Alan Hunter - Gently Does It

There was a long pause while the phone recorded nothing but vague noises and shifts of sound. Then came the sound of Hansom picking up the instrument again. ‘I’ve got the report here,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Just start reading it.’

‘It starts with some junk about football.’

‘That’s what I’m after… don’t miss out a word.’

Hansom read in a sing-song voice: ‘Chief Inspector Gently you’ll be able to tell me who got the City’s first goal yesterday was it Robson. Leaming it was Smethick actually he scored from a free kick after a foul on Jones S. Chief Inspector Gently ah yes in the twenty-second-’

‘Wait!’ interrupted Gently, ‘let’s have that bit again.’

‘What — all of it?’

‘The Leaming bit.’

Hansom repeated: Leaming it was Smethick actually he scored from a free kick after a foul on Jones S.’

‘Ah!’ murmured Gently, ‘Jones S.!’

There came an impatient rustle from the other end. ‘Say!’ bawled Hansom, ‘what the hell is this?’

Gently smiled cherubically. ‘Never mind now… just keep that record where it won’t get lost. Oh, and Hansom-’

‘I’m still connected.’

‘You might get on to the super and warn him that things could get exciting later on.’

‘How do you mean — exciting?’

‘Oh… you know… just exciting.’ Gently pressed the instrument firmly down in its cradle, then lifted it and dialled again. ‘Press office? I want the sports editor… no, I don’t care if he is busy getting out the football — this is the police.’ There was a short, busy pause, then a brisk hand seized the other instrument. ‘Sports editor — who’s that?’

‘Chief Inspector Gently. I want some information about the report printed last week of the match at Railway Road.’

‘Well… what is it?’

‘Your account said that the City’s first goal was scored by Smethick after a foul on Jones S., whereas I understand that the foul was on Robson. Can you corroborate that?’

‘Yes — it was on Robson. Our reporter misread his notes when he was telephoning… we have to work at considerable speed to make the deadline.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Gently genially, ‘there’s no need to apologize. A slip like that won’t worry many people.’

Leaming’s car stood stood in the corner of the timber-yard, a crouched glowing presence in the gathering dusk. One of the sliding doors of the machine shop stood ajar, sufficient to show a gleam of light in the office at the far end, and Gently, who was long-sighted, could make out the dark figure of the manager bent over his desk. Gently was in no hurry. He ambled over to the car and examined the doors, which were locked. Then he quietly raised the bonnet and removed a small item from the engine.

Leaming was so intent on his work that he failed to notice Gently’s approach until warned by the creak of an opening door. But then he spun round and to his feet in one crisp movement. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, his dark eyes sharp and thrusting, ‘what do you want?’

Gently shrugged and closed the glass-panelled door behind him. ‘I’ve been to the football match,’ he said, ‘I thought you might like to hear about it.’ He moved round from the door to Leaming’s desk and peered disinterestedly at the open ledger. Leaming watched him closely. Gently felt in his pocket and produced two peppermint creams, which he placed on the desk, pushing one towards Leaming with a stubby finger. ‘Have one,’ he said.

Leaming remained tense, watching.

Gently pulled up a little chair and sat down weightily. ‘It wasn’t a very good match. It was a bit end-of-the-season. And the people! I think it must have been near the ground record… forty-two thousand, isn’t it?’ His green eyes rose questioningly.

‘A little more than that.’

‘A little more?’ Gently looked disappointed. ‘I thought you would have been able to give me the exact figure… I know how precise you are about football matters.’

Leaming bit his lip. ‘What does it matter, anyhow?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t, not really… but I thought you would have known.’

‘It’s forty-three thousand one hundred and twenty-one.’

‘Ah!’ Gently beamed at him. ‘I was sure you could tell me. And wasn’t that at the cup-tie with Pompey a couple of seasons ago… when Pompey won two-nought?’

Leaming came a step forward. ‘See here,’ he snapped, ‘I don’t know what you’re after, and I don’t care. But I’ve got work to do… we’ve got the accountants coming on Monday.’

‘And you’ve got the “Straight Grain” books to prepare and make plausible before then… haven’t you?’

Leaming seized the ledger on the desk, jerked it round and shoved it across to Gently. ‘There!’ he jeered. ‘Have a look at it — see what you can find out.’

Gently shook his head. ‘It isn’t my job. We’ll get a fraud man down to go through it.’

‘A fraud man? Who’s charging me with fraud?’

‘Nobody… and as a matter of fact, I don’t think anybody will.’

‘Then what’s this talk of getting a fraud man down?’

Gently continued to shake his head, slowly, woodenly. ‘They’ll want to know all about it in court, you know… the prosecution for the Crown will go into it with great thoroughness.’

There was a dead silence. Leaming stood immobile, his handsome face drained of all colour. Against the unnatural paleness his dark eyes seemed larger, darker, more penetrating than ever. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked huskily.

Gently turned away and said, speaking quickly: ‘I’ve got the last piece of evidence I needed against you. There was a mistake in the account of the match which appeared in the Football News last Saturday. The same mistake appears in an answer you gave to one of my questions on Sunday… a record of it is in the files at police headquarters.’

‘You found that out… today?’

‘A short time ago. I overheard a scrap of conversation at the match this afternoon which led me to check with the Press office. I also checked your account in the police files.’

Leaming went back a pace, his hands grasping involuntarily. ‘You’re not lying?’ he demanded suddenly.

‘No, I’m not lying… why should I?’

‘Suppose I said I wasn’t at the match, but I was somewhere else?’

‘No.’ Gently shook his head again. ‘It won’t do. You’d have to prove it… and you can’t prove it.’

‘But you can’t base a murder charge on that alone!’

Gently reached out for his peppermint cream, slow and deliberate. ‘I can show that you had the motive,’ he said. ‘I can show that you could have hidden in the summer-house while Peter and his father were quarrelling. I can show that Fisher was watching what took place. I can show that Fisher blackmailed you first for Susan and then for the money. I can show that Fisher was murdered and he was murdered just when I had got sufficient evidence to make him speak — which you had grounds to suspect. I can show points of similarity between the two murders. I can show that you can prove no alibi at the time of Fisher’s murder. I can show you were seen at the scene of the crime carrying a bag which subsequently became blood-stained and was destroyed here, where it is logical to suppose you would destroy it. I can show that the key which locked the door of Fisher’s flat after the murder was found with it. And finally, I can now show that the alibi you gave for the time of the Huysmann murder was deliberately fabricated and completely false.’

‘It’s not enough — I’ll get a defence to tear it to tatters!’

Gently bit into the peppermint cream. ‘You might have done before today,’ he said smoothly.