Gently Down the Stream (11 page)

But that was where the picture went hazy. For the life of him, Gently couldn’t fill in the next bit. If she’d been attacked between the wherry and Thatcher’s boat, where was the blood? If she’d been enticed to a distance first, how could four people have heard the fizzing of that silenced .22 Beretta? And if, for some inscrutable reason, she had gone to the bows of the wherry … right above Pedro’s head … and been cleanly bowled off into the Dyke, why no splash?

Once she was dead, the picture grew clear again – at least, the picture of what had happened: the motive wasn’t quite so obvious. Her body had been lowered into a dinghy, the dinghy had been pushed out to the stream-side of the wherry and the body noiselessly jettisoned. So it wouldn’t be found too quickly …? That was just possible. If that were the reason, then it
was necessary to jettison the body towards the middle of the Dyke, since it ran shallow near the bank.

But where was the blood … where was the blood?

Shaking his head, Gently explored the whole length of the bank, his eye fixed now on the grass, now on the decrepit collection of dinghies belonging to the various boats. The most suspect was Annie’s own, moored between the wherry’s bows and the bank. But like the others it showed nothing more sinister than certain years of undisturbed grime.

‘Here, bor … dew yew come an have a look at this!’

It was Thatcher, who, quietly satisfying his curiosity about Annie’s wherry, had poked his nose into a cardboard box he had found lying with other junk on the cabin-top.

‘What is it … the crown jewels?’

‘No … but it might blodda-well buy a set!’

Gently stepped aboard and went over to him. The old sinner’s eyes were almost staring out of his head. Packed in the box, and completely filling it, were ten crisp bundles of one-pound notes … bundles which an experienced eye would estimate at a hundred apiece. And on the lid of the box was written in sprawling block letters: For Annie’s kids.

‘Blast!’ barked Thatcher. ‘Cor rudda blast!’

And it was not, Gently felt, putting it too strongly.

They found him a sheet of brown-paper in which to wrap the box. The box itself was easily identified. It had been taken from the communal rubbish-heap and was a shoe-box which had been discarded by one of the river-
dwellers. Thatcher watched him mournfully as he tied the package up.

‘I ’spose them kids aren’t never goin to see that again.’

Gently shrugged. ‘If my guess is right this money has been stolen.

‘But dew your guess is wrong, what happen to it then?’

‘That’s a nice point of law … I don’t think I’m qualified to answer it.’

‘That must be wunnerfiul to be a copper an turn up evidence like this here!’

Gently tucked the package under his arm and went down the wherry’s plank. At the rubbish-heap he paused, measuring distances with his eye. Then he stooped and picked up something. It was a tiny tube wrapped in gold foil.

‘Blast!’ exclaimed the disgusted Thatcher. ‘He’s even pickin’ gold sovereigns off our blodda rubbish dump!’

A
N EXUBERANT DUTT had ridden in with the first load of the super’s search-party. He found Gently picking at his lunch in Mrs Grey’s parlour and wearing the wooden expression which told of much and significant ratiocination. In front of him on the table lay the little gold-wrapped tube, one end closed, one end ragged. It appeared to be filled with a darkish, greasy substance.

‘Here we are, sir. How are things at your end?’

Gently grunted over a forkful of salad.

‘I’ve bought a new corpse and been torn off a strip!’

‘Yessir.’ Dutt curbed his enthusiasm. ‘I heard all about it up at H.Q., sir. Flippin’ cheek it was, popping the old girl off right under our bedroom window. And why didn’t we hear the shot, sir – that’s what I can’t make out!’

‘A “Parker-Hale”, Dutt.’

‘You got the gun, sir?’

‘No … but I’ve got four witnesses and they all describe the same thing.’

Dutt whistled softly. ‘But how did he get hold of that, sir …?’

‘I don’t know, Dutt, unless he picked up one second-hand and screwed the barrel himself.’

‘He’d need tools, sir.’

‘There’s a set of dies in the garage.’

‘Then you reckon it
was
Hicks?’

‘No, Dutt. It might have been anyone. Lammas might have fitted one himself without knowing he ought to have his licence endorsed.’

‘All the same, sir … it doesn’t half point towards the shover.’

Dutt brooded a few moments to show a proper respect for the problem, but he was obviously impatient to impart his own especial findings.

‘Well sir, I takes a squint at the corpse on account of you hadn’t seen it, but what I really has to tell you—’

‘You’ve seen the corpse, Dutt?’

‘Yessir. Bullet went clean through, forehead to top-back. But—’

‘Anything strike you about the night-dress?’

‘No sir, ’cept a bit might’ve been torn off the hem—’

‘Ah!’ The far-away look came into Gently’s eye. ‘I’d just got round to that angle when you came in …! Now just hold on a minute, Dutt – I’ll be right back with you!’

And still clutching his fork, he dived out of the room.

Dutt sighed and cut himself a generous slice of pork-pie. There were times when his senior was a little less than appreciative.

The fork was still in Gently’s hand when he returned
ten minutes later, but in his other hand he now held a sodden strip of rayon.

‘There! Would that be the bit torn off the hem?’

‘Yessir. Daresay it would. It’s the same material.’

‘Exactly, Dutt … and it answers a pressing question. He’d had the corpse in a dinghy at one stage and that corpse would have bled. But it wouldn’t have bled with a bandage tied round its head … that’s why I can’t find any blood in the dinghies. At the same time, it must have bled somewhere before he bandaged it … and then again, why should he bother about the blood …?’

‘Yessir. Very true, sir.’

There was a plaintive note in Dutt’s voice that succeeded in penetrating Gently’s abstraction. He grinned at the sergeant’s expression of injury.

‘All right … let’s have the story.’

‘Ho, hit will wait, sir. I ham a bit peckish.’

‘Go on, you old so-and-so!’

‘Don’t want to hinterrupt your cogitations …’

He thawed out, however, as he remembered the glowing details of his discoveries. Fortune had smiled on Dutt in his investigations at the bus station. At first it looked like being a frost. The conductor who had been on the six-twenty bus from Halford remembered nobody of Linda Brent’s description, neither did an inspector who had got on down the road. Dutt had persisted with odd members of the station staff who might have seen the passengers leave the bus, but he got precious little encouragement until he chanced to see a Wrackstead bus pull in. And there he struck oil. Because
the romantic young conductor cherished a secret passion for Pauline Lammas and her unexpected presence on the six-fifteen on Friday lingered sweetly in his memory.

‘Saw the whole thing, he did!’ related Dutt excitedly. ‘Couldn’t want a better witness, sir. When they comes in after a run they goes and gets their money and tickets checked in a glass-fronted booth affair, and Miss Pauline, she goes and stands in the bay right next door. Of course, this charlie keeps his mince-pies on her, and being as how there was a couple of blokes ahead of him, he’s still there when the Halford bus gets in. And sure enough there’s a fancy dark piece gets off it with her baggage. Up goes Miss Pauline and helps her off with her things, then she fishes in her bag and hands something over.

‘And this is the juicy bit, sir – he saw what it was! ‘It was a Yale-type key on a ring with a white tag.’

‘A Yale-type key …!’ Dutt had the pleasure of at last seeing his senior sit up and take notice. ‘And what does that suggest, Dutt?’

‘Well sir – after giving the matter me best attention–’

‘Go on, Dutt.’

‘It occurs to me, sir, that Mr Lammas couldn’t have had any hideaway like Hinspector Hansom was led to believe.’

‘You mean that otherwise there would have been no need for Linda Brent to collect a key from Miss Lammas.’

‘Well, would she, sir? Mr Lammas would’ve give it to her himself. But no – she has to pick it up! So we deduces that the key wasn’t available when Mr Lammas
sets out on the preceding Saturday, but was so on the Friday. And from that we further deduces that it’s the key to a rented property, and that Miss Pauline knows where Miss Brent is at this living minute!’

Gently nodded soberly. ‘And we also deduces something else – that wherever Lammas went on his mid-week trips, it wasn’t to prepare and furnish a hideaway.’

Dutt wriggled impatiently. ‘She might know a whole lot else, sir!’

‘She might, Dutt, and she might not. Don’t forget that she’s on her father’s side in this. If she knew enough to put the finger on someone there’s no reason to suppose she wouldn’t do it … even if it were someone in the family.’

‘But she must know all about what Mr Lammas was going to do, sir. If we crack into her now she may come across, and then if we can pick up Miss Brent …’

‘Perhaps, Dutt, perhaps. Did your platform Romeo notice what happened to Miss Lammas and Miss Brent after the key was passed?’

‘Yessir, in a manner of speaking. They goes off down the station to where there’s three or four buses parked and Miss Lammas sees Miss Brent into one of them.’

‘You checked where they were going?’

‘Of course, sir, automatic. One was going to Cheapham, one to Summerton and one to Sea Weston.’

‘Cheapham and Sea Weston!’ Gently stared in surprise. ‘That’s a fascinating set of buses, Dutt …! But it gives us two to one on the coast. If I were a betting
man I’d take odds on Linda Brent being tucked away in a seaside bungalow, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yessir. Now, do we pull in Miss Pauline …?’

Gently considered at length over the strawberries he was dipping in sugar. All the time his eyes were fixed on that diminutive foil-wrapped tube.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll trouble Miss Pauline at the present juncture.’

‘But if we can find Miss Brent—!’

‘That’s a job for you.’

‘For me, sir?’ goggled Dutt.

‘Yes – you’re specializing in this angle! Go back into town and beat around the estate-agents. Try the ones near Lammas’ office for a start and then work outwards. Names won’t be important, but dates and people will. You’re looking for a rented furnished property, probably in the Summerton-Sea Weston area, let as from Friday, key picked up by a certain young female … say Friday lunch-time. It’s mere routine, Dutt.’

Dutt groaned and rolled his eyes pitifully.

‘Also, you can take this stuff in for checking …’ Gently waved to the tube, his package and the strip of rayon, ‘… me, I feel a poetic mood coming on.’

‘You feel a
whatter
, sir?’

‘A poetic mood, Dutt. I feel it’s time that Mr Paul and myself got down to a session of mutual illumination.’

The drowsy brilliance of the hot June afternoon seemed made to display the charm of ‘Willow Street’. White walls under crisp reed thatch, ebony columns of timber, lattice-windows open wide, it nestled like a rare bird on
the dipping slope as Gently swung out of the rhododendrons and braked to a stop. Around it the willows hung, completely still. The air itself seemed trembled to a stillness. Only a swallow-tail butterfly sailed, regal and self-assured, to disturb the spellbound sun-hush.

The gardener appeared from somewhere, roused by the sound of the car pulling up. He was a cadaverous, elderly man clad in a collarless twill shirt, black waistcoat and grey Derby trousers. Gently nodded and he came over.

‘Anybody at home?’

‘W’yes – no … I don’t rightla know.’

He turned about to peer into the open garage, which was empty except for an expensive-looking motorcycle.

‘Daresay the missus have gone to Narshter – tha’s her day for it. Miss Pauline, I can’t answer for. Mr Paul, he’s fishin’ in the broad, dew yew want him.’

‘Whereabouts in the broad?’

‘W’now, how should I know that? Yew’ll ha’ to go an see.’

‘Can I borrow a boat?’

‘There’s plenta in the boot-house.’

Gently shrugged and locked the Wolseley, but as the gardener turned away he asked:

‘You weren’t here last night, I suppose?’

‘Ah. I was pickin black currants an’ one thing another.’

‘Did you notice anyone go out?’

‘I hear Mr Paul go off, tha’s all.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘W’ … about eight o’clock time.’

‘And when did he come back?’

‘Not while I was here, an that was nigh on ten.’

The house was so silent as Gently went by that it might have stood empty for a century. Every window was open, every door ajar. He could hear an alarm clock ticking as he passed below the kitchen. Rounding the corner, however, he nearly tripped over the lumpish-faced maid. She was lying in the sun with her skirt pulled back, and jumped up indignantly at Gently’s sudden appearance.

‘I neffer did – and what are we to be expecting next, I should like to know!’

‘Don’t let me disturb your siesta!’ Gently forced back an impish grin.

‘Come into people’s private gardens – sneak up on them from behind—!’

‘I’m only going to borrow a boat. There’s no need for you to get up.’

The maid shook herself like an outraged hen and followed him into the boat-house. It was a big, gloomy place, lit only from the entrance, and extending under at least half of the building above. It smelled sweetly of naked timber and floating oil. In the basin surrounded by a splined platform lay a husky-looking teak launch, one of the local Class half-deckers, a National, a pair of skiffs and a dinghy. Gently selected the dinghy and stepped into it with the confidence of one not unfamiliar with the habits of small boats.

‘What time did Mr Paul get in last night?’

The maid pouted at him defiantly.

‘I suppose he did get in before you went to bed …?’

‘Oh yes he did, Mr Nosey, and not so late either, it was.’

‘What excuse did he give for going out again?’

‘Who said he went out again, after I took him his malted milk in bed, too!’

Gently pulled loose the painter and pushed himself out of the boat-house with a scull.

The broad at this end had an air of exclusiveness contributed to by a number of rush and reed islands. These not only served as a screen but also deterred the near approach of the thronging holiday-craft. In the secret waterways between them flourished superb water-lilies, while there was an air of tameness about the population of coots, water-hens and great-crested grebes. Gently surveyed these fastnesses with a jaundiced eye. He was suddenly struck with the size of the task of finding one particular human being, even on a medium size broad.

But the luck of good detectives was with him. Paul Lammas had not ventured far on that blazing afternoon. Two hundred yards from the boat-house Gently perceived the bows of a dinghy sticking out past a tangle of rushes. Rowing a little nearer, he could see a fishing-rod and the tip of a stationary float. A little nearer still and Paul came into view. He was lying on cushions in the back of the dinghy, head cradled in his arms, staring into the blue of the sky. Gently let his own boat glide silently in and bump against the other.

‘That’s a fine way to catch fish!’

Paul started forward out of whatever dream he was in.

‘You …!’

There was something terribly feminine about his delicate features and fine, soft hair. Today he was wearing a fawn linen shirt and grey-green slacks, his jacket lying rolled in the bows. Feminine … but with a difference.

‘Why have you come here looking for me?’

Gently shipped his sculls without replying and grabbed himself a handful of reeds around which to loop his painter. Paul watched him fiercely.

‘I wanted to be alone … surely that was clear enough?’

‘They told me you were fishing.’

‘I am – and I want to fish alone!’

Gently grinned and settled himself with his pipe.

‘There isn’t any bait on that hook, for a start … mind if I have a look? Then again, if you got on the shady side of these reeds …’

‘What is it you want – you haven’t come here to teach me how to fish!’

Gently nodded and applied himself to Paul’s rod and tackle. He was probably fishing too shallow – the float could go up a bit! And one caught precious little with a piece of weed for bait.

Paul was sitting up straight now. He was staring at Gently with an expression of mingled anger and apprehension.

‘If you think I’ve got anything to tell you, then you’re very much mistaken!’

‘What’s in that tin … maggots?’

‘I tell you you’re wasting your time!’

‘Let’s try a cast over here, where there’s a bit of shade.’

Furious, Paul bit his small mouth together and sat watching while Gently made a cast. Now he’d got that rod in his hand, the man from the Central Office seemed to be forgetting him entirely.

‘Look … I knew that was the place to try.’

The float was shuddering excitedly.