Alan Hunter: Gently Does It

‘Pink!’ cried an old man, as Gently drew near him, ‘don’t forget your pink!’ Gently fumbled in his pocket for coppers. ‘They did well today,’ said the old man. ‘Did you see the match, sir?’ ‘No,’ said Gently. He took the paper. ‘Isn’t there a home match next week too?’ he enquired. ‘We’ve got the Cobblers coming, sir — it’ll be a good match.’ Gently nodded vaguely. ‘I may see it,’ he said. As he walked on he unfolded the paper and glanced over the headlines. They ran:

City not flattered by margin

First-half injury to Cummings

Gently pursed his lips, folded the paper and put it carefully away in his pocket.

Alan Hunter

Gently Does It

A generous stream of water escaped from a blocked gutter two stories higher and battered insistently on the zinc-shod window-sill of Gently’s window. He raised his head, frowning. Waking up to rain filled him with a sort of hopelessness, a feeling that here was a day to be got over and dismissed as quickly as possible, a day when all normal business ought to be postponed. He blinked and reached out for the cup of tea that should have been there.

Down below in the little dining-room Gently was the only guest at breakfast. It was Sunday, of course… for the rest of the world. But there was a fire and a sheaf of Sunday papers, and the breakfast was a fairly lavish plate of bacon, egg, tomatoes and fried bread. Gently turned over a paper as he ate. The Huysmann business hadn’t built up yet, there was only a short paragraph headed: TIMBER MERCHANT STABBED TO DEATH. He sifted it with a practised eye to see if his name was mentioned. It wasn’t.

Feeling fuller and better, Gently donned his raincoat and sallied forth. The rain was pelting down out of a low, monotonous sky and the streets were practically empty. In front of the pathetically gay awnings of the provision market a gang of men were shovelling bruised and rotten fruit into a lorry. Behind them rose the pale pastelled mass of the City Hall with its dim portico and slender naked tower. Gently plodded on through the city centre to the castle and the cattle market.

There was something ominous about the deserted fairground. The booths which had yesterday been wells of colour and bright lights were now blinded with screens of old canvas, taut with the rain and flapping dismally. The avenues of alleys between them had ceased to be channels of raucous delight, showed the black, cross-grooved tiles of the cattle market, threatening the ephemerality of usurping pleasure. Gently made his way to the Wall of Death. At the back was a lean-to with one side canvas. He pushed up the flap and went in.

Inside was a bench on which stood one of the red-painted motorcyles, its engine in the process of being stripped down, while another machine leaned against the end of the lean-to. Across from the flap was the entrance to the well, with the ramp up which the riders went. From this came tinkering sounds. Gently went through. Between the cambered bottom and the outer wall a man was crouched, tightening down the bolt which secured a strengthening strut. He looked at Gently suspiciously. Gently shrugged, leaned against the wall, took out his pipe and began to fill it.

Having locked the bolt with wire the man came out. He was short and stuggy, and his brown, porous face looked as though it had been squeezed up in a pair of nutcrackers. He rolled a cigarette, peering at Gently sharply as he licked it.

‘Police?’ he asked.

Gently transferred the flame of his lighter from his pipe to the stuggy man’s cigarette. ‘CID,’ he said casually. The stuggy man’s hand trembled and he drew at the cigarette powerfully.

‘Your outfit?’ enquired Gently.

‘You know it is.’

‘You must be Mr Clark.’

‘Who’d you think I was — Nye Bevan?’

Gently shook his head seriously. ‘Why did Peter go to see his father yesterday afternoon?’ he asked, then leaned back against the wall again to give the stuggy man time to think it over.

There was a pause of quite some moments. The stuggy man puffed at his cigarette with industrious energy, flicking it nervously at the end of each puff. Gently drew in smoke with slow deliberateness. There was a ratio of about three to one. At last the stuggy man said: ‘S’pose he just went to say “hullo” to his old man.’

Gently removed his pipe. ‘No,’ he said, and put his pipe back.

The stuggy man’s cigarette nearly burst into flames. He said: ‘I don’t have to tell you anything!’

Gently nodded indefinitely.

‘You can’t do nofink to me if I keep my trap shut. Why can’t you leave us alone? I told them all they wanted to know last night!’

‘You didn’t tell them what I want to know.’

‘Well, haven’t you got enough against him, without looking for any more?’

Gently turned over his pipe and let the top ash fall into a little pool of water gathering on the floor. He surveyed the stuggy man with distant green eyes. ‘There’s a very good case to be made against Peter Huysmann,’ he said. ‘If he’s guilty, the less that’s found out the better. But if he’s innocent, then everybody concerned had best tell what they know. But perhaps you think he’s guilty?’

‘Naow!’ The stuggy man flipped ash in a wide arc. ‘Pete never did a thing like that. You don’t know Pete.’ He faced Gently fiercely.

‘Then the best way you can help him is to answer my question.’

The stuggy man threw down his cigarette-end and ground it to pulp beneath his foot. ‘I know you!’ he burst out, ‘I know you and your questions! It’s all very well now, but when it gets to court it will all be twisted against him. I seen it happen before. I seen the way they went to work to hang old George Cooper. All very nice they were, as nice as pie — they only wanted to help him! But what happened when they gits him in court? Every mortal thing what people had told them was used against him — every mortal thing.’

He broke off, breathing heavily through his flattened nose. ‘So don’t come telling me how I can help him, mister,’ he concluded. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, d’ye see?’

The growing pool of water on the floor made a sudden dart forward at a sunken tile. Gently moved his foot to higher ground. ‘Let’s put it another way,’ he said smoothly. ‘There’s a sufficiently sound case against Peter Huysmann to put him in dock and probably hang him. Any further evidence will simply reinforce the case. So it might be good policy to please the police rather than tease them… isn’t that sense?’

The stuggy man’s eyes blazed. ‘You haven’t got nofink against me, mister!’ he exclaimed.

‘I’m not suggesting we have. Though we might have, some day… it’s worth remembering.’

‘They was at me last night that way — says they might find the Wall was dangerous. But I know where I stand. It isn’t no more dangerous here than it was at Lincoln or Newark, nor anywheres else. And I told them so.’ He spat into the pool of water.

Gently sighed, and mentally cursed the large feet of Inspector Hansom, whose prints were so painfully visible. The stuggy man produced his tin of tobacco again and began the nervous concoction of a fresh cigarette. Gently lit it for him absently. The rain continued to fall.

‘I saw him ride yesterday,’ said Gently, apropos of nothing. ‘He’s a good rider.’

‘He’s the best man on the Wall in England,’ jerked the stuggy man.

‘You wouldn’t want to lose him.’

‘I shan’t, if I can help it.’

‘If he gets off he’ll inherit his father’s business.’

The stuggy man shot him a guarded glance, but said nothing.