Alan Hunter: Gently to the Summit

‘That’s the sort of stuff you could have dug up somewhere.’

‘I didn’t promise you anything else. I’ve been dead above twenty years.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that. If you want us to prove your identity.’

‘No comment. And I’d like to be getting back to my cell.’

‘Just one thing more.’ Gently produced the cigarette-case, the one which Evans had found on the cairn. ‘You’ve seen this before, but I’m showing it to you again. Perhaps you’ve remembered something about it which you didn’t tell Inspector Evans.’

Kincaid took the case, a frown appearing as he examined it; he turned it over and over and stared long at the snapshot.

‘The initials… those are mine. I might have had a case like this. But it’s gone… I can’t place it. I can’t place the picture.’

‘I think you know the case is yours.’

‘No, you’re wrong. I’d say if I did.’

‘It’s the one you took to India.’

‘Why should I have done a thing like that? I was smoking a pipe when I went there. I smoked nothing else while I was in Tibet…’

‘But you’re smoking cigarettes now.’

‘Oh yes, I began again when I got back to Delhi. But we all smoked pipes on the expedition — it was the thing, you know. We were serious young men.’

‘Surely that case is the sort of present your wife might have given you.’

Kincaid stiffened. There was a twitching in the muscles about his eyes. He burst out agitatedly:

‘No — I’d remember! I wouldn’t forget a thing like that. I’ve never seen it before, I tell you. Take me back to my cell!’

Gently shrugged and motioned to Evans, who went to the door to fetch the constable. Kincaid got jerkily to his feet and began to shamble out. Then at the door he turned suddenly, and tears were streaming down his face.

‘I want her back!’ he exclaimed brokenly. ‘I want my wife… I want Paula back again…’

‘ Back from whom? ’ Gently fired at him, but Kincaid didn’t seem to hear. Weeping like a child, he permitted the constable to lead him away down the corridors.

Evans sucked in air and slammed the door shut after them. The station inspector shook his head; he put a finger to his temple.

‘The skinny bastard. I could kick him from here to Llanfairfechan!’

Evans was furious; he could hardly persuade himself to sit down.

‘Take a note. Take a note. Like he was running a bloody press conference! I ask you, would you have thought he had a murder charge pinned on him?’

Gently gave him a rueful grimace. ‘There’s Kincaid for you, man,’ he replied.

‘I know. And to think that it’s me who’s responsible for it. Now we can’t lay a finger on him. “Take a note,” he says. It makes you wonder why you ever joined a police force at all!’

‘He’s screwed, that’s what,’ observed the station inspector comfortably. ‘You don’t have to worry, boy. He’s booked for Broadmoor anyway.’

Gently said: ‘How does his present behaviour compare with yesterday’s?’

‘It doesn’t,’ Evans snorted. ‘And for why? Because then I had the drop on him.’

‘Would you say he was building it up, then?’

‘He doesn’t need to build it up!’

Gently shrugged. ‘He could be sweating on an insanity plea.’

‘Oh… I see.’ Evans was silent for a moment, eyes glaring at nothing. Then: ‘Yess… it could be that. It could be that very well.’

‘There’s another thing too.’

Gently began filling his pipe; slow, squarish-tipped fingers packing the rubbed tawny tobacco.

‘“Like a Tibetan smells his village” — you remember that bit? It had me wondering at the time… how near do you suppose it was to the facts?’

‘What facts do you mean, man?’

‘The facts of last Monday. Kincaid’s journey to Wales, his being in Llanberis and on Snowdon. It’s all very romantic and might be due to E.S.P., but there’s a simpler explanation: somebody tipped him off that his wife would be there.’

Evans’s hand crashed down on the desk, making the issue ink-pots jump. ‘But that’s brilliant, man!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s a bloody brilliant piece of surmising!’

‘It suggests a certain sequence. I wouldn’t like to go any further.’

‘But it’s brilliant — don’t you see? It gives us a whole new angle to work on!’

Gently struck himself a light. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’

‘Why, it’s over his wife he murdered Fleece, and not what happened on Everest at all.’

‘Unless it was part of the same story.’

‘Man, there’s no keeping pace with you. You’re right — of course you’re right: it must all have begun in thirty-seven. Fleece was after Kincaid’s wife, which is why that Everest incident happened.’

‘And he was still after her in fifty-nine?’

‘Of course! And somebody warned Kincaid. And he traced the pair of them to Wales, and took his chance up there on Snowdon. Heslington — he’s the man to have warned him, and he was on the spot at the time. I’m telling you, man, you’ve been inspired. It’s making sense of the whole affair.’

Gently drew in a mouthful of smoke and blew the smallest of rings at Evans. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s doing nothing of the kind.’

‘But why? Why not, man?’

‘Only ask yourself the question. There are too many things which don’t square with the hypothesis. For instance, if Heslington was in it, why did he mention seeing Kincaid? Why was he on the summit at all, when he might have had an alibi with the others?’

‘He might not have known what Kincaid would do.’

‘Then why did he hedge with what he told us? He’d either spill the lot or nothing, not just enough to make us curious. Then again, there’s the cigarette-case — don’t tell me that Heslington was the one to drop it! Because if he was, then the moral is plain: we’d better scratch Kincaid and start again.’

‘But look, if you rule out Heslington for a moment-’

Gently grinned. ‘Then we’re left with conjecture. And a crying need for some facts before we worry our brains any further.’

Poor Evans hung his head. ‘I’m not so sure… it’s a fine connection…’

‘It’s an alluring theory, so we won’t kill it. Only file it for later reference.’

‘Then where do you reckon we go from here?’

‘We’ll go to the bottom, as usual. We’ll start with the firm whom Kincaid last worked for and try to pick up the trail from there.’

Gently hooked up the phone and dialled the Central Office desk. Metropolitan Electric, he was told, still flourished out at Hendon. On the point of ringing off he gave the office a further task:

‘Check Kincaid in Who Was Who and read me over the entry.’

As he listened a pleased smile crept over his face. He dropped the phone back on its cradle and took a few thoughtful puffs.

Evans asked: ‘What did they say, man?’

Gently said: ‘What you’d expect. Kincaid’s story checks with the book. He gave us nothing fresh at all.’

He blew another couple of rings.

I’m beginning to like this case,’ he said. It’s what the Americans would call a lulu… in Wales, you’d have a different name for it.’

By midday an uncertain sun had developed in the London sky, warming the grey flood of the Thames and softly colouring the weight of buildings. It was one of those atmospheric moments which occasionally redeemed the grim metropolis, bringing a sentimental glamour to its meaningless pageant of business and poverty. Gently, who loved and hated London, was glad that it had something to show Evans. He felt oddly responsible towards the latter, as though he were entertaining a country cousin. When they left the station at Bow Street he directed their driver to the Cheshire Cheese; they had grilled trout, and he was naively pleased by the commendations of the Welshman. Evans ate silently and intently. He was obviously a man who respected his food.