Gently Sahib (7 page)

‘You’d expect he’d try to alter his appearance, after all . . .’

‘We don’t want to stir up trouble locally . . .’

For five minutes the babel went on, then Gently hung up and everyone fell silent.

Perkins, red in the face, was staring bulbously at the lino; Bradfield tapped his foot, wore a doubting expression.

‘Well . . . ?’

Perkins swallowed. ‘May I see the picture again?’

Gently produced it and they all clustered round. Plainly nobody else was prepared to go nap on it, though Kennet kept nodding his head cautiously.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s the expression, really! I know there’s not much to go on in the face . . .’

‘What about the rest of you?’

Kennet shuffled his feet.

Bradfield said: ‘I don’t know the man myself . . .’

‘When did Hastings arrive here?’ Gently asked.

‘He hasn’t been here long,’ Bradfield said. ‘It used to be Sayers who had the business – Samuel Sayers. I bought my place through him.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘March 59 . . . over four years. It couldn’t have been long after that when it changed hands, though Sayers was living here till recently. There’s a flat over the business. Sayers lived in that. He was a bachelor.’

‘He had some form, sir,’ Gipping said. ‘Soliciting men for immoral purposes.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s slung his hook, sir. I wouldn’t know where he’s gone to.’

Gently nodded. It had a promising sound; Shimpling had also been a queer. And along with the ‘G’ in the ‘black book’ there had been an ‘H’ and an ‘S’.

‘Is he a married man, your David Hastings?’

After the trial, Cheyne-Chevington’s wife had left him.

‘No, he’s a bachelor too,’ Perkins said. ‘He used to live in a service-flat opposite my house. That’s why I know what he looks like, I’d see him going in and out. The wife says he had girls there. But he was living on his own.’

‘Where’s he living now?’

Perkins looked unhappy. ‘Somewhere in the town.’

‘When did he move?’

‘Last year some time. Now it’s an accountant who lives there.’

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘That’s about all. He seems to have plenty of money – dresses well, runs a Jag. Does a lot of advertising in the
Free Press
.’

‘Does he know Groton?’

Perkins shook his head. ‘But it’s him all right, I’m sure of that.’

He fixed his gaze rigidly on the photograph as though willing Cheyne-Chevington to be Hastings.

Bradfield said quickly: ‘I wouldn’t want to upset him, not unless we’re positive, that is. Abbotsham’s a small place really . . . we try not to play things tough, here.’

Of course. Abbotsham had tone!

‘Somebody was playing it tough last year . . .’

‘Oh, I’m not trying to make obstacles!’

‘Good. I think we’d better talk to Mr Hastings.’

Bradfield bit his lip and looked slantingly, but raised no other objection.

* * *

They crossed the Buttermarket: Gently and Perkins, with Dutt following behind.

It was a broad, lazy street proceeding from one corner of the Market Place.

Cars were double-parked along one side, which was blocked at the top by a projecting building, so that the street had the aspect of a narrow plain which was only partly a thoroughfare.

It was lined by a variety of decorative fronts of Georgian and early Victorian origin, dwelling-houses which had since been converted to shops and offices. Some, on the side used only for parking, still had sweeps of steps with wrought-iron railings.

Looking towards the Market Place, you saw the gabled flint front of the Jew’s House.

‘This area would be rather expensive?’

Perkins nodded. ‘Yes. All round here. When these places come up for sale it’s usually a chain store that buys them.’

‘Which is Hastings?’

‘Behind the cars. You can see the gold lettering on the windows. But nobody owns anything along this side, they’re all on lease from an insurance company.’

Rather surprisingly, the building which contained Hastings was of Edwardian red-brick, a double-fronted doll’s house of a place loaded with rococo ornament.

Yet, perhaps because the ornamentation was so thorough-going, so enthusiastically ebullient, the house had charm and didn’t seem out of place.

A voluptuously-curved brass plate was mounted on the multiple flutings of the porch.

It read:

DAVID HASTINGS
Property Agent
Late S. M. L. Sayers
Late Alistair Upley

A massively panelled door stood open, held by a green glass doorstop.

They went in.

Through swing doors was an office bisected by a long counter. A girl seated behind the counter was entering duplicated sheets in a big box-file.

The walls were fitted with sections of peg-board each of which was covered with photographs of properties and behind the counter hung framed architects’ plans and elevations.

Everything was new and up to date. The office smelled faintly of plastic file-envelopes.

The girl was pretty and smartly dressed and came forward with a smile.

‘Can I help you?’

‘We’d like to see Mr Hastings.’

‘If it’s about a property on the books—’

‘No. We want to see him personally.’

‘In that case . . . have you an appointment?’

‘No. No appointment.’

‘What is your name, sir, please?’

Gently paused. ‘George Gently.’

She picked up a jade-green phone and spoke into it deferentially. As she listened her eyes flickered, took in Gently, fell away.

‘If you’ll go up the stairs, sir . . . Mr Hastings will see you.’

They went up a plastic-treaded stairway with mahogany banisters. At the top was a wide landing, freshly painted in light colours, and across it a door with frosted-glass panels on which was gilded: David Hastings.

Gently knocked. They entered. A man had risen to his feet. He’d been sitting behind a big sapele-wood desk, but now he came round it towards them.

‘Mr . . . Gently?’

‘Chief Superintendent Gently.’

‘Yes! I felt there couldn’t be two of you.’

‘You’re David Hastings?’

‘Who else?’

‘I’m investigating the murder of Peter Shimpling.’

Their eyes met. Hastings was a tallish man with sloping shoulders and an elegant figure. He wore a quiet, stylish lounge suit that accentuated his narrow waist.

He had dark hair and bluish eyes and unobtrusively handsome features; his small beard was pointed sharply and his moustache trimmed close.

His eyes had a tired sort of humour.

‘You think I can help you with that in some way?’

‘That’s why we are here.’

‘You surprise me, but never mind. Close the door and find yourselves seats.’

He went back to the desk and picked up the phone.

‘Anne, I’m busy till I ring again . . .’

Then he sat down, crossing his feet, letting his hands fall naturally on his lap.

‘Go ahead.’

‘First, look at these.’

Out came the photographs again. Hastings spread them across the desk and looked at each of them amusedly.

‘Do I know these people?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘That fellow there is my double.’

‘Just your double?’

‘People have them, you know. Who is he – what’s he done?’

He stared steadily at Gently, the bored twinkle never faltering.

All the other chairs in the room were low ones, and the desk sited with its back to the window.

‘He’s a man I want to talk to,’ Gently said. ‘His name is Miles Cheyne-Chevington. He was a doctor who supplied cocaine to prostitutes. He was struck off the Register in 1960.’

‘I remember the case,’ Hastings said.

Not once did his eyes waver.

‘But surely it was brought on framed evidence, and the verdict given was Not Guilty?’

Gently said nothing.

Hastings tapped the photograph. ‘And now you think he might be me?’

‘Do you deny it?’

‘But of course.’

‘Can you prove your identity?’

‘Can you disprove it?’

Gently said: ‘If you are not that man you can easily help me by proving your identity. You can produce your birth certificate, for instance, your stamp card, your passport.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Why shouldn’t you? That’s the question I’ll ask myself.’

‘It might be I don’t like impertinent inquiries, even from a chief superintendent.’

Hastings smiled. He’d given the flick without the smallest edge of animosity – almost professionally, like a counsel who had a lunch date with his opponent.

‘Right,’ Gently said. ‘Let’s look at some facts. The Cheyne-Chevington trial was three years ago. Three years ago you bought this business. Where did you come from, to Abbotsham?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘You don’t want to tell me?’

‘Is it compulsory for me to tell you?’

‘We can check on these things, Mr Hastings.’

‘Then why bother me with them, Superintendent?’

Again, no animosity! Just a lawyer-like non sequitur . . . Didn’t he realize he could never win this sort of game with the police?

‘You say you remember the Cheyne-Chevington case.’

‘Clearly. It had good coverage in the gutter-press.’

‘Then you’ll remember that Shimpling was involved in it – was, in fact, the principal witness?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You don’t know Shimpling?’

‘I don’t remember setting eyes on him.’

‘Not in this office?’

Hastings hesitated. ‘I have a lousy memory for faces.’

‘Did you or didn’t you?’

Hastings said smoothly: ‘Now you jog my memory, I believe I must have done. That bungalow of his was on our books. It was a property we inherited from Sam Sayers.’

‘I’m glad you remember that,’ Gently said. ‘Even though your memory for faces is so bad. In fact, Shimpling bought the bungalow through you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you’ll tell me about the transaction?’

For the first time Hastings dropped his eyes, but it was only for a moment. As though he’d looked away to give himself a pause to recall something remote . . .

‘Of course, I’m a property agent, not a solicitor . . . you do appreciate the difference? I merely bring people who want to sell into contact with people who want to buy.’

‘Meaning?’

‘My interest in a transaction is limited. It ends when I collect my commission. In the circumstances it would be academic to retain a complete file of records.’

‘Are you telling me you’ve no record of this transaction?’

‘I think it very unlikely. At a pinch I might look up the entry made when the commission was received.’

‘They, you’ll know who conveyed the property.’

‘I’m not so certain of that.’

‘And you’ll know who were the vendors.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten long since.’

‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘No records, no memories. About what one would expect to find if there were no conveyance either.’

‘No conveyance . . . ?’

‘Between Shimpling and the vendors.’

Hastings laughed politely. ‘I’m not with you . . .

‘Isn’t it plain? You don’t have any records because Shimpling never did buy the bungalow.’

Hastings’s eyes went suddenly flat, then just as suddenly regained their expression. He leaned back and made a humouring gesture with his hand.

‘But that’s ridiculous! I drew a commission. There’s no doubt about the sale—’

‘Listen to me! You’ve made a mistake, and now you can see where it’s led you.

‘If you’re Hastings you can produce those records and tell us who conveyed the property to Shimpling. If you can’t, as far as I’m concerned you are Miles Cheyne-Chevington.

‘Because if Shimpling didn’t buy that property, there’s no doubt how he obtained it. By blackmail. By blackmailing you. And the conveyance will show that you were the purchaser.

‘Now – do we get the records, or do we assume you are Cheyne-Chevington?’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t remember—’

Gently shook his head. ‘You remember! A body has been dug up in that property – that would have set your memory working.

‘The body of a client is dug up in a property you sold him less than three years back. Wouldn’t you have been thinking about it, talking about it, remembering every detail of the business?’

‘That may be so, but nevertheless—’

‘You pretended just now that you hadn’t. It was only when you guessed we knew that you’d handled the property that you decided to “remember”.’

‘Let me remind you—’

‘No! Do we get the records, or don’t we?’

Silence. David Hastings sat fingering his neat beard. He had a mobile, thin-lipped mouth, and now the corners of the mouth were dragged.

Behind him, on each side of the sash window, hung coloured elevations of a house and a bungalow, but on none of the walls hung the professional certificate of a man who’d entered the business regularly.

Not that Cheyne-Chevington wouldn’t have certificates . . . only they weren’t to do with selling property!

‘Any comment?’

Hastings shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Think what you like.’

‘Right. I think you’re Cheyne-Chevington. And I’m going to ask you some other questions.

‘What dealings have you had with Hugh Groton?’

‘Who says I’ve had any dealings with him?’

‘A person of your description was seen at his farm a short time before the tiger escaped. This man inspected the tiger and its cage, then sat in Groton’s car talking to him. Groton parks his vehicles in the same shed and the man may also have inspected Groton’s truck.’

‘I don’t buy tigers or trucks.’

‘Were you that man?’

‘I was not.’

‘But you know Groton.’

‘I’ve seen him around.’

‘But do you know him?’

‘I’ve . . . drunk in his presence.’

‘Where – how often?’

‘How the devil should I know? There’s one or two bars that everyone uses, the Angel, the Two Flags, places like that. I’ve never had more than a couple of words with him.’

‘A couple of words about Shimpling?’

‘Why should I talk to him about Shimpling?’