Gently to the Summit csg-9 Read online

  ‘A statement about the club members who knew your wife.’

  ‘Take a note. Dick Overton, Ray Heslington, and Arthur Fleece.’

  ‘Fleece? Fleece knew your wife?’

  Kincaid sneered. ‘I don’t answer questions.’

  ‘A statement about Fleece.’

  ‘No, thank you. See my lawyer.’

  It was infuriating, and there was nothing that Gently could do about it. If only he’d had Kincaid for just one hour before he was charged! The concatenation of those three names dangled seductively in front of his nose, but there was no way for him immediately to sink his teeth into them. Overton — Heslington — and Arthur Fleece. They had all known Paula Kincaid, and one of them had died…

  ‘Heslington believed you were Kincaid. Give me a statement on that.’

  ‘Take a note.’ Kincaid’s sneer had deepened during Gently’s silence. ‘Heslington’s an idiot, but he’s a well-meaning idiot. I never had a scar. That’s a wrinkle on my forehead.’

  ‘Continue the statement.’

  ‘About Heslington and my wife? He only met her twice, and he could tell me nothing about her. He lives in Wimbledon, you know, though the line passes Putney. Don’t ask me what I mean, because I won’t be able to tell you.’

  ‘Continue the statement.’

  ‘Of course. There’s Dick Overton. Now he knew her rather better; in fact, he was quite a friend. But he didn’t believe I was Kincaid — Dick’s intelligence isn’t his strong point — so of course he told me nothing.’ Kincaid paused. ‘But you could try him.’

  ‘Continue the statement.’

  ‘End of note. I’ve no more to tell you about my wife.’

  ‘Hmn.’

  Gently studied him, trying to reach some conclusion. In his wide experience of human enigmas, Kincaid bid fair to take the cake. For if he were not Kincaid, what second process could have evolved him? From what strange school of life had such a character graduated?

  ‘Give me a statement about your career.’

  ‘Take a note.’

  Kincaid grinned horribly. He too had been doing a little studying, his head tilted back, his expression superior.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I didn’t have a career. It was over by the time I was twenty-five. I lived at Salisbury with my guardian and was educated there at the local grammar school. Afterwards I took a post in the town, and then came up here, to Metropolitan Electric. I married Paula in thirty-five as part of the Jubilee celebrations. And I climbed Everest in thirty-seven. After that, see the Sunday Echo.’

  ‘That’s the sort of stuff you could have dug up somewhere.’

  ‘I didn’t promise you anything else. I’ve been dead above twenty years.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that. If you want us to prove your identity.’

  ‘No comment. And I’d like to be getting back to my cell.’

  ‘Just one thing more.’ Gently produced the cigarette-case, the one which Evans had found on the cairn. ‘You’ve seen this before, but I’m showing it to you again. Perhaps you’ve remembered something about it which you didn’t tell Inspector Evans.’

  Kincaid took the case, a frown appearing as he examined it; he turned it over and over and stared long at the snapshot.

  ‘The initials… those are mine. I might have had a case like this. But it’s gone… I can’t place it. I can’t place the picture.’

  ‘I think you know the case is yours.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. I’d say if I did.’

  ‘It’s the one you took to India.’

  ‘Why should I have done a thing like that? I was smoking a pipe when I went there. I smoked nothing else while I was in Tibet…’

  ‘But you’re smoking cigarettes now.’

  ‘Oh yes, I began again when I got back to Delhi. But we all smoked pipes on the expedition — it was the thing, you know. We were serious young men.’

  ‘Surely that case is the sort of present your wife might have given you.’

  Kincaid stiffened. There was a twitching in the muscles about his eyes. He burst out agitatedly:

  ‘No — I’d remember! I wouldn’t forget a thing like that. I’ve never seen it before, I tell you. Take me back to my cell!’

  Gently shrugged and motioned to Evans, who went to the door to fetch the constable. Kincaid got jerkily to his feet and began to shamble out. Then at the door he turned suddenly, and tears were streaming down his face.

  ‘I want her back!’ he exclaimed brokenly. ‘I want my wife… I want Paula back again…’

  ‘ Back from whom? ’ Gently fired at him, but Kincaid didn’t seem to hear. Weeping like a child, he permitted the constable to lead him away down the corridors.

  Evans sucked in air and slammed the door shut after them. The station inspector shook his head; he put a finger to his temple.

  ‘The skinny bastard. I could kick him from here to Llanfairfechan!’

  Evans was furious; he could hardly persuade himself to sit down.

  ‘Take a note. Take a note. Like he was running a bloody press conference! I ask you, would you have thought he had a murder charge pinned on him?’

  Gently gave him a rueful grimace. ‘There’s Kincaid for you, man,’ he replied.

  ‘I know. And to think that it’s me who’s responsible for it. Now we can’t lay a finger on him. “Take a note,” he says. It makes you wonder why you ever joined a police force at all!’

  ‘He’s screwed, that’s what,’ observed the station inspector comfortably. ‘You don’t have to worry, boy. He’s booked for Broadmoor anyway.’

  Gently said: ‘How does his present behaviour compare with yesterday’s?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Evans snorted. ‘And for why? Because then I had the drop on him.’

  ‘Would you say he was building it up, then?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to build it up!’

  Gently shrugged. ‘He could be sweating on an insanity plea.’

  ‘Oh… I see.’ Evans was silent for a moment, eyes glaring at nothing. Then: ‘Yess… it could be that. It could be that very well.’

  ‘There’s another thing too.’

  Gently began filling his pipe; slow, squarish-tipped fingers packing the rubbed tawny tobacco.

  ‘“Like a Tibetan smells his village” — you remember that bit? It had me wondering at the time… how near do you suppose it was to the facts?’

  ‘What facts do you mean, man?’

  ‘The facts of last Monday. Kincaid’s journey to Wales, his being in Llanberis and on Snowdon. It’s all very romantic and might be due to E.S.P., but there’s a simpler explanation: somebody tipped him off that his wife would be there.’

  Evans’s hand crashed down on the desk, making the issue ink-pots jump. ‘But that’s brilliant, man!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s a bloody brilliant piece of surmising!’

  ‘It suggests a certain sequence. I wouldn’t like to go any further.’

  ‘But it’s brilliant — don’t you see? It gives us a whole new angle to work on!’

  Gently struck himself a light. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Why, it’s over his wife he murdered Fleece, and not what happened on Everest at all.’

  ‘Unless it was part of the same story.’

  ‘Man, there’s no keeping pace with you. You’re right — of course you’re right: it must all have begun in thirty-seven. Fleece was after Kincaid’s wife, which is why that Everest incident happened.’

  ‘And he was still after her in fifty-nine?’

  ‘Of course! And somebody warned Kincaid. And he traced the pair of them to Wales, and took his chance up there on Snowdon. Heslington — he’s the man to have warned him, and he was on the spot at the time. I’m telling you, man, you’ve been inspired. It’s making sense of the whole affair.’

  Gently drew in a mouthful of smoke and blew the smallest of rings at Evans. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s doing nothing of the kind.’


  ‘But why? Why not, man?’

  ‘Only ask yourself the question. There are too many things which don’t square with the hypothesis. For instance, if Heslington was in it, why did he mention seeing Kincaid? Why was he on the summit at all, when he might have had an alibi with the others?’

  ‘He might not have known what Kincaid would do.’

  ‘Then why did he hedge with what he told us? He’d either spill the lot or nothing, not just enough to make us curious. Then again, there’s the cigarette-case — don’t tell me that Heslington was the one to drop it! Because if he was, then the moral is plain: we’d better scratch Kincaid and start again.’

  ‘But look, if you rule out Heslington for a moment-’

  Gently grinned. ‘Then we’re left with conjecture. And a crying need for some facts before we worry our brains any further.’

  Poor Evans hung his head. ‘I’m not so sure… it’s a fine connection…’

  ‘It’s an alluring theory, so we won’t kill it. Only file it for later reference.’

  ‘Then where do you reckon we go from here?’

  ‘We’ll go to the bottom, as usual. We’ll start with the firm whom Kincaid last worked for and try to pick up the trail from there.’

  Gently hooked up the phone and dialled the Central Office desk. Metropolitan Electric, he was told, still flourished out at Hendon. On the point of ringing off he gave the office a further task:

  ‘Check Kincaid in Who Was Who and read me over the entry.’

  As he listened a pleased smile crept over his face. He dropped the phone back on its cradle and took a few thoughtful puffs.

  Evans asked: ‘What did they say, man?’

  Gently said: ‘What you’d expect. Kincaid’s story checks with the book. He gave us nothing fresh at all.’

  He blew another couple of rings.

  I’m beginning to like this case,’ he said. It’s what the Americans would call a lulu… in Wales, you’d have a different name for it.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  By midday an uncertain sun had developed in the London sky, warming the grey flood of the Thames and softly colouring the weight of buildings. It was one of those atmospheric moments which occasionally redeemed the grim metropolis, bringing a sentimental glamour to its meaningless pageant of business and poverty. Gently, who loved and hated London, was glad that it had something to show Evans. He felt oddly responsible towards the latter, as though he were entertaining a country cousin. When they left the station at Bow Street he directed their driver to the Cheshire Cheese; they had grilled trout, and he was naively pleased by the commendations of the Welshman. Evans ate silently and intently. He was obviously a man who respected his food.

  When the coffee came he sighed and lit a comfortable cigarette. He said:

  ‘I’m enjoying myself in spite of it… it’s a pleasant way to be losing promotion.’

  Gently nodded, stirring his coffee.

  ‘Who have you left in charge at Caernarvon?’

  ‘A Sergeant Williams, a right good man. He’ll be checking on Kincaid’s alibi this moment.’

  ‘I’d like him to extend his inquiries a little. With special reference to Mrs Kincaid.’

  ‘Oh yes. I was going to suggest it.’

  ‘And Fleece, of course. I’d like to pinpoint his movements.’

  They returned to the divisional station before driving to Hendon, and Evans rang his sergeant from there with the current instructions. When he rejoined the car he was wearing a slightly puzzled expression.

  ‘Here’s a curious thing that Williams has just told me!’

  One of their witnesses had given them a false name and address. The address was in Bangor and was factual enough, but the occupiers knew nothing of a ‘Basil Gwynne-Davies’. The falsehood had come to light when the author was sought for to sign a statement.

  ‘What was he witness to?’

  ‘That’s the thing which surprises me. He’s the young fellow who came forward to tell us about seeing Kincaid in Llanberis. It doesn’t matter, of course; it’s no longer important. But why did he come forward if he didn’t want to be mixed up in it?’

  Gently grunted. ‘Not from a pure love of justice, I’d say! You told Williams to see if he could find him, did you?’

  ‘Yes, and I think he may. The fellow is obviously a local. He may be an undergraduate from Bangor who was cutting lectures on that day.’

  The sun had faded and the drizzle returned by the time they reached Hendon. They discovered Metropolitan Electric in a cul-de-sac near the airport. It was huge: an industrial mammoth filling all one side of its street, its approaches lined with parked cars of which most had a new appearance. Its central block had been rebuilt in the style of the New Towns, a tall, soft-brick building with blue panels between vertical windows. In a courtyard below it stood a Rolls and a Bentley and two Jaguars, while above it trailed a yellow pennon bearing the firm’s contracted nomenclature: MET. L. The whole street was pervaded by a regular murmur of industry and from the tall windows of the workshops came occasional bright flashes.

  Their driver parked in the courtyard; they went up steps to the main door. Beyond it lay a large reception hall with a softly carpeted floor. An ash-blonde in a black dress was sitting at a varnished sapele-wood counter, and she rose with a touch of hauteur to deal with Gently’s inquiry.

  ‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D. I’d like to have a word with your personnel manager.’

  ‘Er — is it the police?’ She seemed slow on the uptake.

  ‘That’s correct, miss.’

  ‘Oh, in that case… Mr Stanley did say…’

  Her hand crept involuntarily towards the telephone on the counter and then faltered; she smiled brilliantly, as though to cover an indiscretion.

  ‘Then if you’ll please wait a moment…’

  She tripped out through a door behind the counter, leaving a delicate perfume of violets to mingle with the odour of new furnishings.

  Gently shrugged; surprise was a waste of emotion when you were dealing with l’affaire Kincaid. They were expected, that was obvious, though why was beyond all conjecture. After twenty-two years and a world war, what was Kincaid to Metropolitan Electric? He’d been only a unit when he was there, a lowly employee among several thousands…

  The blonde returned.

  ‘If you’ll come this way, please… Mr Stanley will see you now.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Stanley?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Mr Stanley is our managing director.’

  They followed her down a corridor lit by a succession of plant windows and watched her tap, very softly, on a grained walnut door. The response was scarcely audible, but she had inclined her head to catch it; immediately she threw open the door and announced:

  ‘Detective Gently, sir.’

  They went in. The room was spacious and set out with grained walnut furniture. A buff carpet of ultimate softness extended from one skirting to the other. The two windows were fully screened with featherweight venetian blinds, and when the door closed behind them the hum of the workshops was knifed away. A tall, lion-faced man came forward from his desk to meet them.

  ‘Mr Gently — I didn’t catch your rank, I’m afraid.’

  He was about sixty years of age and had wavy iron-grey hair, and was dressed in a black suit of a subduedly expensive cut. He smiled, holding out a large, manicured hand.

  ‘Ah yes — superintendent. I believe I’ve seen your name in the papers. But sit down, gentlemen, and let me hear what I can do for you. We don’t often have the pleasure of a visit from the Yard, and when we do we like to offer all the facilities we can.’

  Gently chose one of the larger chairs. Evans sat to one side of them. Stanley returned to the desk and drew his trousers before sitting. He put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his palms, then he leaned forward towards Gently as though to drink in his every syllable.

  ‘Now, Superintendent,’ he said.

  Gently cleared his throat pre
fatorily. ‘We’re investigating the identity of a… certain person,’ he replied. ‘By his own account he was employed here roughly twenty-two years ago. We’d like to check on that with your records and your personnel manager.’

  ‘I see.’ Stanley stared, his heavy brows slightly elevated. ‘That’s quite a time ago, if I may say so, Superintendent. A number of changes have been made since then and there may be some difficulties. As you are no doubt aware, we employ a large number of people.’

  ‘But you keep records, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very full ones. Our administrative department is the most highly automated in the industry. But twenty-two years! That’s asking rather a lot, you know. Some of our older files, I seem to remember, went for salvage during the war.’

  ‘Including your personnel records?’

  ‘Well, no, perhaps not those. But since our rebuilding I couldn’t be certain where the earlier ones are housed.’

  ‘Where were they housed during the rebuilding?’

  ‘Oh, we moved into the south warehouse.’

  ‘Would that be a good place to look?’

  Stanley sank into his palms. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

  ‘Hmn.’

  Gently knew the symptoms of obstruction when he met them, and this had the appearance of a calculated obstruction. He had no doubt that Stanley knew whom the inquiries concerned, and it was plain that they had been anticipated, and probably prepared for. But to what credible purpose? It seemed like straining to swallow a gnat. After all, the information they sought was harmless enough, surely…?

  ‘So you can’t produce any records?’

  ‘Now, I didn’t say that, Superintendent. But I thought it only fair to warn you that they might be difficult to come at. It may take us a long time to find them.’

  ‘I can call back tomorrow.’

  ‘No… I don’t think you fully appreciate the difficulties involved. But I’ll help you as much as I can. I’ll call in our personnel manager.’