Alan Hunter - Gently With the Painters

‘Derek Johnson suspected you of killing his wife.’

‘If he did, then this is the first time I’ve heard about it.’

‘He got in touch with you yesterday before he left the city.’

‘My dear fellow, you’re talking moonshine. I haven’t spoken to him for days.’

‘He got in touch with you from his office, and this is the gist of the conversation. In acknowledgement of his keeping his mouth shut, you were to pay him a certain sum of money. I’d better inform you that I’ve had an opportunity of talking to Johnson — at this moment he is lying in the West County Hospital, at Fosterham.’

Not only Mallows but the others also sat up at this outrageous statement, rolled out as it was with the most stolid conviction. Until then Hansom had continued his investigation of Forensic Medicine, but now he shut the book with a bang, his eyes opening wide.

‘This is an astounding accusation!’

Mallows had flushed and was really angry: his big eyebrows lifted until they were nearly horizontal.

‘It’s not only astounding but untrue! I have had no communication with Johnson. If he says that I have, then bless my soul! The man is a psychopathic liar, and you can tell him I say so.’

‘Then you didn’t promise to pay him?’

‘I tell you again, I haven’t spoken to him!’

‘He had no money from you?’

‘Good lord! Am I going mad?’

‘You didn’t advise him to leave the country, undertaking to pay him ten thousand pounds?’

‘A little more of this, and I’m going to insist on having a lawyer!’

‘And yet you knew who received that letter?’

‘It was only a guess… must I keep on repeating it?’

Gently paused for an instant, a gleam in his eye: now he had produced a good working sweat! His next aim must be to keep it beading, to give Mallows no time to appreciate his tactics.

‘Where did you have lunch on Monday last?’

‘Monday… at home. I had lunch at home.’

‘You had lunch with Mrs Johnson.’

‘That’s untrue. Until the evening…’

‘According to witness you were seen coming out of Lyons with her.’

‘Not on that Monday…’

‘On that Monday! You went up The Walk with her and drove her off in your car. Johnson had been watching you, and he saw it too — so there doesn’t seem much to be gained by denying it.’

‘This is a fantastic perversion-!’

‘Shall I tell you what followed? You told her that you couldn’t pay her demands any longer. She’d been blackmailing you, hadn’t she? Threatened to cite you as co-respondent! And for a time, till she got greedy, you thought it was worth your while to pay her.’

‘You can’t believe this!’

‘Was she never in your studio?’

‘Yes, several times, but-’

‘You gave her that half-sheet of paper. You can’t buy it in this country and only you had a supply of it — and precisely the same sheet was used for the painting and the letter! How are you going to explain that?’

‘I don’t have to — I won’t explain it!’

‘Yet you knew who received that letter?’

‘For the last time — I guessed about it!’

Had the others got an inkling of what he was up to? Two of them, at least, must be spotting the chaff amongst the wheat. Walker, on the other hand, was not so conversant with the details; he might be a little surprised, but he was probably swallowing most of it.

Under the glare of the strip light, his face looked frowningly intent.

‘You were the last person to speak to her?’

‘Have I ever denied it?’

‘At lunchtime you called her bluff, and you were in purgatory until the evening. You hoped it would put a stop to her, that she would draw back from her threat — but she was determined, wasn’t she? In a few words, she confirmed it. So you followed her, trying to soothe her, telling her that after all you intended to pay — that the money was in the car, that the car was in the park-’

‘But it wasn’t, it was in the Haymarket!’

‘How many of your servants sleep in?’

‘Two-’

‘Above or below you?’

‘Above!’

‘So they wouldn’t hear you go out!’

All the time he kept the tone subdued, never allowing his voice to rise: his face was entirely flat and gave no hint of the feelings behind it. He was like some impassive robot drilled to destructive accusation, turning it, twisting it to an implacable purpose.

‘Last night you didn’t sleep much.’

‘I admit that. I had indigestion-’

‘During the evening you concocted that letter, not to warn Farrer, but to make him tremble. At two a.m. you crept out of your house, carrying the letter and one of the knives. Where do you say you lunched on Monday?’

‘At my house — the servants will tell you!’

‘Why was your car parked in the Haymarket?’

‘It couldn’t have been!’

‘So it was in the car park?’

‘No!’

‘Then where was your car? I thought you had decided it was in the Haymarket.’

‘If you’re talking about Monday evening-’

‘Yes, Monday evening. Where was it then?’

‘I can prove it was in the Haymarket!’

‘And of course, you knew who received that letter?’

Mallows threw up his hands in despair. He needed time to recover his balance. He wasn’t beaten — not yet; not by a long chalk he wasn’t! — but Gently had got him persistently moving in the wrong direction. He badly needed a break to discover the pattern of this ruthless treatment…

‘Didn’t you tell me that Farrer was a friend of yours?’

‘Yes… yes…’ Mallows strove to hold him off.

‘Goes to the same club — plays golf — exchanges visits?’

‘Yes… that’s right… I’ve met his family…’

‘And this is the way you treat a friend?’

‘What do you mean by that? I’ve always done my best-’

‘If the positions were reversed, would he have treated you like that?’

‘My dear fellow, regarding Farrer…’ Mallows broke off with a hunch of his shoulders.

‘You treated him shabbily! There’s no denying that. The whole trick was despicable, the product of an inferior mind. And you had the effrontery to admire it — to stand admiring those damaged pictures! In front of me, of all people, you showed the pleasure it gave you. There was a spectacle to arouse disgust and anger in the meanest of intellects, yet you, a distinguished artist, could only look about you and gloat…’

‘Gently Iscariot…!’ Mallows gave him a reproachful look, but Gently returned a marble stare and hurried on with his assault.

‘Getting back to fundamentals — how long had she been your mistress?’

‘I didn’t admit that she had-’

‘Oh? But we can produce several witnesses.’

‘I categorically deny it!’

‘That is your privilege, but the facts remain.’

‘We were friendly-’

‘So I understand — to the extent of her visiting you alone in your studio.’

‘Twice — three times she came to my studio!’

‘And after that she started the blackmail?’

‘There was no blackmail-’

‘We have evidence of that. And then again, you knew who received that letter…’

Two hours later it was still going on, in an atmosphere slowly thickening with tobacco smoke. Not once had Gently paused in his steady flood of accusation, and his low voice, varied only in tempo, seemed stamped on the character of the room. All of them were tiring except, apparently, Gently. The stenographer, who was only window dressing, had given up his pretence at scribbling. Hansom was studying the ceiling, his umpteenth cheroot in his mouth; Stephens kept smothering yawns, and Walker was frowning harder than ever.