Alan Hunter: Gently With the Painters

‘Desk Sergeant here, sir.’

Gently grabbed the phone up sulkily.

‘There’s a man here, name of Tulkings, wants to see you on urgent business.’

‘Is it about his long-lost nephew?’

‘Don’t know, sir. He wouldn’t tell me.’

‘If it is, say I’ve gone to America.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll get rid of him.’

Another time it would be Mad Jenkins, or the widow from Bethnal Green. There was a floating congregation of crackpots who spent their time in harrying Scotland Yard.

‘Super? This is Morris at this end.’

Gently sighed and prepared to be intelligent. Morris was an Inspector on a job in Walsall; just as Gently used to do, he was ringing in for information.

‘… So I’d like anything you can get on this chap Polson. I’m pretty certain he’s the chummie who knocked off Steen. If you could send a man to make inquiries at Shoreditch…’

‘Get those prints off, will you?’

‘They’ll be in tonight, Super.’

In his desk Gently had a portable and he flicked it on to get the news, but the BBC, true to form, took notice of nothing so paltry as homicide. Another day had elapsed… had Hansom risked it and arrested Derek Johnson?

Immediately the phone was ringing again:

‘Old man?’

It was Pagram, from the AC’s office.

‘We’ve got a tip-off about another warehouse raid, said to be by the same lot who perforated Jimmy. Limehouse again — could you come along up?’

Gently groaned and tapped out his pipe.

This time the conference was shorter and more decided. Limehouse and the Flying Squad were going to handle the job between them. The details were worked out over a large-scale plan, and on his wall-map the AC added one of the coloured flags he was so fond of.

‘You see how they stick to those same three districts? It all gives support to what Herbie was telling us…’

Stephens, of Homicide, had sat in on the conference, but his failure to contribute to it suggested that he was there for something else. He chewed at his nails and occasionally stared at Gently. As the conference was breaking up he came forward with an expectant air.

‘Oh, Stephens… Gently, hold on a tick!’

The AC rested his hand on Gently’s arm.

‘There’s a job come up in your old hunting grounds. I’m putting Stephens on it, and I thought you could give him some tips.’

As far as Gently was concerned that was the very last straw, and it was no use reminding himself that he had expected it. For an instant, looking at Stephens, he felt all of his fifty-two years: he felt himself pensioned off, to make room for these brisk newcomers.

‘The Johnson case…?’

‘You’ve been reading about it, have you?’

‘I did chance to see something…’

‘Then you’ve got an idea of the set-up. From what I can make out the local police are in a tizzie. They’ve already stampeded themselves into doing something silly. You know about the picture? The damn fools have gone and impounded it, and from what I can hear they haven’t a notion as to why they’ve done it. Now, of course, they want us to carry it, in the old, familiar fashion. I immediately thought of Stephens, who has got a cool enough head on his shoulders.’

Gently leant himself against the desk, feeling the need of its support. Of course, it had to be Stephens — wasn’t it as plain as anything could be? Gently was Jimmy Fisher’s man, the racketeer’s manes were still unplacated. While he was stuck with Lucky Jim there couldn’t be any trips into the country…

‘Three months ago I’d have sent you, Gently.’

Had the AC divined his disappointment?

‘As it is I dare say they’ll expect you to go, which will probably make it tougher for Stephens here. But they’ll have to learn to get on without our celebrities — obviously, you weren’t going to remain a CI for ever. So, if you’ll just give Stephens a little off-the-record briefing, we’ll leave you in peace with the unlamented James Fisher.’

‘I wouldn’t have minded…’

The words stuck in his throat, but somehow he felt that he had to get them out.

‘The way things are going… Pagram can probably manage. Though I don’t want to stand in anyone’s way…’

The AC looked at him in mild surprise, his spectacles dangling from his hand. Hadn’t it really occurred to him that Gently might want the case, that he was loathing every moment of his office-bound routine?

‘Well, in that case, Gently, what can I say?’

He shot a glance at Stephens, who was standing by impassively.

‘I quite agree that the Fisher business is falling into place, and if you’re agreeable, you’re the very man for the other. Am I to understand that you’d like to have the case?’

As though he needed to ask it! Gently nodded dumbly.

‘In that case it’s yours — oh, and you’d better take Stephens with you. I know that Dutt is your regular man, but I think that Stephens will be of more use to you.’

It was a judgement of Solomon, and Gently was in no mood to question it. Neither, it seemed, was Stephens, who swallowed but said not a word. The AC handed them a folder containing a copy of the report, then dismissed them with a perfunctory ‘Good night’ which still contained a note of surprise in it.

Closeted with Gently in his office, Stephens became apologetic. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he had made a gaffe and created a bad impression with Gently.

‘I can’t say how glad I am that you’ve taken it. I was dreading having to go there, treading in your footsteps…’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘It’s a relief, I can tell you. I expect you know that I’ve only had two cases out of town…’

In the end, Gently found himself quite liking this young man. He had a proper sense of his own inadequacies and an even properer respect for his elders and betters. An engaging young man — one who would probably go far! Gently began to feel an almost avuncular regard for him.

‘At Liverpool Street, then?’

It was past eight o’clock. In his satisfaction, Gently had not forgotten to phone Mrs Jarvis.

‘No — come to my place. We’ll drive down for a change.’

‘It’s Finchley, isn’t it — Elphinstow Road?’

It wouldn’t have surprised Gently even if Stephens had known the number.

After his office — bound routine of the last few months Gently was possessed of a guilty feeling, as though he were off on a secret spree. As he was shaving he made ridiculous faces in the mirror, and several times he caught himself grinning idiotically at nothing. A shadow had been lifted, the shadow of new responsibilities. Once more he was off on his own cherished authority. Like a virtuoso, who, for a time, has been obliged to assist the orchestra, he was released again to his independent rhapsodies.

‘And some they whistled, and some they sang.’

The most nonsensical of things kept running through his mind. At breakfast he astounded Mrs Jarvis by reciting a verse from a ballad, though why it should seem so apposite he couldn’t have explained, even to himself.

‘Are you going to be away for long, Superintendent?’

She regarded him, he noticed, with a blend of reproval and concern. Stephens, who arrived early, had brought an enormous suitcase with him. His face shone as though he had scrubbed it and he had recently clipped his small, downy moustache.

‘I’ve been thinking the case over…’

Gently gave him a cup of tea. In the morning papers, he had been glad to see, there had been no recurrence of the ‘calling the Yard’ theme. Their space had been largely given to the exhibition and to the mysterious picture. Handsome Hansom had had his photograph taken along with the Lord Mayor and Charles St John Mallows.