Alan Hunter - Gently by the Shore

‘Very reasonable… and why did he duck out again?’

‘Obviously he would have heard Peachey coming back.’

‘Why wasn’t he worried by the risk of meeting Peachey when he ducked in?’

‘Oh, come now, Inspector, I can’t work out the minute details for you…!’

‘And how did he know the door was unlocked in the first place?’

‘One must use one’s imagination. Perhaps he took cover in the doorway, and then tried the handle…’

‘Why, in fact, would he take cover at all? On Friday night he wasn’t known to us, and neither was my man known to him.’

Louey chuckled softly. ‘There you are, Inspector! My naive amateur deductions don’t hold water for a moment, do they? I’m afraid it’s as big a mystery as ever… I would never have made a policeman.’

‘One other thing,’ added Gently evenly, ‘how did you come to know that it was my man who saw Streifer leave your office?’

Louey’s chuckle continued. ‘How else could you have known about it? You admit that Streifer meant nothing to you on Friday night, so you could hardly have been making inquiries after him, Inspector…’

They had passed by the Wellesley, its wrought-iron fantasia washed and gleaming, and were approaching the weirdly incongruous skyline of the Pleasure Beach. High over all reared the Scenic Railway, a miniature Bass Rock fashioned out of painted canvas and paper mache, and under it, like a brood of Easter chicks under a hen, the gay-painted turrets and roofs of side shows, booths and the other mechanical entertainments. Harsh strains of music through the rain suggested that the Pleasure Beachers, like lesser mortals, were assuming a custom though they had it not.

Louey gestured comfortably towards the gateway. ‘Rivals of mine… but they don’t have a licence! Shall we stroll through?’

Gently nodded drippingly. ‘I want to see the place. It’s where Streifer dropped the man who was tailing him on Friday.’

‘Which shows he knew his job, Inspector. Isn’t this where you would come to shake off a tail?’

‘I can’t say I’ve had much experience…’

They passed under the flaunting portal with its electric jewellery. The close-packed attractions within wore a rueful look, unsupported by the crowds. Larger and more expensive pieces were frankly at a standstill — the Caterpillar had postponed its gallop, the Glee Cars their jaunting — while the smaller roundabouts and rides were operating at a profit margin which was doubtful. Booth attendants stood about in each other’s stalls. They were drinking tea and staring around them morosely. The owner of the Ghost Train, for want of something to do, was riding round in his own contraption, but all its promised thrills seemed unable to raise the siege of boredom which had invested his countenance.

‘Of course there’s Frenchy,’ brooded Gently, obstinately undiverted by all these diversions.

‘Frenchy?’ echoed Louey indifferently, ‘is she mixed up with the business too? She took a hint the other night, Inspector. She hasn’t been near the bar since then.’

‘Stratilesceul was a client of hers… she went off to the North Shore with him in a taxi just before he was murdered.’

‘Ah, that accounts for a rumour I heard that she had been arrested.’

‘You heard such a rumour?’

‘We’re for ever hearing them in our business.’

‘Undoubtedly… you are very well placed.’

Gently halted to inspect the front of a sideshow. It was an exhibition of methods of execution through the centuries and was advertised by some particularly lurid illustrations. He seemed to be strangely fascinated.

‘And she will have given you some useful information?’ suggested Louey, moving on a step impatiently.

‘She knows a good deal… she’ll be a devastating witness.’

‘There would be some danger in it for her.’

‘Danger? With police protection?’

Louey turned his back on the sideshow and busied himself with lighting a cigarette. ‘If this murder was the work of an organization — and you don’t seem to be in any doubt about it now — then there would be a very real danger for anyone bearing material witness. Men can be hanged, Inspector, but organizations cannot. And my feeling is that a person of Frenchy’s kidney wouldn’t risk too much for pure love of our excellent police force.’

Gently stooped to get a closer view of a gentleman who had been given too long a drop, with the usual top-secret result. ‘You know Frenchy well?’ he asked carelessly.

‘I? Not apart from running her out of my bar on several occasions.’

‘Dulton… Dulsome Street is where she lives.’

‘Dulford Street, Inspector.’

‘That’s right. You’ve been there?’

‘Not visiting Frenchy, if that’s what you mean.’

‘You’re sure of that? Not in the last day or two?’

‘Quite positive, Inspector. My tastes have never been that way inclined.’

Gently straightened up slowly. ‘Odd,’ he said, frowning.

‘What’s odd about that?’

‘These two cigarette ends.’ Gently felt in his pocket and produced a crumpled envelope. ‘There… you see? Your blend of Russian. I found them in an ashtray in Frenchy’s bedroom yesterday afternoon.’

Louey poked at them with a gigantic finger and nodded heavily. ‘You’re right, Inspector… it is my blend.’

‘I was sure of it… I was feeling positive you’d been there.’

The grey eyes rested on his firmly, the flecked pupil seeming curiously larger than its neighbour. ‘Isn’t it a shame, Inspector,’ purred Louey, ‘I thought my cigarettes were exclusive. And now, in the commission of your duty, you’ve proved that someone else in Starmouth smokes them too… at least, I take it, it was in the commission of your duty?’

Gently shrugged and shoved the envelope back into his pocket.

The Scenic Railway had its shutters up, though someone was tinkering with one of the trolleys. It wasn’t quite so impressive on a nearer view. Its cliffs and crags were so palpably props, its tunnels and bridges so contrived. And the rain made it look sorrier still, a great, hollow, sodden mockery. Gently took refuge in a peppermint cream as they squelched past it. If only he’d thought to bring a more reliable pair of shoes…!

‘I suppose I don’t have to ask you to account for your movements last Tuesday night?’ he growled, as they got out on to the promenade again.

‘But of course!’ Louey chuckled, as though he welcomed the inquiry. ‘I was having a little party in the back… Peachey, Artie, Tizer and some more of the boys. You ask them, Inspector. They’ll all remember my party on Tuesday night.’

‘I’m sure they will. And of course it went on till late?’

‘Not terribly late. I cleared them out at two.’

‘Just late enough, in fact.’

‘Well… it was late enough for me.’

‘And that would be your story — supposing you had to have a story?’

‘Certainly, Inspector. Why should I tell any other?’

‘There’s no knowing what Frenchy may say.’

‘She’s a woman without character.’

‘Or Streifer, for example.’

‘Streifer?’ Louey hung on to the word, as though expecting an explanation.

‘And then there’s your car,’ continued Gently, ignoring him. ‘Was that borrowed or something on the Tuesday night?’

‘My car…?’ This time the inquiring tone had an edge of anxiety.

‘You lent it to someone — and they went up to North Shore?’

‘I don’t understand, Inspector. My car would have been in its lock-up in Botolph Street.’

‘Even though it was seen somewhere else?’

‘That would hardly be possible…’

‘Then you didn’t lend it to anyone?’