Alan Hunter: Gently to the Summit

Evans flushed like a turkey-cock, his eyes growing rounder. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a stupid fellow I am! I never looked at it that way…’

‘There could be some explanation.’

‘No man — you’ve hit it. You’ve hit the nail on the head!’

‘Hold it, everyone.’ The A.C.’s voice came drily. ‘Let’s try to preserve our sense of proportion about this.’ He went on polishing his glasses, finally setting them back on his nose. He said to Evans: ‘Now you know why we’re all so fond of Gently!’

‘But it’s true, sir,’ Evans blurted. ‘You have only to consider-’

‘It’s true that, as usual, Gently has holed a neat case. But he hasn’t knocked it down, Evans, so don’t despond yet. A little routine investigation may stop the hole up again. And, Gently, that’s just what I’ve called you in to do: a little routine investigation into the antecedents of Kincaid. I’ve spoken to the Public Prosecutor about it and you were the man he asked to have assigned — so there you are: that’s the job. You’re to give us Kincaid’s identity on a platter.’

Gently stirred his feet disapprovingly.

‘Hasn’t some investigation been done?’

‘Yes.’ The Assistant Commissioner picked up a file which had been lying in his ‘Action’ tray. ‘Here you are, for what it’s worth. It traces Kincaid back to Kathmandu. It says also that the house he lived in was blitzed and so, too, was the registry office where he was married. And we drew a blank with the Press files.’

‘In fact, it bristles with leads.’

The Assistant Commissioner grinned impishly. ‘For your sake, I hope this doesn’t involve another ascent of Everest. But at least you’d have a reason, unlike these queer types who do it. I’ve often wondered what it is, Gently, that makes an Everesteer tick.’

His grin broadened and he added:

‘But what a draw it would be for tourists! For the price of a bomb, one could run a funicular up Everest.’

Gently took Evans down to the canteen and bought him a consoling cup of coffee. In spite of the A.C.’s careful handling, the Welsh inspector was down in the dumps. He’d sat in silence in Gently’s office while the latter had read through the Kincaid file, then he’d answered a few random questions. But his attention had plainly been wandering.

‘It just goes to show, man…’

Now he was moping over his coffee, the red flush still clinging to his straight, smooth-skinned features. He was in his forties, but he looked boyish, his hair and eyebrows being fair. He was tall and hard-framed: an ex-rugby-player, probably.

‘We don’t see much excitement in Caernarvon, look you. I had visions of making myself on a case like this. And it all went so easy, that was the whole trouble about it. One thing led to another… I got too cocky, by far.’

‘You won’t be the first to have bought stock off Kincaid.’

‘I know, man. I should have gone like a cat on hot bricks. I should have waited till my head cleared before slapping a charge on him, but it’s too late now. I’ve dropped a most almighty clanger.’

‘I wouldn’t swear to that yet…’

‘Oh yes. I can sense it. The Assistant Commissioner was very decent, but he didn’t fool me, man.’

‘But he’s right about one thing — there’s still a case to be answered. So we’d better have a chat with Kincaid and see if we can chase up an angle.’

In the courtyard a squad car was waiting to take them to Bow Street. It was a drizzling October morning and the Strand had a drear and slatternly look. Umbrellas were bobbing along the pavements, newsboys huddled into doorways, a sky of motionless grey wrack pressed low over pencilled buildings. At the first tobacconist’s shop Gently stopped to make a purchase. He returned, to Evans’s surprise, with cigarettes of three different brands.

‘You do smoke cigarettes, don’t you?’

He took charge of Evans’s cigarette-case, adding samples from his three packets to the Players already contained in it. Then he handed back the case.

‘I’ve put the Churchmans on the right… it’s a silly trick, really. But then, we’re on a silly case…’

At Bow Street Police Court a couple of pressmen stood waiting on the steps and they snapped into action when they saw Gently arrive with Evans. A flash-bulb hissed momentarily, a notebook was thrust under Gently’s nose.

‘Is it the Kincaid job, Super…?’

‘Have there been some developments…?’

He pushed past them into the police station, murmuring something about routine.

Inside the station smelt dank, as though the drizzle had seeped into it. Gently explained his errand at the desk and was passed through to the office. The inspector in charge, who knew Gently very well, shrugged and made a face when Kincaid’s name was mentioned.

‘I’ve got a feeling about him, Super… you know the sort of feeling?’ He gave an expressive nod to make his meaning the more emphatic.

Then Kincaid was fetched in. He was thinner even than the pictures showed him, a spindly, emaciated man whose clothes hung slackly about him. He had a long, narrow skull, a high forehead and a straight nose, his cheekbones were over-prominent and his brown eyes large and intense. He had a small, thin-lipped mouth set in a pessimistic droop. His cheeks were sunken, his hair short and grey. He looked ten years older than the forty-seven he should have been and one placed him directly: a fanatic or a humbug. He had the fey, alien quality of one born to be notorious.

Evans introduced the session.

‘This is Superintendent Gently, Kincaid. He has one or two questions he wants to ask you.’

Kincaid fastened his brown eyes on Gently for a moment, then he looked round for a chair and sat down without speaking. Gently perched informally on the office desk.

‘Do you smoke, Kincaid?’

‘Yes, I smoke.’

His voice was pitched high and he spoke with care. Evans, cued in, offered his case to Kincaid; then he glanced towards Gently with a scarcely perceptible nod. After hesitating, Kincaid had chosen a Churchman.

‘Now Kincaid.’ Gently waited for the cigarette to be lit. ‘I’m rather interested in these inquiries you’ve been making about your wife. You’ve had plenty of time to find her, and you’ve had a lot of publicity. If she was still alive, don’t you think she would have come forward?’

The brown eyes stared through the cigarette smoke, but Kincaid made no offer to answer. He sat perfectly still, his disengaged hand resting lightly on his knee.

‘You understand me, Kincaid?’

His head nodded once, slowly. It was set on a scrawny neck which projected stalk-like from his collar.

‘Well… what’s your answer going to be?’

When it came it surprised Gently.

‘I’m not obliged to say anything when you ask me a question.’

‘Now see here, Kincaid-’ Evans jumped wrathfully to his feet, but Gently waved him away, signalled for him to sit again. Kincaid’s mouth had shut tightly and he watched the Welsh inspector with disdain. His bony hand, now tightly clasped, showed points of white along the knuckles.

Gently said smoothly: ‘You’re quite in order not to answer questions, and I don’t intend to ask any about the crime you are charged with. But if you still claim to be Kincaid I’d like some facts about that. If you’ve changed your mind, all right. We won’t go any further.’

‘Why should I have changed my mind?’

It was a difficult question. Either Gently told him the truth or he was paving the way for a judicial reprimand. Since Kincaid was charged he couldn’t be interrogated about the murder, and it was sailing close to the wind to treat his identity as a separate subject. Gently weighed his answer with care.