Alan Hunter - Gently With the Painters

‘Calling car ex-two… he’d be dead if he hadn’t.’

‘Calling car ex-seven… yeah, I see your point.’

Gently turned his head, concealing his smile from Stephens. The two of them were ganging up in their desire to whitewash Johnson! And in both cases it seemed to be his cool head that impressed them, though logically it was a factor which should stand in his disfavour. What was the process by which the logical suddenly collapsed and committed suicide — what was the mechanism of secret judgement which could destroy the pretensions of thought?

He paused, seeming once again on the threshold of revelation, for wasn’t it thus that he always proceeded, checking logic by that inner judgement? It was the product, he suddenly saw, of his continuous stream of observation, a perpetual record of fact too huge and complete to be fully conscious. And so, detached from that stream, he had found his desk-work intolerable, he had been set to make bricks with only the vestiges of straw. For he was not a thinking man, but an artist pursuing a truth: in a way Mallows had been right. Gently was a sham as a policeman.

‘Car ex-seven calling car ex-two…’

What had he been going to say to Hansom? It had gone clean out of his head…

They were in Fosterham by nine, travelling this time less sensationally. The ambulance clanged them through the town and into the yard of the red-brick hospital. Gently was out of the Wolseley directly, pushing through the swing doors labelled RECEPTION. Beyond them he found an aseptic-looking hall in which were mingled the smells of ether and floor polish.

‘Superintendent Gently, CID… I’d like to speak to the doctor in charge of Casualties.’

‘The doctor is busy just now, I’m afraid. If you’ll wait in the office I’ll tell him you’re here.’

She was a hard-eyed ward sister who quizzed Gently with disapproval; she went, nevertheless, to execute the errand. Gently stood in the doorway of the office and watched the attendants unload Johnson — he was conscious, though drowsy, and tried to wink as he was carried past. Anne Butters had been crying, but was not crying now. She walked with one hand on the stretcher, very erect, her chin in the air.

As they approached the door to Casualties they met the doctor coming out — a tall, youngish-looking man, who gave an exclamation of surprise.

‘Anne! Well, I’m blowed! What on earth are you doing here?’

Quickly she tugged on his arm, jerking her head towards Gently. It was all over in a moment: with a significant nod, he hustled them through. Gently, racing to push in after them, found his passage barred by the ward sister.

‘I’m sorry, Superintendent, but you can’t come in here.’

‘It’s extremely important that I speak to the doctor!’

‘He knows you are here and he will see you in a minute. As usual on Sundays, we are having a busy time.’

Short of brushing her aside physically, there was nothing that he could do about it. He stood glaring impotently at the door which even policemen couldn’t open. In a couple of minutes the doctor came out again, but those minutes had done the damage; his gaunt young face was earnestly determined, and he put finality into his tone:

‘There is very little use in your waiting, Superintendent. I cannot permit the patient Johnson to be seen again today.’

‘Are his injuries so serious?’

‘That we’ll know when we’ve seen the X-ray. I assure you there’s no point in your waiting any longer.’

‘And that applies to Miss Butters?’

‘She is suffering from delayed shock.’

‘Couldn’t it be delayed a little longer?’

‘I will not take that suggestion seriously…’

Looking indignant, the doctor turned to go back into Casualties, but he was prevented by a hand placed firmly on his arm.

‘Into the office, my lad! This isn’t as simple as you seem to think. There’s a little more hangs to it than your playing the Sir Galahad…’

Colouring, the doctor allowed himself to be conducted into the office. Gently closed the glass-panelled door, and finding no bolt, set his shoulder against it.

‘Now! This is a case of murder, if you’re slow at cottoning on.’

‘I am perfectly aware of that-’

‘Good. I’ll try to enlighten you a bit further.

‘You realize what has happened when a man commits homicide? In the first place, to do it, he’s crossed the border of normality. Then, having done it, he’s in arms against society — all other criminals have their friends, but the murderer stands alone.

‘He’s in arms against society! There’s nothing still remaining sacred. He will kill again, or destroy, doing whatever seems to give him an advantage. And the murderer we are dealing with has begun his career of violence — with him, the murder was a point of departure, not a culminating act.

‘He’s more than the average killer — he’s a man in the throes of a primary breakdown; still able to counterfeit normality, but in a state of moral collapse. And if my surmise is correct then Johnson can help me to identify him — tonight, in all probability, before he has a chance to do more damage.

‘So now you know where you stand. I’m putting the responsibility on you. Either you let me talk to Johnson, or what may happen will rest on your shoulders.’

The doctor, listening sullenly at first, became by degrees more thoughtful; then he gave Gently a curious, half wondering look.

‘How long will it take?’

‘At the outside, five minutes.’

‘Come on then. We thought you were going to shove handcuffs on the bloke.’

Johnson was lying on a couch and he still appeared drowsy, but he was mumbling something to Anne Butters, who sat holding his hand. Seeing Gently with the doctor she rose angrily to her feet, but the latter made her a sign and then whispered:

‘It’s all right!’

Unwillingly she stood back and permitted Gently to take the chair. Johnson turned his head slightly, his eyes questioning Gently.

‘How are you feeling now, Johnson?’

‘Doped… and damned glad of it! Couldn’t you wait a bit, cocker… let them set this bastard?’

‘There’s some questions I have to ask you.’

‘Whacko!.. I knew it…’

‘I want to know what you did after you sold your car last night.’

Johnson frowned, though whether from pain it wasn’t easy to decide. There were deep creases about his eyes and a square set to his mouth.

‘What do you want to know… about that?’

‘Everything. All you can remember.’

‘I tried to get Anne on the phone… twice… wanted to tell her where to find me.’

‘Did you get through to her?’

‘No… this morning… when they went to church… reckoned that would be the time.’

‘What else did you do?’

‘I can’t remember… went to the flicks.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Damn! High Street… Cary Grant in a horse opera.’

‘And after that?’

‘I went to bed.’

‘Where? Where did you spend the night?’

‘What does it matter? I don’t know!.. Bed and brekker in Church Street…’

‘What was the name of the people?’

‘Blast it, cocker… have a heart! Got a knocker like a horseshoe… remember that, it’s why I went there…’

He was frowning more and more, and the doctor shook his head at Gently. Anne Butters, as though taking a cue, began decorously to weep. Gently shrugged and rose to his feet:

‘I’d like to use your phone, if I may…’

‘You’ll find one in the office — now, I must really get him to Radiology.’

Gently’s first call was to Headquarters where he made an unexpected connection — Superintendent Walker, who had heard news of Johnson’s capture. The city police chief had driven in from his house on the outskirts, and was now waiting impatiently to learn the sensational details.