Alan Hunter - Gently by the Shore

‘Having a spot of bother?’ he inquired affably.

The stream of language faltered and a red, moon-like face disengaged itself from the oily deeps.

‘Bother! Can’t you hear I’m a-havin’ some bother?’

‘Well… it sounded like a big end gone, to say the least.’

The spacious one heaved himself upright and shored his bulk against the off-side mudguard. ‘Jenny!’ he observed feelingly, ‘that’s the bloomin’ trouble — Jenny!’

‘There’s a woman in the case?’ queried Gently, who wasn’t mechanically minded.

‘Woman? Naow — the Jenny! Stuck away there at the bottom till it’s nearly draggin’ on the ground — an’ they must know it’s goin’ to give trouble — Jennies allus give trouble!’

He waved an adjustable at Gently as though daring him to contradict, but Gently’s interest had slipped to some crude white lettering just visible on the uptilted bonnet. It read: ‘Henry Artichoke, Hire Car, 76 High Street.’

‘This your car?’ he asked casually.

‘’Course it’s my car — who’s did you think it was?’ Mr Artichoke gave the vehicle a glance of mingled affection and exasperation. ‘Good now as half your modern tin-lizzies — only thas like me, getting old …’

Gently nodded understandingly. ‘And how’s business with you these days?’

‘Business? Well — I don’t complain. Though I aren’t saying it’s like it was in the old days-!’

‘Too many charas and coach-trips.’

‘An’ all these new-fangled cars about… still, don’t run away with the idea that I’m complainin’.’

‘Were you doing much last week?’

‘I was out on a trip or two — can’t do without me altogether, you know.’

‘Last Tuesday, for instance. Did you have a trip that day?’

Mr Artichoke ruminated a moment and dashed away a raindrop which had leaked on to his oily cheek. ‘Tuesday… that was the day old Hullah was buried. Yes. Yes. I had a couple of trips on the Tuesday… in the mornin’ I took Sid Shorter over to see his missus at the nursing home. Then last thing they had me out to fetch an old party and her things from Norchester — that’s it!’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘Well, I hadn’t got really set down at the “Hoss-shoes”… that couldn’t have been much after seven.’

‘Then you went to Norchester to pick her up?’

‘Her’n her things — you’d be surprised what the old gal fetched away with her!’

‘Made you late, I dare say…’

‘Late enough so’s I didn’t get into the “Hoss-shoes” again…’

‘It was after ten by the time you’d got her unpacked?’

‘As near to it as makes no difference… parrot she’d got too — damn’ nearly had my finger as I was carting it in!’

‘And where did you take her… what was her new address?’

‘Oh, she was goin’ to live with the Parson of St Nicholas.’

‘Is that the big church?’

‘No — that’s St John’s. St Nicholas is the one down in Lighthouse Road.’

‘You mean down at South Shore?’

‘That’s right… the one with a herrin’ stuck up for a weather-vane.’

Gently relinquished his grip on the wire fence and dived his hand into a pocket that rustled. ‘The Front — was it very busy when you came back that night?’

‘Huh! Usual lot of rowdies — kids, the best part on’m.’

A peppermint cream came to light and lay poised on a stubby thumb. ‘Did you have any luck… like picking up an odd fare?’

Mr Artichoke raised two round eyes grown suddenly suspicious. ‘Here!’ he exclaimed, ‘come to think of it, I don’t like the side of the fence you’re standing on — I don’t like it at all!’

‘It’s the honest side, Mr Artichoke…’

‘That’s as may be — I don’t think I like it!’

The peppermint cream went into Gently’s mouth and was chewed upon thoughtfully. Mr Artichoke watched the operation indignantly, his broad face flushing a deeper shade of red. One would have thought there was something almost indecent about eating a peppermint cream.

‘Now look, Mr Artichoke, I think you’re in a position to help me in a rather important matter. I know you haven’t got a hackney-carriage licence and that it was an offence for you to pick up a fare in the street, but if you picked up the people I think you did, then between you and me there won’t be any charges… is that quite plain?’

Mr Artichoke nodded non-committally, but kept his mouth tight shut.

‘Well then… did you or didn’t you?’

Mr Artichoke shrugged his heavy shoulders and stared at the adjustable in his hand. ‘That depends a bit on who them people was, don’t it?’ he remarked tentatively.

‘I want you to tell me that.’

‘But how am I goin’ to know if they’re the ones I shan’t get pinched over?’

Gently returned the shrug. ‘I’ve got a very bad memory except for criminal offences.’

Mr Artichoke brooded some more on the adjustable. ‘Just suppose there were two of them — a male and a female. Is that somewhere about the mark?’

‘It’s right on the target.’

‘And suppose this female was a blonde female — one of them there that work up this way during the season… am I still going the right way?’

Gently nodded with deliberate slowness.

‘And suppose this bloke was a foreigner with a beard, dressed a bit flashy, and answering to the name of Max — and suppose they wanted taking to a house on the cliff which as far as I know has been empty for the last five years. Would I still be heading straight?’

There was the briefest of wavers in Gently’s nodding and a smile little short of angelic crept over his face. ‘Mr Artichoke… you’ve just answered the sixty-four dollar question, whether you know it or not.’

‘Eh?’ queried Mr Artichoke.

‘The sixty-four dollar question,’ repeated Gently. ‘Now just stop here. Don’t move. Don’t go away. I’m going to have a short chat with the superintendent about his man-power problem and after that we’ll make a little trip to North Shore together… who knows? We may even be lucky enough to find a tenant in that house on the cliff…’

Copping made one of the party and Bryce, at Gently’s request, was added to the strength. Copping became highly indignant when he heard about Mr Artichoke’s activities.

‘And after all the ratepayers’ money that’s been spent trying to find the cabby! What’s the use of issuing these licences if a lot of pirates come along and gum up our investigations for us?’

Gently clicked his tongue. ‘He was only turning a slightly dishonest penny.’

‘We might never have caught up with him… you admit it was pure accident.’

‘Luck,’ said Gently, ‘you have to cultivate it in the Central Office…’

Copping snorted. ‘We shouldn’t have needed luck. Routine will catch a criminal if everyone is being completely honest…!’

Under Mr Artichoke’s directions they proceeded north along the main Norchester road. The dreary suburbs passed by, the expensive splendours of High Town and finally the long, level, white-railed expanse of the race-course, its empty stands lifted gloomily against the rain-pale sea.

‘Steady!’ warned Mr Artichoke, made uneasy by the driver’s reckless and newfangled technique, ‘we’re turning off here — if you can pull up this side of Barston!’

The driver slowed down to a dangerous thirty.

‘There!’ exclaimed Mr Artichoke, ‘Up that little loke. There’s only one house up there, so I shan’t have made a mistake.’

‘It’s “Windy Tops”’ muttered Copping, ‘it belongs to one of the Thorners of Norchester.’

Gently glanced at him questioningly.