Alan Hunter - Gently Go Man

He paused to take in the front of the milk bar, which was only then opening. It ranged the width of two shop-fronts and consisted of down-to-the-pavement windows. The windows were framed with thin fluted pillars that spread into arches at the top and the glass was misted inside so that the lights behind it shone through blurredly. Over the windows was a neon name-sign and a large painted ten of spades card. In the windows hung plastic menu-holders and neon signs reading ‘snacks’, ‘lunches’. There was also a large poster advertising a ‘Weekly Jazz Stampede’, given alternately by the Castle Cats and the Academic City Stompers.

He went in.

Behind the windows was the usual plastic- and-chromium bar, high stools, range of counters, section of tables for served meals. A pale blonde woman in a pink overall-coat was wiping the bar with a dishcloth. A coffee machine was steaming near her and charging the air with warm coffee smell.

‘Yays?’ she said to Gently.

‘Is the boss in?’ Gently asked.

‘Are you a traveller?’ said the pale blonde.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Gently said.

The pale blonde looked him over, didn’t seem to like him much. She flicked the dishcloth over the chrome, dropped it in a bowl under the counter.

‘Down there,’ she said. ‘Mr Leach is in the cellar.’

‘Thank you,’ Gently said.

The pale blonde made no comment.

What she had indicated was a gloomy stair-entrance under a small mezzanine floor at the end of the bar: from which, however, carpeted steps descended, and over which was an illuminated arrow. Gently went down the steps. They turned left at a half-landing. They gave into a long, windowless room lit at present by a single bulb at the other end. Along the walls some chairs were stacked and in a corner a few tables. The floor at the sides and back was carpeted but was polished wood in the centre and at the lit end. There, under the bulb, stood an orchestra dais, painted black with silver trimmings. A man was sitting on the orchestra dais. He had some boxes of chocolates on the rostrum beside him. One of the boxes was open and had apparently been spilt: the man was dusting the spilt chocolates and carefully replacing them. He heard Gently and came to his feet.

‘You,’ he said. ‘What do you want down here?’

‘Are you Mr Leach?’ Gently asked.

‘Yeah,’ the man said, ‘Joe Leach. So what?’

‘I want to talk to you,’ Gently said. ‘About last Tuesday evening.’

The man stood scowling at him, one of the chocolates in his hand. He was around fifty, about five-eight, stockily built with powerful shoulders. He had a round head and a short neck and the thickened nose of an ex-boxer. His mouth was small but thick-lipped. His eyes were muddy-coloured and squinting. He wore a long jacket in silver grey with silver streaks woven into it, a cream shirt with embossed stars and a pale blue bow-tie. His trousers were pale blue to match the tie. His shoes were white-and-tan and had pointed toes.

‘What are you?’ he said. ‘Another screw, are you?’

Gently mentioned his credentials.

‘Yeah,’ said Leach. ‘I thought you was one. Funny that, how you can tell a screw.’ He put the chocolate back in the box, nudging it along into place. He picked up another one and examined it. ‘So what are you after now?’ he said.

‘I told you,’ Gently said. ‘I want to talk about Tuesday evening.’

‘You know about it,’ Leach said. ‘A couple of hours I was with the screws.’

‘We know some more now,’ Gently said.

Leach polished the chocolate. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Just a few more details,’ Gently said. ‘So I thought I’d pay you another visit.’

He went up the steps on to the dais and sat down on a low rostrum beside Leach. Leach kept on his feet, polishing the chocolate. Then he niched that one back into place, too.

‘Prizes,’ he said. ‘Spot prizes. They go down big, a box of chocolates.’

‘You had an accident with that box?’ Gently asked.

‘Yeah,’ Leach said. ‘I dropped the bleeder. Lucky none of the chocs were bust. What more do I have to tell you about Tuesday?’

‘Did you know Lister by sight?’ Gently asked.

‘I’d seen him around here,’ Leach said.

‘Deeming, Elton?’ Gently said. ‘Salmon, Knights, Sidney Bixley?’

‘I knew Elton,’ Leach said. ‘Maybe the others, I wouldn’t know.’

‘Deeming’s about thirty,’ Gently said.

‘So he don’t come here,’ Leach said. ‘They’re all of them youngsters that come to the jazz nights, not above twenty, any one of them.’

‘Bixley’s twenty-two,’ Gently said. ‘About your build, good-looking, wide mouth.’

‘We get above a hundred here on a jazz night. I can’t remember all that lot, can I?’ Leach said.

‘But you remember Lister and Elton,’ Gently said.

‘Do me a favour,’ Leach said, ‘will you? I’ve had those two crammed down my throat, I ain’t never likely to forget them. The screws describe them. They show me photographs. They make it like a crime if I don’t know them. Maybe I’d remember some of the others if you kept telling me who they were.’

He grabbed up some chocolates, neglected to polish them, shoved them roughly into the box.

‘Did you see them together,’ Gently asked, ‘any time during the evening?’

‘I run this show,’ Leach said. ‘Do you think I’ve got time to see who’s with who?’

‘Did you?’ Gently asked.

Leach leaned on the rostrum. ‘Whose been talking?’ he said.

‘People do talk,’ Gently said. ‘Did you see Lister and Elton together?’

Leach kept leaning. He was thoughtful. ‘Maybe I did see something,’ he said.

‘Something you didn’t tell us before?’

‘Yeah,’ Leach said. ‘Something I didn’t tell you.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Gently asked.

‘Reasons,’ Leach said. ‘I had my reasons. Maybe I could see it looked bad for Elton. I don’t like sicking the screws on a customer.’

‘Even though he might be a murderer?’ Gently asked.

‘Elton ain’t no murderer,’ Leach said. ‘But that was the way the screws were looking at it, that he’d got a grudge and knocked Lister off.’

‘What was it you didn’t tell us?’ Gently asked.

‘Well,’ Leach said, ‘I broke up a row they was having.’

He licked his lips, flashed a probing look at Gently. Gently wasn’t looking at Leach at all. He’d just noticed that the round mirror which hung on the half-landing of the stairs reflected another, higher, mirror, which gave a view down the bar. It was neat. He could see the blonde paying change into the till.

‘Here in the milk bar?’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ Leach said. ‘That’s right.’

‘Nobody else mentioned it,’ Gently said.

‘Well,’ Leach said, ‘it was in the toilet.’

‘Tell me what happened,’ Gently said.

‘Yeah, in the toilet,’ Leach said. ‘About ten o’clock, I think it was, the band was having its refreshments. So I went into the toilet and there were these charlies shouting the odds. Elton was going to knock Lister’s block off, he’d swiped his girlfriend or some caper. I could see he meant it too, he’d got an ugly look in his eye. So I broke it up. I give them the warning. Round about ten o’clock, that was.’

‘Nice of you to remember,’ Gently said.

‘Yeah,’ Leach said. He put the lid on the box.

‘We might never have known about it,’ Gently said.

Leach tied on the ribbon, placed the box on the pile.

Another customer had come into the bar upstairs, a dingy old man with the appearance of a pensioner. He seemed to be having quite a conversation with the blonde whose doubtfulness was expressed by her attitude and gestures. Leach looked at the mirrors, then at Gently. He patted the box, rearranged the ribbon.