Gently Sahib (3 page)

Gently grunted. All right – but flattery wasn’t going to do it either!

‘That bungalow had been empty,’ the AC went on, ‘since the night of the tiger. It stands a mile outside the town on the Stowmundham road. First the milkman found nobody was taking in the milk, but the owner of the bungalow was sometimes away, so the milkman just stopped delivering.

‘The same thing happened with the paper boy and the other tradesmen – they called for a while, then gave it up as a bad job. But the postman kept calling – there was always the odd circular – and at last he became curious and peeped through the letter box. What he saw was sufficiently striking for him to mention it to a bobby, and the bobby reported it to the CID, and the CID forced the door.

‘Guess what they discovered.’

‘A summons for the rates,’ Gently said.

‘All right – have your fun! They may have found soap-powder coupons too. But they also found the hall wrecked and the walls and floor spattered with blood, and a rug on the floor so impregnated with blood that you could pick it up like a sheet of hardboard. The hallstand and two chairs were smashed and an inner door hung from one hinge. And on door, walls and floor were the scars of claws – huge claws. The marks were a handspan across.

‘Now laugh that off if you can.’

He paused, eyes gleaming, waiting to get his reaction. Most of the TV politicians could have taken points from the AC.

But Gently didn’t react, he simply stared back, deadpanned.

‘The body,’ the AC said, ‘was in the garden.’

‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘So I assumed.’

‘It was a man. He was terribly mauled. They think he was aged about fifty.’

‘The owner of the bungalow?’

‘As far as they know. They dug him out of a flower bed. They sent in his dabs but he doesn’t have form – though oddly enough, we know of him. And right away there’s a motive. His name is Shimpling. He was a blackmailer. He was our witness in the Cheyne-Chevington case – doctor who sold drugs to prostitutes.’

Gently nodded. ‘That wasn’t a conviction.’

‘No, but Cheyne-Chevington was struck off – which you might consider as a motive for setting a tiger on Shimpling. Anyway, Shimpling owned the bungalow. He lived there under his own name. And all the collateral evidence points to him being the man they dug up.

‘For example, his personal gear is still in the bungalow – clothes, medical card, a passport. There are two suitcases with his initials and a silver brush set engraved with monograms.

‘They seem to have caught him on the hop. Some milk had boiled over in the kitchen. They appear to have searched the bungalow, but nobody knows if they took anything. It could be he was holding incriminating evidence which they daren’t leave behind.

‘Two other things, and that’s the picture. First, his car is missing from the garage. Second, witnesses talk of a Mrs Shimpling, though there’s no woman’s gear in the bungalow. But at the time of the Cheyne-Chevington affair Shimpling had a blonde living with him – Shirley Banks, she’s a prostitute. She was also a Crown witness.

‘A tiger, a blonde and a body in the garden. What more do you need to get your name in the Sundays?’

Gently shrugged politely. What more indeed?

The AC unlatched his glasses again, beamed affectionately at Gently.

‘Of course, I know you’re due for leave, and I wouldn’t dream of upsetting it. But you do see, don’t you, that the case calls for a personality. The Press’ll be there in droves, we daren’t send one of the faceless brigade. So I’m asking you, for the sake of the public image, to go down there and open the batting.

‘Just two days. After that we can put in a night-watchman – and you can get on with your holiday.

‘A fishing trip in Wales, isn’t it?’

He leaned back, watching Gently, making the glasses swing hypnotically. In his department, he was fond of boasting, it was all done by kindness . . .

Gently sighed very quietly. ‘So what’s his name?’ he asked.

‘Whose name?’

‘The animal importer’s.’

‘Oh, him. Hugh Groton. He’s a South African. He’s been over here five years. He sells his animals to circuses and private collectors.’

‘Did anyone check his alibi?’

‘Well, actually, yes,’ the AC said. ‘I was here when the message came, I put Division on checking it.’

‘How good was it?’

‘Pretty unassailable, I’d say. He’s on the committee of the Safari Club, which has premises in Kingsway. He was up there for a committee meeting and had his bed booked for two nights. The evidence is down in the minute-book. Ten people of substance can swear for him.’

‘Then that’s that,’ Gently growled. ‘How much was the tiger worth?’

‘How much . . . what has that to do with it?’

‘Why, everything,’ Gently said, ‘I’d have thought. With Groton out it can’t be murder – who else could have handled a full-grown tiger? So it must be accident. Perhaps Shimpling pinched the tiger and got himelf eaten for his pains.’

The AC slowly resumed his glasses.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very ingenious, Gently.’

‘I seem to remember tigers are pricey – two or three thousand for a good one.’

‘And after Shimpling was eaten,’ the AC said, ‘did he steal his own car and bury himself ? Or did the tiger do that – or maybe the milkman?’

‘What’s wrong with Groton having done it?’

‘Groton?’

‘We have to make sense of the facts. If Groton suspected what had happened, he might have reasons for keeping it dark. At the best it was a bad advert, might have led to his farm being closed. Then Shimpling may have had blackmail evidence which Groton couldn’t leave lying about.

‘So Groton visits the bungalow, collects the evidence, buries the remains – and pinches the car, very likely, to offset the loss of the tiger. However you tell it, it’s more credible than that someone set the tiger on Shimpling. If that was the angle, why did they queer it by burying the remains and locking up?’

‘Yes,’ the AC said, ‘yes.’

‘So it’s accident, not murder. They’ll charge Groton with concealing a death and pinching the car, but that’s the lot.’

‘Which, of course, isn’t our department.’

Gently nodded approval.

‘In fact all Abbotsham needs is a little phone talk – just to set them on the right track.’

‘I’ll ring them now.’

‘Oh no you won’t, Gently.’

The AC scraped back in his chair. He picked up a silver-handled paperknife and began beating his palm with it.

‘I knew I was dealing with a slippery customer, but by heaven, this takes the cake! You must think I’m senile, Gently, trying to give me that load of old codswallop.

‘It was a Saturday morning – remember? The morning when tradesmen knock for their money. And did one of those tradesmen go screaming to the police with a tale about a half-eaten body in a bungalow?

‘They didn’t, and you know why. Because they found the door locked and things tidy! While Mister Hugh Groton was still in London with umpty-ump witnesses to prove it.

‘So you’ll just get out of here, Gently, and you’ll get in your car, and you’ll drive to Abbotsham – and you’ll take Inspector Dutt with you, to clear up the mess when you’ve finished.

‘Now on your way!’

The AC stood, slammed the paperknife back on the desk.

Gently, his face still unregistering, rose more leisuredly.

‘Of course, there’s the Blazey case going in . . .’

‘Gently,’ the AC said very softly.

‘And, as I said, I’m no expert on tigers . . .’

The AC was silent.

Gently left.

Outside in the passage he began to grin and was still grinning when he reached his office. Dutt was sitting with his feet on the desk and a sporting paper in his hand.

‘All right,’ Gently said, ‘get on the blower. You won’t be sleeping in Tottenham tonight. Then when you’re through get me the
Daily Express.
They may have some pictures we need in their morgue.’

‘Was it really about a tiger, sir?’ Dutt asked.

‘It was really about a tiger,’ Gently said.

He went to the bookshelf and took down an encyclopaedia.

Under ‘Tiger’ the entry read: ‘See Cats.’

‘T
HAT’S PLACE’

To the side of a high-hedged country road about twenty cars were pulled up with, standing about them in lounging groups, a number of hands-in-pockets men.

These were reporters. The appearance of the police car jerked them into motion. They ran to crowd round it, some lugging cameras, and a flashbulb fizzed as Gently got out.

‘Chief Superintendent Gently . . . who have you brought with you? Is it a fact that Shimpling was the Cheyne-Chevington witness?’

‘He was a blackmailer. May we print that?’

‘Have you picked up the Banks woman?’

‘Cheyne-Chevington’s vanished from London. Do you know where he is?’

Already they seemed to know more about it than the police. They shouldered and pushed to get in questions, determined to have some quotes from Gently.

Behind them, guarding rusted iron gates, stood two red-faced uniform-men, while behind the gates lay a common-place bungalow with roughcast walls and quoins of pink brick.

‘What the devil do you want me to tell you? I’ve only arrived this minute!’

Also he was hungry and the day was close, and . . . in fact, he was ready to jump down people’s throats.

‘Who do you think did it – one of his victims? You can tell us that, can’t you?’

‘A man is involved.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘Have a heart, chiefie! Have you talked to Groton?’

‘He’ll be assisting us.’

‘Can we quote you on that?’

‘Why ask me?’

‘Where was Groton the night it happened?’

‘Probably minding his own business.’

Meanwhile Perkins, the chubby-faced local inspector, was prinking himself in the background, trying to give Gently the impression that he, too, was used to firing answers at a pack of reporters . . .

‘All right, that’s all! Let me get through.’

‘There’ll be a statement before lunch, won’t there, chiefie?’

‘Maybe yes, maybe no.’

‘They’ll fire us if we miss the early editions . . .’

But directly they were scattering back to their cars and taking off for the nearest phones, leaving four men to play cards and to keep a sharp eye on the bungalow.

‘This is Police Constable Kennet, Super. He shot at the tiger in the Market Place.’

Previously Gently had shaken hands with Bulley, who had probably been kept after duty to meet him; now it was the turn of a gaunt-cheeked man who flushed and came raggedly to attention.

‘Kennet’s our demon bowler, Super. He took seven for forty-two in the Police versus Specials.’

Grunt from Gently.

‘He keeps goal too. He’s what you’d call an all-rounder.’

How many more were they going to trot out to shake hands with the man from the Yard?

‘And this is Detective-Sergeant Gipping . . .’

A short gravel drive led up to the bungalow, branching right from the gate to a timber garage from which green paint was flaking. The gravel was scant and choked with weeds. What had once been small lawns had run away. The bungalow had two bay windows and between them a porch the door of which had a square of pebbled glass.

A dreary place. The rough-cast had greyed, the pink bricks looked immortal. Roses, smothered with grass and sending briers everywhere, lifted a scatter of apologetic blooms.

Then there were the hedges, overtopping the roof, out of which brambles had begun to encroach; and to the left of the bungalow a broken trellis was weighted down with flowering convolvulus.

Who could have wanted to live in such a place? It was a mile from the town and not on a bus route.

‘Do you know who built it?’

‘Sorry, Super?’

Perkins was still parading his men.

‘This bungalow – who built it?’

‘Oh . . . can’t say I know. A local builder.’

‘What I mean is, who had it built?’

Perkins didn’t know this either, but Police Constable Kennet – he actually saluted – could recite the history of the bungalow.

‘It was built for a bloke called Cowling, sir, he was a bit of a market-gardener. But he went broke just before the war and then the evacuees had it.

‘After that it was some people called Young, but they didn’t stay very long; then it was empty for a while, I remember; then I reckon this Shimping had it.’

‘Did he buy the bungalow?’

‘Don’t know, sir. I believe he was here above a twelve-month.’

‘If he didn’t own it, who does?’

Nobody seemed to know that.

And there it lay, that misbegotten building, which perhaps even its builder had never loved; concealing, it might well have been for ever, the evidence of a gruesome tragedy.

‘Well, let’s take a look at it.’

Perkins had the key and he led the way briskly to the front door. Behind Gently came Messrs Gipping, Kennet and the rest, followed at a distance by the patient Dutt. Perkins unlocked the door and opened it cautiously.

‘I’m afraid we’ve removed the bits and pieces . . . but there’s still plenty of stains. And the claw-marks, of course.’

Gently looked. From the front door of the bungalow the hall ran straight through to the back. Four doors opened off it, but it was unlit except by the pane in the outer door. The walls were papered with a drab flowered paper and the floor, long ago, had been painted brown.

Extending for about twelve feet inside the door was an area of thick smudged stains and savage scrapings.

‘That square bit there . . . that’s where we pulled up the rug. It was cemented down with blood.

‘Then you can see where the chair was lying in that pool farther up.

‘Look at the way those claws dug in! Poor devil, he couldn’t have stood an earthly. And there, where it spouted over the wall . . .

‘I was nearly sick when I first saw it.’

‘Has Groton seen it?’ Gently asked.

‘Groton? No . . . should he have done?’

‘He’d know the sort of mess a tiger makes!’

‘But surely nothing else could have done it?’

Gently shrugged massively. No, there really wasn’t much doubt about it! A brilliant effects-man might have faked it, but not in a hurry, straight after a killing.