pink hand that actually trembled.

It came from Ferrow. He was no farther forward in his attempts to trace Cheyne-Chevington. He recommended sending down Cheyne-Chevington’s ex-housekeeper to make the necessary identification. Nor had they pulled in Shirley Banks, but they were on a hot scent. She’d been seen in Fulham as recently as yesterday and Division was making exhaustive inquiries.

‘Did you read this?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes . . . it wasn’t urgent, was it?’

‘Where’s that report about Shimpling’s car?’

‘I had it here . . . there it is!’

‘Where was it sold?’

‘Peckthorne’s Garage—’

‘I know about that! Fulham, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Fulham.’

‘And now we find Shimpling’s girlfriend turning up there.’

Gently puffed at his pipe fiercely.

‘Look – during all your preliminary fact-gathering – did you turn up any information to show when Banks actually left Shimpling?’

‘We talked to the tradesmen . . .’

‘What did they tell you?’

‘They hadn’t seen her for several weeks. Usually, she took the goods in, paid the bills. Then, afterwards, Shimpling did it.’

‘From which they deduced she wasn’t there?’

‘Well . . . that seemed reasonable.’

‘But it could simply mean she wasn’t there, say, on Saturdays, when the goods were delivered, the bills paid?’

Perkins was going red again.

‘Yes . . . I suppose . . . we’re not certain . . .’

‘And she might have been there all the time – and at last, taken off in Shimpling’s car?’

Perkins gaped at him. ‘Yes . . . of course! There isn’t any reason why not . . . just . . .’

‘Which shortly afterwards was sold in Fulham – where Shirley Banks was seen yesterday.’

‘But how . . . why?’

Gently shook his head. ‘That’s what we’ll find out when we catch up with her. Suddenly, I’d sooner have a talk with Shirley than I would even with Sam Sayers.

‘She’s the key-piece. She may have been an eyewitness to what happened at the bungalow. She may have had a finger in it, too – that’s not beyond credibility.’

‘Not in the murder!’

‘Why not? Who could have helped them plot it better?’

‘But not a woman . . . in that business!’

Gently gazed at him, puffing.

‘As I see it, there are several possibilities to keep in mind, and it’s no use your murmuring “Sayers is a decent fellow” to yourself. The odds are heavy that he was chummie, the one who actually let loose the tiger – and if he was capable of that, what else might he not have done?

‘For instance, we think we’re dealing with a dead blackmailer. We could be dealing with a live one! We’ve no proof that Shimpling’s killer destroyed the material he found in the bungalow. Sayers may have vanished for another reason – to avoid the fate that caught up with Shimpling. While, from an accommodation address, the demands continue as before . . .

‘But that’s only one possibility. Shirley Banks represents another. She, too, may have had an opportunity to grab the blackmail material.

‘And in her case, consider this: she was living out there with a queer. Isn’t it likely she’d establish . . . more satisfactory relations, with someone else?

‘With, for example, a huge hunk of male, like the womanizing Hugh Groton . . . ?

‘No – you’ll be a fool if you rule her out because she’s a woman.’

‘But she . . . Groton . . . !’ Perkins stammered.

‘Just bear it in mind, that’s my advice. Don’t lock people up in watertight compartments and kid yourself they’re going to stay there. That way you’ll only puzzle yourself and make a mystery of the plainest evidence. People are icebergs. Below the surface there’s eight-ninths you never see.’

Perkins was stuck. He goggled at Gently, his mouth open as though to catch something. Poor fellow! Perhaps never again would he have his ideas jolted like this. His world of blacks and whites was adequate for the routine days of Abbotsham . . . this was the great case of his career. How much of it could he understand?

Hargrave laid down the phone, but almost immediately it began ringing. He listened a moment, then said to Gently:

‘Somebody asking for you, sir?’

Gently took it.

‘Who’s speaking . . . ?’

‘It’s me – Hastings. You know my voice.’

‘What do you want?’

Hastings hesitated. ‘I want to talk to you . . . not on the phone.’

‘Where are you speaking from?’

‘Weston-le-Willows. I want you to meet me out here.’

‘What’s wrong with your office?’

‘Every damned thing! Doesn’t that man of yours ever report?’

‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘And the lady wants to speak to me too.’

‘Yes. But don’t bring that bloody fool Perkins, or you won’t get a word from either of us.’

Gently turned to hide his face from Perkins.

‘I’ll bring my inspector. That all right?’

‘If you must. But nobody else.’

‘At Cockfield’s chalet?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there.’

He hung up.

Hargrave was studying a clip of orders that hung on the wall. Perkins, beetroot again, was chewing his thumbnail.

Poor Perkins! He’d heard.

I
T WAS NOON
when Gently tooled through the traffic in his Rover 105. As he passed the Jew’s House the clock was tolling and the sound came to him faintly. Also he smelled, skirting the market, a tantalizing whiff of fried onion, suggesting that the stall with a smoking chimney was busy dispensing hot dogs.

A pity, in a way, he was here on business! Very reluctantly, he was liking Abbotsham – getting the feel of the place, you’d say, getting with it, the different tempo.

Now, as he parked in the Buttermarket, he sat for a moment before getting out to fetch Dutt, watching dreamily while people pushed past with their big baskets and queer-shaped parcels.

And wasn’t there football this afternoon – Southern League, something of that sort?

Because of a breeze setting from the Market Place he could still smell those fried onions . . .

In the end he didn’t have to fetch Dutt because Dutt had seen the Rover and come down. He appeared at the window looking hot and bored – doubtless, he’d had his fill of the Buttermarket!

‘Anything new, chief ?’

‘Hop in, Dutt.’

Dutt walked round and got in.

‘It’s been pretty quiet, chief,’ he said. ‘Nothing but customers all the morning.’

‘Did Cockfield come here?’ Gently asked.

‘What does he look like, chief ?’

‘Age late fifties, big build, wearing an Irish tweed two-piece and a squash hat.’

‘Drives a maroon Daimler?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Yes, he was here about five to eleven.’

‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘He went straight up to Hastings’s office. I thought he was a customer having a row.’

‘How was that?’

‘Well . . . he didn’t sit down, just stood there laying down the law. Then Hastings jumped up and they seemed to have an argument. But it was all over in five minutes.’

‘Then did Hastings use the phone?’

‘Yes, as soon as the other man went. Then Hastings came down and said something to the girl, then he went through to the back. That’s the last I’ve seen of him.’

Gently chuckled. ‘Now you’re going to see some more of him – not to mention that
Debrett
blonde of yours.’

‘You mean Lady Laura?’

‘Herself in person.’

Dutt whistled. ‘I knew I should have changed my tie.’

While they drove out to Weston-le-Willows Gently filled Dutt in on the morning’s events. Weston was ten miles out of Abbotsham and remote from the principal roads.

Departing from the wold-like sweeps about the town one entered a miniature, toy-like countryside, with little humpy fields, tall hawthorn hedges and top-heavy cottages with steep straw thatch.