Gently to the Summit csg-9 Read online

  ‘It came up one day through something in the paper. Gertie says to me, “Look. Here’s a picture of your ma’s old man.” It was in one of them Sunday papers, a bit about some people climbing Everest.’

  ‘And you got in touch with him when you heard he was alive?’

  ‘Naow! Why should I? Nothink to me, he wasn’t.’

  ‘He was trying to find his wife. You could have told him what happened to her.’

  ‘So what? I’m one of those what keeps meself to meself.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself from the time you were left with Gertie.’

  She’d been with Gertie until she was sixteen. She said that distinctly, pausing after it. Before then she’d been to school, ‘just one of them schools down in Maida.’ At the age of fifteen she’d gone to work in an office, the address of which she succeeded in giving, but the boss was for ever making passes at her so she thought she’d better leave. Then she’d got tangled up with a boyfriend — after her sixteenth birthday, of course — and she’d gone to live with him in Kilburn, where he rented a flat in Crossgrove Road. Here she’d become an ‘artist’s model’, the career which she was now complacently following.

  ‘Does it pay you?’ Gently asked cynically.

  ‘I’m not one as talks about me private affairs. But I will say this, I’m not a pauper, nor I’m never short of a quid. Which is more than you can say for some women with their la-di-da airs.’

  So there it was, take it or leave it; and, strangely enough, it carried a wistful conviction. It didn’t conflict with what he’d learned from Mrs Askham except in the matter of Davies, her housekeeper. Davies must have noticed that Paula Kincaid was pregnant, though it didn’t follow automatically that she would tell her mistress. But for the rest the account tallied, it offered a logical development; without betraying a suspicious knowledge it succeeded in being quite credible.

  Or did it deal just a shade hardly with the character of Mrs Kincaid: was it acceptable that she should make the swift descent from social secretary to prostitute? Possibly there… possibly not. She’d been going downhill with Askham.

  ‘Have you any trinkets of your mother’s. Any jewellery, photographs?’

  ‘She was blitzed, I keep telling you. I ain’t got nothing at all.’

  ‘What name do you go under with your friends?’

  She stared hard for a second. ‘Paula, of course. And sometimes Phyllis… it really depends on who I’m with.’

  ‘Why Phyllis?’

  ‘I told you. It’s a name I calls meself.’

  ‘Why do you call yourself that to friends?’

  ‘I don’t much. Just sometimes.’

  ‘What name does your landlord know you by?’

  ‘Well… Phyllis, I’m Phyllis to him.’

  ‘Yet that’s the name you’ve been convicted under?’

  ‘Aow, I don’t know! I just use it…’

  Gently nodded with profundity and struck a fresh light for his pipe. Evans re-entered; from behind Miss Kincaid’s back he gave Gently a broad wink. Gently puffed.

  ‘Very well, Miss Kincaid. It was kind of you to call in. Now if you’ll leave your name and address I don’t think we’ll need to detain you.’

  ‘You mean I can go now?’ She looked both relieved and surprised. ‘It’s all right, ain’t it?’

  ‘Quite all right. And you can depend on the credit you deserve.’

  Her smile was doubtful, but she flashed one. She hastily gave the required particulars. Evans, sauntering over to the window, was quietly whistling ‘Men of Harlech’.

  ‘Now can I go?’

  ‘Now you can go.’

  ‘It seemed half as though she didn’t want to. But at last she made up her mind and rose, and minced bobbingly over to the door. Evans came across and lowered himself on to the desk. He tapped a cigarette. He tilted his head as he lit it.

  ‘And what do we know now, man?’

  Gently stretched himself, eased backwards. ‘Quite a lot, man. And I think we’ll know a lot more before long.’

  ‘You’re not mourning Mrs Kincaid?’

  ‘It was a terrible business, that blitz was.’

  ‘You’re telling me. I’m glad we never had such a thing in Caernarvon.’

  They smoked; Gently his pipe, Evans a couple of cigarettes. Twenty minutes ticked by in pleasurable meditation. County Hall looked a mansion of stars against the darkening, sullen sky, and the Thames observed its tides invisibly except for occasional wavering flashes. Then the phone rang.

  ‘Dutt reporting, sir. I’ve got chummie under surveillance. He’s sitting in a cafe in Villiers Street. He’s just ordering a pot of tea.’

  ‘Where did you pick him up, Dutt?’

  ‘By the RAF Memorial, sir. He was sitting there in a parked car, a red M.G., of which I’ve taken the number. She went straight up to it and got in with him.’

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Yessir. He gave her some notes. Then he drove to Villiers Street and parked, and she walked off while he went into the cafe. I’m watching him now: I’m in the box across the street.’

  ‘Who is he, Dutt?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Nobody we’ve had dealings with. He’s young and fair-ish, around five foot nine, slim build, good looks, wearing a mid-grey lounge suit and a red tie. Prosperous-looking, I’d say, sir.’

  Gently nodded to himself. ‘Well, pull him in, Dutt. Right away. You can tell him he’s wanted for questioning.’

  ‘And if he gives any trouble, sir?’

  ‘Charge him with conspiring to obstruct the police. And Dutt-’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘Don’t lose him. He’s worth his weight in Welsh griffins.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Slim build, good looks, and wearing a mid-grey lounge suit. Dutt, with a flair for the dramatic entrance, had brought his man straight up. And he was an angry young man; his aspect was far from being guilty. He strode threateningly into the room with green eyes seeking whom they could devour. He settled for Gently.

  ‘I’d like to know the meaning of this — this illegal act of detention. I’m going to make such a stink that there’ll be a public inquiry!’

  ‘Sit down, Mr… who is it?’

  ‘I’m not going to sit down. I want an explanation, this instant, of why I’ve been seized and dragged in here!’

  He smote the desk with his fist. He was an exceedingly angry young man. His age was one- or two-and-twenty and he had a faint moustache on his lip. His hair was very light brown with a side parting and a droop, his skull was round, his ears small, his nose round-tipped, his lips full. He had a determined cleft chin and his slim build was athletic. Though so angry, his voice retained elements of a public-school drawl.

  ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with it. You’ve picked on the wrong person for that. I’m not a nobody, I can tell you. I can make people of your sort jump through hoops.’

  ‘Then would you mind confounding us with your name?’

  ‘You see? You don’t even know it! You arrest somebody in a public place without even knowing their name. Just let me use that phone for a second.’

  ‘You’ll be allowed to use it if we detain you.’

  ‘I’ll use it now. I want my solicitor. And just you try to detain Henry Askham.’

  Gently’s brows lifted. ‘Is that your name? Henry Askham?’

  ‘Henry Askham. Who did you think I was — some Cockney wide-boy of your acquaintance? I tell you now-’

  ‘Mrs Askham’s son?’

  ‘Yes. Yes! How many more times?’

  ‘You will kindly sit down, Mr Askham.’

  ‘Only after I’ve used this phone!’

  He made a grab for it, but Dutt was there first; he quietly pinioned the young man’s arms. Askham struggled viciously and lashed out with his heels, but he was merely a child in the grip of the sergeant.

  ‘If you don’t take your hands off, I’ll charge you with assault!’

  Gently m
otioned with his head and Dutt forcibly seated his charge. Then after a warning pause he released him and stepped back from the chair. Askham glared whole armouries at Gently, but he didn’t attempt to rise again.

  ‘Now, Mr Askham. We’ve some questions to ask you.’

  ‘And I’ve some to ask you. I’ll need your name for a start.’

  ‘Relating to a certain Phyllis Waters, alias Paula Kincaid.’

  ‘Mine relate to the statement I’m going to give to the Press!’

  He was in no way abashed. His ferocious expression continued; like a slender, enraged terrier, he sat quiveringly on the edge of the chair. It passed through Gently’s mind that Mrs Askham’s life wasn’t all honey, though presumably some of the blame must rest with herself. As a mother, she’d perhaps leave a few things to be desired…

  ‘What can you tell us about this person?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He was nearly shouting. ‘She’s a prostitute. She lives in Kilburn. She told you herself. I sent her here.’

  ‘Why did you send her, Mr Askham?’

  ‘Oh, my God, must you be so stupid? Because she knew. She knew what happened. She knew that Paula Kincaid was dead.’

  ‘Why did you want her to tell us that?’

  ‘Is it possible to be so dense? To stop your beastly rotten prying and upsetting of my mother. She’s being terrorized by your snooping, and I was determined to put a stop to it.’

  ‘You know she came here this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course I do. You drove her to it.’

  ‘She didn’t seem so terrified then.’

  ‘Did you think she’d let you see it?’

  ‘But why should she be so anxious, anyway? It was scarcely a crime to employ Paula Kincaid.’

  ‘She was my father’s mistress. Don’t you understand that? And Mother hides it, but it hurts her as much as ever…’

  He flushed curiously. He seemed suddenly embarrassed by what he had said. His eyes kept feverishly boring at Gently, the angrier for the crimson in the cheeks under them.

  ‘And I didn’t want her to know the rest. I didn’t want her to be mixed up in it. That’s why I made that girl go to you, so you’d know the truth without us being mixed up in it. I had to pay her; she didn’t want to go. I shelled out fifty quid for your benefit…’

  ‘So we’d know the truth.’

  ‘Yes, the God’s rotten truth! What happened in the end to Father’s dear Paula. While you thought she was alive you’d have kept on and on at Mother, but I knew she was dead, and I intended to let you know it. And this is all the thanks I get for it. To be treated like a criminal!’

  ‘ How did you know the woman was dead?’

  Gently was leaning back in his chair, his eyes half closed, but never wandering from the pair that thrust at him so persistently. Askham had wavered; but only for a second. Now his reply came strongly:

  ‘How else do you think? Because I’d met her daughter and heard the same tale she told you.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. The important point is that I did. I heard her name mentioned if you want to know, and it naturally struck me as being a coincidence. That was recently, after Kincaid returned, and before he pushed that man over Snowdon. From the first he’d been creating about his wife and trying to find out who she’d gone off with. And when I heard that name, immediately…’

  ‘Was it Mrs Kincaid you expected to find?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I was going to bribe her. I was going to get her to go back to Kincaid but to tell him nothing about being with Father. But as it turned out it was her daughter I met — my own half-sister, if you please! — and before I could work anything with her you’d arrested Kincaid for murder.’

  ‘And you believed the girl’s story, of course?’

  ‘Good grief, and why shouldn’t I? She doesn’t know my name, so she could have no reason for lying to me.’

  ‘You knew her real name was Phyllis Waters?’

  ‘I knew she went under that name. But having two names is nothing: it’s the usual thing with pros.’

  ‘I notice you’re familiar with their habits.’

  Back flooded the embarrassment.

  ‘All right, then… I’m not so innocent! My father didn’t set a good example. But what does it matter? I heard her talked about… recommended; you can put it that way.’

  ‘As Phyllis Waters?’

  ‘No, Paula Kincaid! Why else do you think I went to see her?’

  ‘On a recommendation.’

  ‘Because of the name, I tell you.’

  ‘Or because her youthfulness would fit the story.’

  Askham was keeping his eyes blazing, but now he didn’t find it so easy; they would like to have dropped before Gently’s calm gaze. He could also sense Evans watching him, steadily, suspiciously, and Dutt’s silent presence was somewhere behind his chair. He must have felt himself beginning to stare. He made a feint at rising.

  ‘Look, if you’re calling me a liar…!’

  ‘Keep seated, Mr Askham.’

  ‘In the first place, what right have you got; to order me about? You’ve none, and you know it.’

  ‘We’ve a perfect right to ask you questions.’

  ‘But not to call me a liar. And I won’t stand for that.’

  He was whipping himself up to a fresh pitch of indignation, perhaps even considering the possibility of flinging out of the room. He darted a glance at the door. Dutt absently changed his position. Gently swivelled his chair slightly so as to rest an elbow on the desk.

  ‘Did you think we were going to believe it, a convenient story like that?’

  ‘It’s true. I know it’s true. The girl told it me in good faith. I asked her casually about her people…’

  ‘We can check her background quite easily.’

  ‘But there’s nothing one can check. And how could she have known about Paula Kincaid?’

  ‘How indeed?’

  ‘She couldn’t, could she? I mean, the thing proves itself. Either she is the woman’s daughter or else it’s all completely absurd.’

  ‘Unless someone primed her, obviously.’

  ‘But who would do a thing like that?’

  ‘Someone very interested in Mrs Kincaid. Who wanted to keep her out of the hands of the police.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous… I won’t be accused! You can’t be serious about this.’ He was staring now and having to like it: the wind was going out of him fast. ‘I tried to help you. It cost me money. I didn’t care. I thought it was worth it. If you knew how it affected my mother… then, for you to turn on me like this!’

  ‘Did your mother know about Phyllis Waters?’

  ‘No — I told you! It would hurt her terribly.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in Paula Kincaid?’

  ‘I’m not. She’s nothing… it’s only Mother.’

  ‘Yet your mother didn’t seem so concerned.’

  ‘She is. She doesn’t show it, that’s all.’

  ‘How did you come to meet Arthur Fleece?’

  Askham only stared. His lips were trembling.

  An hour later it was bearing the marks of an all-night session, marks that Dutt understood well, though Evans still had to learn about them. Gently had sunk his teeth into Askham and time was no longer of any moment to him; he would go on and on now till he’d shaken the truth from the unlucky fellow. He’d made his mind up about Askham. That was the way Dutt read it.

  And it was true. Gently could feel the ecstatic thrill of making contact. At last the fates had put in his hand one of the key figures of the enigma! Against the others he had been powerless, Kincaid, Stanley, Mrs Askham; Paula Kincaid was far to seek, Heslington he half believed in. But here, unsuspected and self-betrayed, was the weak link in the chain, and with him Gently could wrestle for the illuminating fact. Time was certainly no longer important. It was outside the reference of the problem. It was merely a symbol of infinity invoked to balance th
e equation.

  ‘Where is Paula Kincaid now?’

  He leant on the desk, his chin on his hands; his eyes were narrowed, his face a blank, he was questioning, questioning: one question after another.

  ‘She’s dead. You know she is.’

  ‘Why don’t you want us to find her?’

  ‘How can you, when she’s dead?’

  ‘What did your father tell you about her?’

  ‘Nothing. I tell you-’

  ‘What does she know?’

  ‘She’s dead; you’ve got to believe her daughter-’

  ‘What does she know about Met. L?’

  ‘Nothing-’

  ‘How much does your mother know?’

  ‘Nothing! Except what she told you today.’

  ‘It could have been lies. I’m asking you.’

  ‘And I’m telling you, aren’t I?’

  ‘When did you last see Fleece?’

  Askham’s bearing was very altered now. That last disintegrating hour had ripped his veneer into tatters. From his pose as the heir to the Askham millions with power and influence behind him he had been reduced to a naked unit, clinging fearfully to his straw of innocence. He sat crumpled and flush-faced. His lips were dry, his eyes rolling.

  ‘I… Fleece, I never met him.’

  ‘He visited Paula Kincaid in Caernarvon.’

  ‘He didn’t… I mean, she’s dead.’

  ‘Why did he visit her?’

  ‘He… but he didn’t…’

  ‘It had to do with Kincaid’s return. It was dangerous to let her find him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, he couldn’t, because she’s dead.

  ‘What makes you so certain. Have you some knowledge of her death?’

  ‘Phyllis Waters…’

  ‘She was lying.’

  ‘No! She told you the truth about it.’

  ‘She told me what you told her to tell me, and that’s no answer. How much do you know?’

  ‘Nothing. Only what she told me.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think there’s more to it than that. Like her having gone the same way as Fleece.’

  ‘But that’s crazy… you’ve got it wrong!’

  ‘You’re very insistent about her death.’

  ‘She’s dead, yes… but not like that…’