Alan Hunter - Gently where the roads go

‘You over there!’ Gently shouted.

The man looked towards them, kept dusting himself. He was standing at the foot of a mound of old gas cookers which may have been thirty feet high. The suit fitted him very well and showed that he had a neat, athletic figure, and as his hands moved the sun glinted from the big stone of his ring. Finally he picked up his hat and dusted that too, settled it squarely on his head. He looked at his hands, flexed the fingers. He began to walk towards the gates.

He came up to the gates. He stood looking through them at Gently. He had walked with a very slight limp. He had dark hair and black-brown eyes and wide cheekbones and a narrow chin. The chin was not a receding chin. The mouth was thin and the corners drooped. The nose was handsome and large. He had no moustache. His tie was not a bow tie. He stood looking through the meshes at Gently. His eyes were steady. But his hands trembled.

‘What’s your name?’ Gently asked.

His lips opened, then he said: ‘Campbell.’

‘Donald Campbell?’

‘Campbell,’ he said.

‘A Scotsman, are you?’

‘That is right. A Scotsman.’

‘Have you any proof of identity?’

‘I am Campbell,’ he said.

‘What were you doing in this yard?’

He shook his head, saying nothing.

‘Good,’ Gently said. ‘So have you any objection to accompanying me to the police station?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘of course. No objection.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll climb over that gate.’

He went to the ladder which was placed his side and mounted it with quick, jerky movements. Felling came down the other ladder and the man stepped over to it and descended into the lane. He looked at nobody. He straightened his suit, felt for the brim of his hat. Then he was suddenly bolting up the lane, slipping by Felling’s clumsy lunge for him.

‘Stop that bastard!’ Felling roared.

The constable at the top held out clutching hands. The man raced towards him till he was a dozen yards short, then seemed to give up the idea, checked, came to a stand. Felling and the constable closed in on him. Before they could touch him he was bolting again. But this time Felling managed to kick his heels together. He went to the ground. They grabbed him and held him.

‘You treacherous so-and-so!’ Felling was panting. ‘I’ll teach you to play that kind of trick.’

He was twisting the arm of the man behind him. The man had gone white. His eyes were closed and squinting.

‘Let him get up,’ Gently said.

‘The cunning bastard!’ Felling panted.

‘Let him get up all the same,’ Gently said.

Felling yanked the man to his feet. He and the constable held him. The man sagged against them, pale, breathing hard. He opened his eyes. He stared fearfully at Gently.

‘You value your liberty,’ Gently said.

The corners of the mouth pulled down, trembled.

‘All right,’ Gently said. ‘Let’s get him to the station.’

The constable picked up the man’s hat. They took him away.

'What’S your name?’

‘I am Campbell.’

‘Show me your wallet.’

The man produced it. A stiff, pigskin wallet, nearly new, very slim. It contained fourteen one pound notes and two ten shilling notes but nothing else. The notes were new notes with consecutive numbers, except the two ten shillings.

‘Where’s your driving licence?’

‘It is not with me.’

‘Where is it?’

He shook his head.

‘Put the contents of your pockets on the desk.’

He emptied his pockets. He made a neat pile.

The pile consisted of five half-crowns, a florin, two sixpences, two threepenny pieces, five pennies, three halfpennies, a cheap penknife, a ball pen, a clean handkerchief, a packet of Chesterfield cigarettes, a box of Swan matches, a Yale key on a ring, and a silver charm shaped like a rabbit’s foot, also attached to the ring.

‘What’s the key for?’

‘It is for my flat.’

‘What’s the address of it?’

He shook his head.

‘Don’t you know where you come from?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Is it far from West Hampstead?’

He sat still.

‘What are your Christian names?’

‘I am Campbell.’

‘Jan Campbell?’

‘Yes, John.’

‘I said Jan.’

‘John,’ he said. ‘I am always called John.’

‘Not Jan?’

‘No. Not Jan.

‘Jan Campbell?’

The mouth drooped.

‘All right,’ Gently said. ‘You can smoke, Jan. Have a cigarette, Jan. Relax, Jan.’

‘I do not want to smoke now,’ the man said.

‘Just as you like, Jan.’

He sat still.

Felling, Whitaker sat in the office, Whitaker beside Gently and Felling near the door. Felling had his arms folded, looked through the window. Whitaker’s pale eyes went from Gently to the man. Whitaker was frowning as though trying and wanting to understand. He had a large face. His face looked childish. Behind it he was shrewd. Felling’s eyes looked vacant. The man sat tensely. His eyes never left Gently. Gently was removing the photograph of Jan Kasimir from its file. He propped it up. He looked at the man.

‘When did you shave your moustache, Jan?’

‘I have not a moustache.’

‘Not since when?’

He shook his head.

‘You had one there, Jan.’

‘My name is John.’

‘Jan. That’s what it says.’

‘I don’t know what it says.’

‘It says Jan Kasimir.’

‘I am Campbell.’

‘Jan Kasimir.’

‘Campbell.’

Gently shrugged. ‘It’s quite a good photograph of you, Jan,’ he said. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Is not of me.’

‘Perhaps you don’t like the moustache?’

‘I have not ever a moustache.’

‘Oh, I think it was a nice touch. When did you shave it?’

His knuckles were white.

‘Before you saw Teodowicz?’

‘Who is Teodowicz?’

‘The man whose inquest you went to, Jan.’

‘I do not know him.’

‘Your fellow countryman.’

‘I am Scotsman.’

‘Timoshenko Teodowicz.’

‘No,’ the man said. ‘I do not know him. I do not know anything about Teodowicz.’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

He sat still. He bit his lips together very hard.

‘And Teodowicz is dead,’ Gently said. ‘And the way he died wasn’t pretty, Jan. There was nothing parsimoniously Scottish about the number of bullets that went into him. Over two hundred of them, did you know that? Somebody stood there pumping them into him. Not long after you’d been to see him. The man whose inquest you attended today.’

He sat still.

‘Unpleasant,’ Gently said. ‘Haven’t you any comment to make, Jan?’

The lips bit tighter.

‘A pity,’ Gently said. ‘Somebody is going to hang for Teodowic, Jan.’

The man was trembling. He leaned forward. His eyes stretched wide, showing rings of white. ‘ Hypocrite! ’ he screamed at Gently. He crumbled in the chair. He began to cry.

Well,’ Gently said. ‘A comment after all. Why am I a hypocrite, Jan?’

The man was sobbing to himself words not in English. He didn’t pay any more attention to Gently.

Whitaker flinched, looked unhappy, asked: ‘What are we going to do about him?’

Gently watched the man crying. He had covered his face with his hands. The hands were pale hands and the fingers were sensitive. They too had been bleeding. The blood had dried on the fingers.

Gently chucked his head. ‘We’ll have to unleash Empton. I’m afraid we’ve strayed into his department.’

‘Empton,’ Whitaker said.

Gently picked up the phone. The man continued to cry, Felling to stare through the window.