Alan Hunter: Gently to the Summit

‘Take a look at this… in case you haven’t seen it before.’

Stanley stared at him hard before condescending to read the paragraph. Then he gave an exclamation.

‘Good Lord! The chappie the stink was about.’

‘And you notice something else?’

‘Yes, of course. And I’m amazed.’

‘Amazed that he worked for this firm, Mr Stanley?’

‘I never knew of it until this moment.’

Gently nodded very slowly and behind him Evans shuffled a foot. ‘You’re a bloody liar, man!’ was what the shuffle seemed to convey. Stanley continued to gaze at the entry, his eyebrows pushing up his forehead; then he thrust the book aside and met Gently’s eyes firmly.

‘Well, Superintendent, you’ve taught me something by calling here.’

Gently’s head continued to nod. ‘I’m learning something, too,’ he said.

‘This happened before my time, of course. I was with Intrics before the merger. But I must say I’m surprised not to have heard about it before.’

‘So naturally you didn’t know Kincaid?’

‘No. I couldn’t have done, could I?’

‘And in spite of all the publicity he’s had you never learned that he was once employed here?’

‘I — what do you mean, Superintendent?’

‘I’m just considering probabilities.’

Stanley coloured. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I’m not so sure I like this.’

Gently went back to his chair. He let his eyes rest on the open book. He said:

‘Mr Stanley, you go out of your way to make yourself interesting. First you try to stop me obtaining some apparently innocent information, then you pretend not to have known to what the information related. Don’t you think I’ve got grounds for being a little bit curious?’

‘That is perfectly fantastic.’

‘I don’t think so, Mr Stanley.’

‘I deny absolutely having tried to prevent your inquiries!’

Gently gave a faint shrug. ‘Then why are we sitting here now? Why wasn’t I taken to the personnel manager, who was the man I asked for?’

There was a pause; Stanley shot him a number of most unfriendly looks. He obviously would liked to have flown at Gently and was preventing himself with difficulty. Finally he threw out a couple of ‘Tchas!’ and stalked across to a cabinet. There he poured himself a whisky, which he tossed back with a sweeping gesture. He returned to the desk.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I was foxing. I admit it. I knew about Kincaid all along, and I was afraid this would happen.’

‘Afraid what would happen, Mr Stanley?’

‘Why — you, the press, everything! Do you think I want Met. L dragged into it, and to have it spread all over the papers? It’s — it’s senseless, that’s what it is.’ He swept the air with two large hands. ‘It’s been a scandalous business from start to finish. You take my tip — you hang the fellow.’

‘Mmn.’ Gently kept watching the book. ‘And that’s your reason for being uncooperative?’

‘Good Lord, what other reason do you want? Should a firm like us be dragged through the mire?’

‘You wouldn’t be dragged very far, I hope.’

‘Quite far enough, when you’re doing our scale of business. How do you suppose our customers are going to react to it — Met. L linked with a scandal and a murder? People in America — Europe — Asia: hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of contracts! Why, the market is as sensitive as a piece of raw flesh. A thing like this could do us incalculable damage.’

‘All we want are a few facts about Kincaid’s past.’

‘A few facts!’ Stanley’s hands fell chopper-like on the desk. ‘And tomorrow, in all the papers, “Murder Hunt at Met. L” — that’s what your few facts are going to do to this firm. I ask you, gentlemen, see it my way for a moment! Look at it purely as business, as exports, as wage-packets. You’ve got your man and presumably you’ve got a case against him: is it worth what it’s going to cost to come scandalmongering here?’

Carried away by his own rhetoric, Stanley went to fetch another drink. He brought it back, sipping it slowly, like a man who felt he’d made his point. Gently’s shoulders hunched higher; he angled a glance towards Evans. Further and further did Mr Stanley go out of his way to be interesting…

Gently said: ‘Did you happen to know Fleece personally?’

Stanley resumed his surprised look. ‘Actually, yes. I have met him.’

‘Was that recently?’

‘Fairly recently. We’re in the same line of business. His firm is Electroproducts — domestic appliances, mainly goods for the home market. He’s subcontracted once or twice, so I’ve met him in the way of business.’

‘And you know Mrs Fleece?’

The surprise yielded to a frown. ‘I think so. In fact, I’m certain. I must have met her at social functions.’

‘So you knew the Fleeces socially?’

‘Good Lord no! Not in the way you imply. But being in the trade you attend the same functions, and so you meet a lot of people on — what shall I call it? A limited social basis. Now I think of it, I do remember her. She’s a rather attractive dark woman.’

‘Strong… energetic?’

Stanley laughed. ‘I couldn’t say. But she’s the feminine sort of woman. And, as I say, rather fetching.’

‘What is Mrs Kincaid’s colouring?’

Stanley went completely still. His grey eyes seized on Gently’s, probing, thrusting at the detective’s blankness. Then his eyes switched away.

‘Of course, I never met either of them.’

‘Her name was Paula. Paula Kincaid.’

‘I can only repeat that I never met them.’

‘But you remember now that Kincaid was employed here?’

‘I admitted I did. But dash it, only as a wage clerk.’

‘Thank you for the information.’ Gently inclined his head politely. ‘I didn’t know that. But now I do, we’ll be getting along to the appropriate department.’

Stanley’s lips compressed tightly. He seemed about to defy Gently. Instead, he shrugged well-tailored shoulders and rose without another word.

The wage-accounts department of Metropolitan Electric was housed on the second floor of the new executive block. They went up to it in a lift which was heated and quite noiseless; it bore the company’s trade-plate on its chaste ivory panelling. Stanley, still saying nothing, led them into the brightly lit offices, down an aisle between banks of desks and into a smaller, glass-partitioned room. Here, at desks of weathered sycamore, sat the head accountant and his lieutenants; the former a heavy-built, grey jowled man with sleeked black hair and a small moustache. At Stanley’s approach he rose. He gave them a deferential smile.

‘This is Dunmore, our wages chief, Superintendent. Dunmore, Superintendent Gently of the C.I.D.’

Dunmore seemed trying to decide whether this called for a handshake, but after a tentative movement with his hand he dropped it again nervously. Stanley congratulated him with a grunt. He said:

‘The superintendent has a query. He appears to think we can tell him something about this Kincaid who used to work here. I feel certain we’ve nothing for him, but of course we must assist the police. So if you know anything about Kincaid, don’t be afraid to come out with it.’

Dunmore looked worried. ‘But wasn’t he here rather a long time ago, sir?’

‘He was, Dunmore. Twenty-two years ago, I’m told.’

Dunmore brightened. ‘Then I’m afraid I couldn’t know anything about him, sir. I was with Intrics, like yourself, sir. I didn’t come here until the merger.’

‘What about Wilson, Dunmore?’

‘No, sir. He was with me at Intrics.’

‘Spence? Baker?’

‘We can ask them, sir. But I feel positive you’ll find…’