Gently Floating (6 page)

He poured more whisky into the tumbler. He sipped a little, didn’t finish it. The corners of his mouth were still pulled. He looked up from under his brows at Gently.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘French didn’t like it. Told me to knock it off or he’d sack me. Harry was always threatening to sack people, that was one of his little ways.’

‘On Tuesday?’ Gently said.

‘Not only on Tuesday,’ Archer said.

‘But especially on Tuesday,’ Gently said.

Archer sipped some more whisky.

‘Now you’ve got a motive,’ he said. ‘Opportunity, motive. But just the same it’s bloody crazy, because Harry wouldn’t have sacked me. And how did I know where to find him, how did I know he was coming back to the office?’

‘That’s a question, isn’t it?’ Gently said. ‘Do you think someone might have phoned him?’

Archer drank. ‘You’re a clever bastard,’ he said. ‘Did you phone him?’ Gently said.

‘I didn’t phone him I didn’t see him I didn’t hit him,’ Archer said. ‘Look, I don’t go about killing people. I’m not the sort who goes about killing people. I never even thought of killing anyone. All I do is hit the bottle. I hit it on Tuesday and kept on hitting it. Try to get me for drunken driving.’

‘But somebody did kill him,’ Gently said.

‘If you want my idea, they didn’t,’ Archer said. ‘Not meaning to kill him, not like that. Not going after him to do him in.’

‘Then how was it done?’ Gently said.

Archer finished the whisky, poured some more. ‘Don’t think you’ve got me drunk,’ he said. ‘This stuff is mother’s milk to me.’

‘So how was it done?’ Gently said.

‘It’s up to you to find out, isn’t it?’ Archer said. ‘I don’t know who did it. I’ve thought about it. I don’t know of anybody who’d try to do for Harry. They might have said they would, but they wouldn’t, at the pinch. His son wouldn’t have done it. Murder’s rare in these parts.’

‘So,’ Gently said.

‘It was an accident,’ Archer said. He swilled the whisky around in his glass, watched it swilling while he spoke. ‘Harry was in one of his moods. He was a bastard when he was moody. Acted like people were muck, like his shit didn’t stink. And he was handing it to someone who couldn’t take it, who’d maybe had too much of Harry. And they let fly at him. And he went in. And they cast off the launch to try to cover up a bit. I’m bloody certain that’s the way it happened, it’s the only way that makes sense.’

Gently said: ‘They let fly at him.’

Archer drank. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘They were provoked, so they hit him,’ Gently said.

Archer just watched the whisky.

‘With a weapon,’ Gently said.

‘You think it was a hammer,’ Archer said.

‘Do you think it was a hammer?’ Gently said.

‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you,’ Archer said. He flicked a look at Gently that didn’t quite focus, dropped his eyes to the tumbler again. ‘They might’ve been fighting,’ he said. ‘Harry was a big man to fight with. Maybe they picked up a hammer to keep him off, and Harry wouldn’t keep off.’

‘There was a hammer handy on the river bank?’

‘Perhaps they were doing a job,’ Archer said.

‘Late at night in the dark?’ Gently said.

‘Or,’ Archer said, ‘it mightn’t have been a hammer.’

‘Not a hammer,’ Gently said.

Archer emptied the glass, smacked it down on the desk. ‘By Christ, I thought Harry was a bastard,’ he said to the tumbler. ‘Why me? Why am I landed in this shit?’

‘What was French doing back at the office that evening?’ Gently said.

‘Checking the books,’ Archer said. ‘I was swindling him, didn’t you know? How should I know why he came back to the office, I was over the bridge, I was drinking my supper.’

‘Could he have been looking for his son?’ Gently said.

‘Yes, blame the son,’ Archer said. ‘Why should I stand up for him, anyway? I’m no pals with young French, he skulks around like a pain in the neck. His father rowed him. Good motive. Do your Ogpu act with him.’

‘I’m told he was running after a woman,’ Gently said.

Archer went quite still, said nothing.

‘You know about that?’ Gently said.

‘Nobody told me,’ Archer said.

‘With,’ Gently said, ‘a woman of reputation. The wife of one of your yard-hands. Lidney.’

‘She’s got a reputation all right,’ Archer said. ‘Sid’s missus. Sid don’t care.’

‘But Harry French might have cared,’ Gently said.

Archer shook his head, staring at the tumbler.

‘I’m told he would have done,’ Gently said.

‘He wouldn’t have known, anyway,’ Archer said. ‘Nobody told Harry any gossip. I didn’t hear about it. He wouldn’t have done. And if he’d heard he wouldn’t have cared. It was coming into the business he rowed young French about.’

‘Suppose someone told him,’ Gently said.

Archer shook his head, drew breath through his lips. ‘Probably nothing in it anyway, just gossip,’ he said. ‘Harry wouldn’t have got stewed up about that.’

Gently said: ‘When French was missed you seemed to think he might have committed suicide. I’m told you searched the yard for him. What made you do that?’

‘Oh,’ Archer said. His eyes met Gently’s again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I got a feeling something was wrong. The way the office door wasn’t locked. That wasn’t like Harry. And he was human, he’d been fretting, ever since his missus died. Sometimes I was even sorry for him. I got a feeling, that’s all.’

‘How hard did those contracts hit him?’

‘He wasn’t ruined,’ Archer said. ‘Nothing like that. The trouble was inside. A bottle or a woman might have fixed him.’

His eyes went past Gently to the window, the window where the blind wasn’t drawn. Gently turned his head. A man stood squinting at the window. The man was humpty and wore dungarees. Archer half rose.

‘That’s Sid,’ he said. ‘He’s got a new job. He’ll be wanting instructions.’

‘Sid Lidney?’ Gently said.

‘Yes, the one with the wife,’ Archer said. ‘I’ve made him in charge of boat’s furniture.’

Gently looked at Lidney. Lidney turned away. Archer frowned.

‘I’d better talk to young French,’ Gently said. ‘Is he at the yard today?’

‘I’ll have him fetched,’ Archer said.

Gently said: ‘Don’t bother. I’ll find him.’

Thus: Gently searched for John French in the dry boathouses and the wet boathouses; in the building shops, in the engineering shops, in the smith’s shop, in the joiner’s shop; in the rigger’s shop, in the varnishing shop, in the boat’s furniture and a number of other shops; in the timber store, in the paint store, in the fittings store and in the sail loft; in all which he took great interest, but in none of which he found John French. As he was leaving the reception office, where John French also was not, a Wolseley drove on to the cindered parking area and Parfitt got out.

‘Morning sir,’ Parfitt said.

‘Morning,’ Gently said. ‘Drop the sir.’

‘I’ve been talking to the River Police,’ Parfitt said. ‘I got on to them last night like you told me. They’ve turned up some witnesses at Harning, the people on
Vestella 7.
Name Clifford, come from Coventry, two couples and a kid.’

‘What did they see?’ Gently said.

‘They saw Harry French,’ Parfitt said. ‘Anyway, they saw the launch leave and head upstream. They couldn’t see who was in it, of course. They were moored opposite, further down, on a bit of soft rond round the corner. They’d been to the fair. They were just walking back. They’d let the kid stop at the fair till ten p.m. They’d been up Hickstead way all the weekend and had just come down on the Tuesday. Hard evidence. It all clicks.’

‘Coming to the evidence,’ Gently said.

‘Yes,’ Parfitt said, ‘all five of them saw it. The old boy Clifford is a regular Broadsgoer and hot about the rules of navigation. So he sees this launch without any lights creeping away from French’s quay, and he has a bind about it to the others, and they all take notice. A varnished or dark-painted launch around eighteen feet long. No lights. Just the driver. Going up very quietly through the bridge. The River Police have taken the statements. The Cliffords are handing over tomorrow. They’re making their way back to Hofton; we can pick them up with a launch if you like.’

‘Have you brought the statements?’ Gently said.

‘They’re coming,’ Parfitt said. ‘I had the info on the phone. The patrol rang us from Harning.’

‘I’ll see the statements,’ Gently said. ‘Doesn’t sound as though much can be added to them. But they’re a break all right. We’re beginning to know where we are.’

‘Me, I was out of my depth,’ Parfitt said. ‘That’s about where I was. And the body found up there too, as though the facts weren’t clear enough.’

‘In Speltons’ slipway,’ Gently said. ‘When the bank up that way is fretted with cuttings.’

Parfitt looked at him. ‘Christ, yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’ve been using for brains. All those cuts are flotsam traps. The body couldn’t have got far from where it went in.’

‘And it fetched up in the lowest of them,’ Gently said. ‘Except for French’s half-decker boathouse.’

‘Speltons’ quay,’ Parfitt said.

‘There or somewhere just above it,’ Gently said.

Parfitt stared hard at Gently.

‘I want you to take the Club launch,’ Gently said.
‘White Heron,
she’s moored by the bridge, I’ve got the use of her while I’m here. Take her up through the bridge and prowl along both banks. See what you can find, witnesses, indications. Tomorrow is hand-over day. We haven’t a lot of time to do it.’

‘I’ll handle it,’ Parfitt said. ‘I’ve brought Joyce with me. He can do some leg work.’

‘Send him higher up,’ Gently said. ‘We’re not so sure of ourselves yet. But you stick to the first two hundred yards. I’ve a feeling it was somewhere there.’

‘Me too,’ Parfitt said. ‘Have you had any luck here, sir?’

‘Drop the sir,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve been watching the manager drink whisky. Now I want to talk to the son, but I don’t seem able to ferret him out.’

‘Have you tried the
Kiama?’
Parfitt said.

‘No,’ Gently said. ‘What’s the
Kiama?’

Parfitt turned, pointed to a plot of land which lay behind the building shops. A long black yacht-hull stood on the plot, shored up with oil drums and timber packing. It had a straight stem and a counter stern and there was carving on the counter which had traces of gilding. A very long bowsprit projected over its stem. The oil drums were nested in a bed of nettles.

‘That’s the
Kiama,’
Parfitt said. ‘She was a famous boat in my father’s day. Now she’s pulled out there to rot and all the yard-hands do their scrounging on her.’

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Gently said.

‘Damn all, probably,’ Parfitt said. ‘But all the big yachts like her are finished. No room any more. Listen behind you.’

From behind them, from the river, came the surges of many engines and the wash of turbulent water and the creak of boats at moorings.

The
Kiama
had a delicate sheer line and her bilge was turned like a woman’s cheek.

Gently went over to the
Kiama,
climbed the ladder which lay against her counter. From the ladder he stepped on to a planked deck and from the deck over a coaming into her well. The saloon doors stood open and her big hatch was pushed back and in the saloon a young man was standing with a closed book in one hand. The young man had brown eyes and the brown eyes were fixed on Gently. The brown eyes were close together and the face and the skull were both narrow. The head was set flush on the shoulders with a very short neck and the head was highest at the back and the ears were large though flat. The nose was large. The complexion was fresh. The mouth was handsome but small. The chin was small also. The young man had good shoulders. He was wearing a coffee-coloured sports shirt and dark brown slacks and Magister yacht shoes and a gold wristwatch. The book was Thomas Carew’s
Poems.
He was holding it with a finger in his place. He said:

‘Who are you – what are you after?’

‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D.,’ Gently said. He stepped down into the saloon, stood leaning in the hatchway. The saloon of the
Kiama
had less than full standing headroom. ‘You’re John French,’ Gently said.

‘All right, suppose I am,’ John French said. ‘What do you want now?’

‘Just to talk to you,’ Gently said. ‘Sit down again. This place will do. It’ll probably do better than the office.’

John French hesitated, sat. His large ears had become red. He sat on one of the wide settee-berths which ran down each side of the
Kiama’s
saloon. Each of the settee-berths was a double and at the end of each was a large sideboard locker and because the berths were so wide they were equipped with settee-backs which slotted into the lockers and the after bulkhead. The saloon coamings had oval windows with sliding panes and faded rep curtains. The bulkheads and lockers were of panelled mahogany and the coamings were of plain mahogany. The roof and its beams were white-enamelled. Brass oil lamps were gimballed over the lockers. A drop-leaf mahogany table furnished the cabin sole which was covered with buff lino protected by brass strip. Gently sat on the settee-berth opposite to John French. It was very warm in the saloon of the
Kiama.

‘What – why do you want to talk to me?’ John French said.

‘I’ve read your statement,’ Gently said.

John French looked at the book, which he’d closed up. ‘What about my statement?’ he said.

‘It’s not too convincing,’ Gently said. ‘And it leaves out one or two matters that interest us. Like how you managed to sail so far after the wind died on Tuesday. And what your conversation with your father was about over breakfast on that day. Perhaps some other small points.’

‘There was plenty of wind on Tuesday,’John French said.

‘Not according to Mr Willard,’ Gently said. ‘He’s your county meteorologist. He recorded a light variable southerly airstream until the early afternoon, then a similar north-easterly sea breeze which faded out during the evening.’

‘You can’t go on that stiff,’John French said.

‘It seems reasonably authentic,’ Gently said.

‘You wouldn’t sail at all if you depended on that,’John French said. ‘There was some wind. I had enough.’