Alan Hunter: Gently by the Shore

‘T-transmitter…?’

‘That’s right. For sending little gossip-notes to the Continent.’

‘But I don’t know nothing about it!’

Gently tut-tutted and felt for a scrap of paper. ‘Here we are… hot from Central Records. They released you from a stretch in ’42 to go into the Services; you were trained as a radio-mechanic at Compton Bassett; radar course at Hereford in ’44; demobilized as a Sergeant-Radar-mechanic in ’46. Quite a distinguished career, Peachey

… and of course you’d know all about building and working a simple transmitter, wouldn’t you?’

Peachey gulped and tried to get some moisture on to his lips.

‘And about that aerial? There aren’t so many high places in Starmouth. There’s the monument, but that’s a bit too bare and obvious. And there’s the observation tower, but that would be even worse. No… what you’d want would be something unobtrusive… something where a little private wiring wouldn’t notice very much, where perhaps there was an off-season when you could do the job without interruptions. That’s what you’d want, isn’t it, Peachey?’

‘I forgot all that… I don’t remember nothing about radio!’

Gently shook his head consolingly. ‘Never mind, Peachey. I dare say you will. It’ll come back to you with a rush one day. Oh, and just one other thing.’

Peachey sucked in breath.

‘Tell Louey I’ll be in tomorrow some time to settle up a bet, will you? He’ll know what I mean… just tell him that.’

Dutt hustled him out and the door closed behind them. Gently hesitated a moment till he heard the car pull away, then he returned swiftly to the lounge, uncoupled the phone, dialled a number crisply.

‘Chief Inspector Gently… oh, hullo, Louey! I thought it was only fair to ring you up…’

He smiled pleasantly to himself at the note of tenseness in the voice at the other end.

‘Yes, of course you have to know… with the races tomorrow too… naturally you’ll be stuck if we pinch your head boy. But there’s nothing to worry about, Louey… no, we came to an agreement. I’ve just sent him home now, as free as a bird. He’s a sensible chap, Louey… knows when it’s time to do a deal. We all have to play along with the police sometimes… eh? Yes… yes… Sidlow Street… yes. I’m glad it’s eased your mind, Louey. Have a good day with the gee-gees tomorrow… yes… good night.’

He pressed the receiver down a moment and then dialled again.

‘Gently here. Give me Copping.’

‘Hullo?’ came Copping’s voice, ‘have you had any luck? The chief super says that if you haven’t-!’

‘Never mind the chief super,’ interrupted Gently with a grimace. ‘Listen, Copping. This is vitally important. I’ve just sent Peach home to his flat at 27 Sidlow Street with Dutt to keep an eye on him. Now I want Dutt relieved at midnight and your best man sent to replace him. And armed, you understand? Peach has got to be guarded from now on, day and night… and heaven help the man who slips up on the assignment!’

Starmouth races — that colourful, moneyful, tax-free event — Starmouth Races, when a town already full to the brim began bursting at the seams. From early in the forenoon the train-loads started to emerge. By lunch-time you could hardly move on the road to the race-course, and as for getting a sit-down meal, you were lucky to pick up a couple of cheese sandwiches. But it was Starmouth Races and nobody cared. You came for the fun and the flutter and the sea-air, and if you went back skint it was all part of the outing.

They’d got a brass band from Norchester, a regular festival-winning affair. It had come out today in a fanfaronade of new grey and pink, with a man on the baton who really knew his business. Dutt was enthralled. He had always had a weakness for brass bands. When they went to town with ‘Blaze Away’ it touched a chord in his simple cockney heart…

‘Worst day of the year!’ moaned Copping to Gently, ‘how can you police this lot with the men we’ve got? If we arrested all the dips and shysters who come up for the races it’d need a special excursion train to cart them back to town!’

The super was there, looking very spruce and commanding in his best blue with its rainbow of medal ribbons. He sharpened a glance for Gently’s baggy tweed. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Gently… Gish is out for your blood if anything goes wrong.’

Gently tilted his head accommodatingly and the super passed with a sniff.

As a matter of fact, Gently was beginning to worry himself, just a little bit. The thing wasn’t going to pattern at all. There had been no alarums and excursions, no rush for Sidlow Street in the quiet hours… Peachey had spent a restful night, said the report, or if not a restful one, at least a peaceful one. In the morning it was the same. The routine of ‘The Feathers’ had continued undisturbed. Louey had gone for his constitutional, Peachey had reported to the office, at lunchtime they had eaten together at a nearby restaurant and directly afterwards Peachey had fetched the car and driven Louey and two of the bar-regulars to the race-course. It was almost as though Louey were ignoring the situation, as though he were deliberately calling Gently’s bluff. Certainly there was no anxiety in his aspect, and if Peachey was looking rather more like a boiled stuffed rabbit than usual it was hardly to be wondered at.

Gently’s eye wandered through the busy crowd to the line of bookies’ stands. Biggest of all flamed a great orange banner, set up on two poles, and licking across it like scarlet fire ran the legend: LOUEY ALWAYS PAYS! — Not that it was necessary, such a banner. You could hear the voice of Louey like distant thunder, over-topping crowd, band and competitors:

‘ FIVE TO TWO ON THE FAVOURITE… COME ON NOW… ONLY LOUEY GIVES IT … FIVE TO TWO ON THE FAVOURITE!’

His gold tooth shone, his diamond ring flashed, he loomed over the crowd like a genial Goliath. And they liked Louey. He was an institution on the race-course. Plump Peachey could hardly scribble slips out fast enough to keep pace with the money going into that gaping Gladstone.

‘ FIVE TO TWO ON THE FAVOURITE… TEN BOB TO WIN TWENTY-FIVE… HUNDRED TO EIGHT ON CAMBYSES… COME ON NOW, THESE ARE THE ODDS YOU’RE LOOKING FOR!’

Up beside him the sporty individual was taking signals from someone across in the stands and chalking up fresh odds on the blackboard. Down below a couple of bar-types were touting recklessly, yanking custom from the very shadow of rival stands.

‘ COME ON NOW… NO LIMIT… IF YOU WANT A FORTUNE COME TO LOUEY… YOU SEE MY BANNER — IT MEANS WHAT IT SAYS!.. COME ALONG NOW AND DO THE INCOME-TAX COLLECTOR IN THE EYE!’

It was all so innocent, all so regular. Moral or immoral, book-making was legitimate business and watching Louey up there in all his glory tended to shake one’s convictions. He looked so little like a murderous fanatic with the gallows threatening to yawn at his very feet.

But that was the situation and Gently had made sure that Louey knew where he stood. He was counterbluffing, that was all; doing what Gently would have done himself if the positions had been reversed. But counter-bluff was a temporary measure. There would be a plan behind it, a positive step. What was it cooking now, that calculating mind, when was it going to happen, and where?

Gently moved over to Dutt, who had resumed his role as Peachey’s protector.

‘Keep your eyes on your man,’ he warned him snappily, ‘he’ll be easy enough to lose in a crowd like this.’

‘Yessir… of course, sir. But you got to admit it’s a smashing bit of brass…’

‘I don’t admit anything — keep your eyes on Peachey.’