Alan Hunter: Gently by the Shore

Copping whistled when he saw them. ‘No wonder we drew a blank the first time round… why do you think he dolled himself up that way?’

Gently shrugged. ‘The usual reason — he didn’t want somebody to recognize him.’

‘But that’s fantastic when you come to think of it. Nobody does that sort of thing outside spy thrillers.’

‘Could be a spy thriller we’re working on,’ suggested Gently, dead-panned.

‘Could be,’ agreed Copping seriously.

It was a Saturday, a day of coming and going. As Gently plodded down Duke Street, which led from the dock side of the town to the Front, he was obliged to thread his way through a stream of parties and individuals lugging bags and suitcases, all of them in a hurry, all of them going one way. He surveyed them lugubriously. They were all good potential witnesses — any one of them might hold the clue he wanted, the unsuspected information. And now they were departing in their hundreds and thousands. They were splitting up and scattering to the four quarters of the Midlands.

On the Front it was the same. The beach had a patchy and unsettled look. Up and down the promenade chased laden cars, taxis and coaches, while the touts stood about in disconsolate groups, their function in abeyance. Everything had stopped. For a few hours the Pleasure Machine stood still. There were those who stayed on, but nobody paid them much attention: they were only there on sufferance, it seemed, until a new lot arrived and the machine began to turn again.

Gently crossed over by the Albion Pier and leaned on the balustrade overlooking the beach. In his breast pocket he could feel the stiff pasteboard of the two doctored photographs, and in the distance he could see the post set up by the Borough Police. If Nits knew him when he was alive, thought Gently, it was at least an even chance he met him here, on the Front… and if he met him on the Front it was ten to one he met him on this stretch, between the two piers. Because that was where ‘his’ part was, and beachcombers were jealous of their territories.

What next… where was the best prospect after that?

Did he drink, this false-bearded fugitive? Did he play bowls, or tennis, or eat a sandwich at one of the tea-shacks that prospered along the golden mile? Or buy himself a straw hat or sunglasses? Or an ice-cream?

Sunglasses, mused Gently, rummaging in his pocket for a peppermint cream — he’d want some sunglasses if he were playing hard-to-find. At least, he would if he hadn’t bought them earlier, about the same time as he was buying crepe hair and adhesives. But it was no use making difficulties. There was a beach-gear stall only a dozen yards away. Gently swallowed the peppermint cream and presented himself at the counter.

‘Police,’ he said tonelessly, ‘can you remember having seen this man during the last week or ten days?’

By lunchtime he’d got the usual mixed bag of possibles and improbables. There were people who thought they had, and those who weren’t quite sure: there were numbers who were determined to recognize nothing shown them by a policeman. One gentleman, indeed, was completely positive. The deceased had been to his stall two days running — he’d bought some sun-tan lotion and a pair of frog-man flippers. ‘When was that?’ asked Gently eagerly. ‘Yesterday and the day before,’ responded the helpful one…

It was a dispiriting business. He’d been through it before many a time, and with similar results. But here and today it seemed particularly dejecting, as though the whole prospects of the case were tied up with his good or ill success that morning…

They weren’t, of course. He was only probing a little of the surface. Elsewhere Dutt and his colleagues were at work on the lines of strongest probability. He glanced at his wristwatch and made for a phone-box. By now they ought to have made some progress.

He dialled, and got the switchboard girl.

‘Chief Inspector Gently. Give me the desk.’

She gave him the desk and the duty sergeant answered slickly.

‘Gently here… has Sergeant Dutt reported back yet?’

There was a buzz and a faraway question and answer.

‘No, sir,’ returned the duty sergeant, ‘Bryce and Williams have come in — they’re in the canteen having their lunch. I don’t think they had much luck, sir. Shall I get them to speak to you?’

‘No… don’t bother them.’ Gently made a rapid survey of the terrain without. ‘When Dutt comes in get him to phone me at the Beachside Cafe… you got that?’

‘The Beachside Cafe… what is the number, sir?’

‘Find out,’ retorted Gently peevishly, ‘I’m a policeman, not the local directory.’

He hung up frowning and shouldered his way out of the box. So Bryce and Williams had drawn a blank also. Like himself. Like Dutt, probably. And there couldn’t be so many chances left on that list…

He directed his steps to the Beachside Cafe. It was one of the smaller of the cafes on that part of the Front, a green-painted wooden structure with a sort of veranda that faced the sea. Gently sat himself at one of the veranda tables and ordered a table d’hote lunch. Three out of the four of them had drawn a blank… three out of four. Was it going to fold up on him, that little streak of luck — his ‘dramatic midnight move’, as the paper called it? But he’d been right

… the man had been wearing a false beard. And Nits had known about it, so the man must have been in Starmouth…

‘Your soup, sir,’ said the waiter at his elbow. Gently grunted and made room for the plate.

‘Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you Chief Inspector Gently?’ faltered the waiter, hovering at a respectful distance.

Gently eyed him without enthusiasm. ‘I might be,’ he said.

‘I recognized you from your picture in the paper, sir.’

‘You’re good at it,’ said Gently, ‘my mother wouldn’t have done.’

‘Naturally we’re interested, sir, it all happening so close…’

Gently sighed and gave the waiter the benefit of a prolonged stare. ‘You wouldn’t like to be helpful, I suppose?’ he asked.

‘Of course, sir…’ The waiter sounded as though he were conscious of being about to buy something.

‘Really helpful?’

‘If there’s anything I can do…’

Gently produced his two doctored prints and shoved them under the waiter’s nose. ‘What did he have for lunch last time he was here, or don’t you remember?’

The waiter gulped like a guilty schoolboy. ‘Dover sole and chips, sir, and fruit salad to follow.’

‘He had what-!’

‘Dover sole and chips, sir. I remember because it was on the Tuesday, which is the only day we have it.’

There was a razor-edged pause while Gently clutched at his chair to prevent it revolving quite so fast. The waiter flinched and edged back a pace.

‘Now let’s be calm about this,’ said Gently sternly, ‘it was Dover sole and chips — not just Dover sole?’

‘No, sir… it was always chips. He was very fond of them.’

‘You mean he’d been here before?’

‘Of course, sir. He came here regular.’

‘Regular! How long does it take someone to become a regular?’

The waiter looked worried. ‘I think it was Thursday last week… might have been Wednesday. Anyway, he came every day after that, including Sunday… he sat at this table, sir. I thought perhaps you knew him.’

Gently laughed with a certain amount of hollowness. ‘I do,’ he said, ‘in a manner of speaking. But I’ve still a lot to learn. What’s your name?’

‘Withers, sir.’

‘Well, take that other chair, Withers.’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘Don’t be nervous — I’ll square you with your boss. And you can fetch in the roast beef when I’m ready for it — even Central Office men have to eat.’