Gently With the Painters csg-7 Read online

  ‘Superintendent Gently here…’

  Horrocks was ringing him from Chelmsford. He had discovered the lodgings where Johnson had claimed to have spent the night, and was able to confirm with near certainty that he had actually spent it there.

  ‘It’s only a small house with a spare bedroom to let. Johnson was in by half past ten and didn’t leave again till after breakfast — round about eight-thirty; a taxi called for him.’

  ‘Could he have left the house without their knowing?’

  ‘Not without a load of luck he couldn’t. The bedroom door sticks, there’s a loose board in the landing, the stairs squeak like mad and the landlady has insomnia. Apart from that he could have jumped from a first-floor window, but if he did, he landed lightly enough on a bed of geraniums.’

  ‘Did you get on to the cinema box office?’

  ‘Yes. She remembers him by his tash. Also, we’ve got a record of two trunk calls to Lordham exchange.’

  Thus Johnson was finally eliminated as the possible author of the letter and slashings — saving a miracle, he could not have been on the spot at the time. From the beginning Gently had not considered his claims very seriously, but while he remained, a credible door had stood open…

  ‘Suppose we have some coffee now?’

  The stenographer departed with alacrity. According to the office clock it was now past one a.m. Mallows, haggard, looking bemused, sat hunched and sprawling on his chair; his brilliant eyes were drooped and hooded, his finely boned hands hanging down beside him. How much further to go for the breakdown? Another hour? Another two, or three? Surely, by now, the artist could grasp its inevitability, could sense the undeflectable intent of his antagonist. He had nothing at all to gain: was it merely pride that made him hold on?

  ‘Where are you spending your leave this summer…?’

  Over the coffee, Walker roused himself for a chat. For ten peaceful minutes there was conversation in the office, with Mallows, ignored, sitting listening or not listening. This was the usual thing, an acknowledged sleight of interrogation; you gave your subject a whiff of the normal life outside his nightmare. They were ordinary people, that was the gambit, they were only doing a job, it was foolish to give them trouble…

  ‘Didn’t I see that you’d won a prize in last year’s angling competition?’

  ‘I had a roach of just on three… it won it, against the national average…’

  Stephens was showing Hansom his watch, an expensive self-winder of which he was proud: ‘It was my passing-out present at Ryton… all the family clubbed together.’

  For ten minutes — and then it was over, with everyone turning their eyes back to Mallows. How could he fail to have been impressed by such a performance? Now let him cooperate, and they could all go home to bed…!

  ‘Don’t you think it would help if you agreed to make a statement?’

  Mallows shrugged his shoulders feebly, then shook his massive head.

  ‘Very well, where did you have lunch on the Monday of last week?’

  ‘At home. I lunched at home. Why don’t you ring up and ask the servants…?’

  And so they were off again, on the second leg of the serial, with Mallows still game though obviously very tired. As a form of defence he began answering at random, apparently without caring what admissions he made. Perhaps he had noticed the inactivity of the stenographer. The latter was still engaged in drinking his coffee. After drawing a few responses which were tantamount to meaningless, Gently jolted the artist awake by introducing a fresh angle.

  ‘Do you recall our conversation on Saturday?’

  ‘On Saturday…? Yes, I recall a conversation…’

  ‘You made a number of suggestions to me relating to the crime.’

  ‘Yes… that’s right… I did make suggestions.’

  ‘Knowing them to be false and completely misleading!’

  ‘Hold on… my dear fellow! I was trying to help you.’

  ‘You drew a plausible character of the murderer of Mrs Johnson, knowing, I repeat, that it was false and misleading.’

  ‘No! You’ve got it wrong…’ Mallows straightened his sagging shoulders. ‘I gave you that in good faith, I wasn’t trying to mislead you. At that time, without knowing…’

  ‘Without knowing what?’

  ‘I don’t know… but I felt positive that Johnson hadn’t done it.’

  ‘You knew that he hadn’t done it!’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that…’

  ‘But you thought you would give me a will o’ the wisp to chase after?’

  ‘It was an intelligent appraisal-’

  ‘From personal observation?’

  ‘Yes, in a way… all appraisals stem from that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

  ‘Who did you have in mind for that character?’

  ‘It was imagined… a purely synthetic creation…’

  ‘Designed to mislead me?’

  ‘No — in good faith!’

  ‘And since that time — Sunday morning, for instance?’

  ‘That — that confirmed what I had suggested…’

  ‘Confirmed it in what way?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?… A pronounced psychopath.’

  ‘An artistic psychopath?’

  ‘Yes — I suggested that all along.’

  ‘And you admired the way he’d treated the pictures!’

  ‘No! You can’t contend that seriously…’

  This line being started, Gently kept on repeating it — to the irritation of Hansom, who couldn’t see it tending anywhere. It became almost as ubiquitous as the question about the letter, and appeared in a number of shapes and variations.

  ‘You are well acquainted with Allstanley?’

  ‘Yes… well acquainted…’

  ‘You see a lot of him, do you? Outside the group meetings?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say a lot… he visits the studio.’

  ‘How long have you been acquainted?’

  ‘Oh… nine or ten years.’

  ‘So you know him pretty well.’

  ‘Yes, yes, pretty well…’

  ‘Answer me yes or no! Is he the original of that character?’

  ‘No — certainly not!’

  ‘Where did you say you had lunch on Monday…?’

  Then, after a rest, the blackmail angle was resumed, urged with a venom and apparent authority that shook Mallows again from his apathy. At times, as the questions battered him, he seemed almost convinced of their justness: he had lost the will to protest, the truth could be whatever Gently cared to make it.

  ‘Why should Johnson try to blackmail you?’

  ‘I don’t know… I can’t think…’

  ‘There could be only one reason!’

  ‘Yes… I see that, of course.’

  ‘You may not know it but he’d been following you — he had the necessary evidence.’

  ‘Yes, I think it probable…’

  ‘When did Mrs Johnson become your mistress?’

  ‘She came to the studio… I don’t know…!’

  They had a second coffee break, the office clock now pointing to three. Hansom, who had got through his case of cheroots, had borrowed a packet of Players from Stephens. From the desk came a buzz for Gently — was he at liberty to talk to the press? The reporters were sweating on a break in time to catch the London editions.

  ‘Tell them they’d better go home to bed!’

  For the first time, he was lighting his pipe. The taste of it was bitter, it had an early-morning harshness. Soon, now, a wintry light would begin to soften the black window panes, and down below in the street a laden milk lorry would clatter by. Then the solitary cyclist and a pedestrian, his boots echoing, the mysterious early risers who began to wake the city; a greeting shouted out, the yelping bark of a dog, and far away, over the river, a cock’s disembodied crow…

  Mallows was offered a cup of coffee and he drank it in a sort of stupor
; this time, there was very little effort at conversation. They were tired, and to be frank, discouraged; Gently’s pressure was getting them nowhere — Mallows had been beaten into mental numbness, but seemed as far from a confession as ever. And what was even more discouraging, two of them knew that Gently was bluffing. Most of his reckless accusations had no evidential basis. He was applying sheer, brute force, and not, it seemed, with too much intelligence: it was a policy of obstinacy, savouring a little of despair.

  And he was intending to go on with it — you could read that in his face. Out of the perfect, masking blankness had grown a pertinacious expression. He was going on to the end, however far ahead it lay: he was locked in a struggle with Mallows which could only be finished by the collapse of one of them…

  ‘Let’s reconstruct the whole of last Monday. What time do you say you got up in the morning?’

  Mallows had barely time to drink his coffee before Gently was pounding away at him again.

  ‘I don’t remember…’

  ‘Was it eight? Was it nine?’

  ‘No… half past seven… you’d better ask Withers.’

  ‘I’m asking you! Now, when did you read her letter?’

  ‘Her letter…?’

  ‘Yes — the one demanding money.’

  ‘I never had such a letter-’

  ‘Oh? Then how was it found in your bureau? It was dated as from the previous Sunday, and asks for an immediate advance of fifty pounds.’

  ‘I repeat, I never had such a letter!’

  ‘It is scarcely worth your while to deny it. Our handwriting expert will check it and there will be no question about his verdict. So having read it, of course, you rang her up, and suggested that she should meet you at lunch. But, in the meantime, you came to your decision: you weren’t going to pay Mrs Johnson any more. Where did you park your car, by the way?’

  ‘At the Haymarket-’

  ‘At last, you admit it! I thought you were going to deny it again, and to go on swearing that you lunched at home. Then at what time did you meet her?’

  ‘I didn’t… I didn’t meet her!’

  ‘Then why were you seen together?’

  ‘We weren’t…’

  ‘You were — I have witnesses to prove it. Your appearance is unusual, you know, and you’d be foolish to gamble on people not noticing you. And the whole thing fits so neatly. Later on, we have other witnesses.’

  ‘I swear before God that I lunched at home!’

  ‘Though admitting that you parked your car at the Haymarket?’

  ‘That was later-!’

  ‘Not by the accounts we have. You were parked there between one and two-thirty p.m. You occupied that time in having lunch with Mrs Johnson, and finally, according to witness, you drove off with her in your car…’

  The clock marched on from three to four. Drably, the buildings across the way crept into relief. Mallows’s condition grew worse than ever, and he seemed scarcely able to sit on the chair; he had come to the state when Gently’s voice was growing meaningless, when the sharpest of questions evoked little response.

  And Gently himself, he looked in little better shape, sitting hunched and small over Walker’s desk. He was keeping his head propped up with his hands and his voice, usually clear, had become hoarse and thick.

  ‘What reason could you have for trying to mislead me?’

  ‘No… no… you don’t understand…’

  ‘You knew quite positively that Johnson was innocent?’

  ‘No… I didn’t… didn’t know… not positively…’

  ‘Was Seymour the person you meant?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Aymas…?’

  ‘Didn’t fit… couldn’t fit…’

  ‘Wimbush, perhaps… perhaps Baxter?’

  ‘Not Baxter…’

  ‘Wimbush?’

  ‘Him neither…’

  ‘What about Watts?’

  ‘That too… ridiculous…’

  ‘Yet you knew about the letter.’

  ‘Yes, I knew… of course I knew…’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I told you… guessed it.’

  ‘How did you guess it?’

  ‘Easy… easy…’

  ‘Tell me how.’

  ‘I’ve told you already.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘No… not again…’

  ‘But I want to know how you guessed it.’

  ‘Yes… I know… you want to know how…’

  ‘What reason did you have for trying to mislead me?’

  ‘Didn’t mislead you… meant in good faith…’

  Ponderously Gently relit his pipe, his movements seeming to come from some slow-motion film. For at least a minute he sat silently puffing, puffing, too exhausted, apparently, to form his usual smoke rings. Hansom watched him, bleary-eyed, Walker was unobtrusively napping; Stephens, to keep awake, was staring with eyes unnaturally wide. The stenographer, his pencils arranged fan-wise in front of him, lay back in his chair, his lids narrowed to two slits.

  Gently rose to his feet and walked round to the front of the desk. He leant heavily against it, dropping a hand on Mallows’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s time, perhaps, that I spoke more frankly…’

  Mallows, with an effort, lifted up his head. Through the settling smoke of Gently’s pipe Hansom could see the pair of them, eyeing each other.

  ‘How did the letter prove that he’d done it?’

  ‘You bastard, Gently… you out-and-out bastard…!’

  ‘But it did prove it, didn’t it? The paper was yours.’

  ‘Yes… and you’ve known it all along… you devil!’

  ‘How did he get it?’

  Mallows gestured, feebly, helplessly. ‘It was pinched from the studio… he studies papers, you know. I don’t suppose he knew that I’d seen him take it, but I had… so as soon as you showed me the letter

  …’

  ‘But you knew something before that?’

  ‘Yes… everything… I told you. Then he wasn’t at his car, though he left the cellar before me…’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you tell me?’ Gently leant back on the desk: he neither knew nor cared whether the others could fathom this moment of truth.

  ‘You may not understand it, but he’s a decent fellow, at the bottom… I was probably his nearest friend… with me, he was like a child.’

  ‘Yet you knew he couldn’t go free.’

  ‘It’s not enough to know these things. You don’t betray your friends because of the logic… only by blunders. That’s how you betray them.’

  ‘The blunders imposed by your conscience.’

  ‘No, my dear fellow… no phrases…’

  ‘You knew, and you knew you must tell.’

  ‘I knew he was decent… who was I to condemn him?’

  There was silence. Nobody stirred in the hazy, thickaired office. The only motion was of the smoke which curled in tendrils from Gently’s pipe. It seemed an age before Mallows, drawing his head up again, said:

  ‘What happens now — are you going to pull him in?’

  Gently slowly shook his head. ‘Not now… he’ll keep a while. I’ve had a man outside his house since yesterday morning.’

  ‘He’s a family man, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gently pulled on his pipe. ‘Perhaps, after the bank opens… myself, I’m not in a hurry.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Gently had rarely felt so impersonal about the delinquent in a case and nor, as it turned out, was he ever to have less to do with one. Farrer was never brought to trial; he wasn’t even arrested; in fact, while Mallows was still protecting him, there had ceased to be any Farrer. He had gone into his office and he had there quietly hanged himself. He had done it with some lighting flex suspended from a blind bracket.

  He was smiling; that was a feature which added an especial touch of the macabre. His face wore exactly the expression with which he had been used to greet his custo
mers. To perform the deed he had changed into his bank clothes, knotting with care his black bow tie; he had pinned some violets into his buttonhole and dressed his hair with a popular cream. Then, at around one a.m., he had stepped smiling from the window sill. His wife, who slept apart, hadn’t missed him until breakfast.

  ‘And what sort of a case did we have against him?’

  Gently frowned when Superintendent Walker pinned him down with this question. Lack of sleep had made him bearish and his throat was painfully sore — he’d spent a quarter of an hour gargling it, and was still as hoarse as a crow.

  ‘Not so good as the case we once had against Johnson… that’s the reason why Mallows had to go through the hoop. But we could have built it up… perhaps got a confession. On the other hand, I doubt whether he’d have been fit to plead.’

  To be truthful, the case against Farrer was slender, in spite of one or two circumstances that seemed most telling. It depended far too largely on the testimony of Mallows, and entirely so when it came to motive. But time, as usual, supplied a few clinchers. That was commonly the case when one had struck the right trail. Farrer, with all his cunning, had made some careless mistakes, and the most damning of these related to the paper knives. The second pair of knives he had actually bought in person. He had trusted to the likelihood that the supplier didn’t know him. This was true, but the man had a good memory for faces, and he was quite able to pick out a photograph of Farrer. In addition:

  ‘Just a moment! Doesn’t this fellow manage a bank?’ The picture had given a jog to a sluggish recollection. After searching through his files he came up with an order sheet: it was dated two years previously and bore Farrer’s sweeping signature.

  ‘There you are, I could have sworn that we’d done some business with him.’

  The second item on the sheet was a stainless-steel paper knife.

  Two more slices of luck followed one after the other. A constable who knew Farrer had met him early on the Sunday morning. It was in Oldmarket Road and Farrer was proceeding towards the city, having just, without doubt, planted the knife and paper on Mallows. He had been striding along confidently and he had aroused no suspicion; according to the constable, he was whistling softly to himself.