Gently French Page 9

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BUT GIVE DAINTY a mark for prescience: there was indeed a late-night comedy interlude.

  When we broke up, Dutt went for a bath; I decided mine could wait till morning.

  I got into bed and lay brooding a while over the twists and nuances of the case. I find that when I’m relaxed, horizontal, and about to drop off, the facts will sometimes sort themselves without help from me. It is as though, at that point, they take on a life of their own, and begin to exhibit aspects that till then I’ve been blind to; but it may be simply that I am resting the intellect and permitting the intuition to have free play. Moments of sartori, involuntary Zen: a genius is a man who has learned to switch off.

  So I was lying like that, trying to be a genius, when I heard Dutt’s slippers slopping back along the corridor; then the sound of him opening his door, which apparently he had left unlocked (a policeman’s mind is never still). Followed confused sounds, and a tap at my door. I switched on the bed-light. Dutt entered. His face was pink, and he was grappling his dressing-gown round him with a curiously intent modesty.

  ‘Sir . . . could you spare a moment?’

  I climbed into a dressing-gown and we went to his room. Sitting-up in the bed, and sensationally naked, was Mimi, Madame Deslauriers. She regarded us with mild surprise.

  ‘This is flattering. But shouldn’t one of you gentlemen retire?’

  ‘Get out of it,’ I said. ‘You’ve picked the wrong room. Mine is across the corridor.’

  ‘This is not your room?’

  ‘It’s the Inspector’s.’

  She said something rapidly, in French. ‘It is that stupid yak, he tells me wrong. I will give him a haircut with a blow-torch.’

  ‘So kindly hook it.’

  She got out of the bed and stood for a moment, nudely glaring. But then she burst into gurgling laughter.

  ‘This is formidable, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I don’t agree.’

  ‘The poor Dutt. And he is a family man, huh?’

  ‘Never mind about Dutt. Just slip into this.’ I picked a frothy black night-dress from a chair by the bed.

  She took the night-dress but didn’t slip into it.

  ‘Monsieur, it is the mistake which has made you angry. But that is easily put right. I will cross the corridor. Let us leave the poor Dutt to his honest slumbers.’

  ‘I just want you to scram.’

  ‘Oh, but no. When I am so convenient and agreeable. All day you are making the impression, huh? You must not be impolite now.’

  ‘But I haven’t been making the impression!’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. In your policeman’s way.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Put it on or leave it off, but get back to your room – or I’ll call the manager.’

  She looked at me sadly. ‘That is not being serious.’

  ‘Yes it is. I want you gone.’

  ‘No. The mistake, that is the trouble. You have wished my visit to be more discreet. But now I tell you. I will go away. I will do exactly as the man says.’ She gave me a lightning wink. ‘Poor Mimi. This has not been her lucky day.’

  She slid the night-dress over her head – which was an erotic act on its own – smiled apologetically at Dutt, and cruised regally out of the room.

  Dutt goggled after her.

  ‘Do you think she’ll be back, sir?’

  ‘That appeared to be the message. We had better bolt our doors.’

  ‘You bet, sir!’

  But Mimi didn’t come back.

  Hanson’s messenger delivered the Bilney dossier at breakfast the next morning. It made no mention of Bilney’s being left-handed, but the other details fitted rather well.

  Bilney, Thomas Henry. Age 30. 5´ 10½´´, strong build. Fair hair, grey eyes, narrow features, small ears. 2´´ scar left cheek. Missing top joint of little finger, left. London accent. Born, Lambeth. P.O.A., Shepherd’s Bush. Last seen, Thursday. Total of six years for G.B.H. and robbery with violence.

  The photographs showed a good-looking villain, one who might well appeal to the ladies; but there was violence in the mouth, which was small, and in the prominence of the blunt chin (check fifty or so photographs of convicted murderers and you will find that Lombroso wasn’t far out). The eyes were glazed-looking, avoiding the camera. He had thick eyebrows but scanty lashes. The scar, nearly vertical, was certainly a knife-slash, and he may have lost the finger-joint in parrying the attack.

  I showed the photographs to Dutt.

  ‘Would you let him buy you a drink?’

  Dutt grinned. ‘Only for a cover while I was getting out the cuffs, sir.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No sir. But I know a lot like him. And when his type are around I’m careful not to turn my back.’

  Mimi was seated at her table, looking gorgeous in white leather hot pants. I took the photographs along to her and sat myself in the chair opposite. She was eating grapefruit. She gave the grapefruit a dig, sending a spurt in my direction. I gravely blotted the juice with a napkin before exhibiting the photographs.

  ‘A friend sent me these.’

  She gave them a glance. ‘Monsieur enjoys a distinguished acquaintance.’

  ‘His name is Tom,’ I said. ‘I am wondering if you can guess his age.’

  She took a longer look; but if there was a tremor of recognition I failed to detect it. Or anything else. She was keeping her face completely vacant, an unregistering mask.

  ‘I would guess he was seven.’

  ‘That’s his mental age.’

  ‘So then. You will have much in common.’

  ‘Have you any message for him?’

  ‘Please go away,’ she said. ‘I wish to continue with my breakfast.’

  So I switched to Bavents, who I waylaid as he came through the swing doors from the kitchen. He was juggling with a tray and a covered dish: I shepherded him into the chef’s corner.

  ‘Take a look at these.’

  I made a fan of the photographs and held them close to his pink nose. The tray and the dish chattered.

  ‘I – I don’t know anyone like that!’

  I clicked my tongue. ‘You were talking to him on Thursday.’

  ‘No! I’ve n-never seen him before.’

  ‘Not Tom Bilney? Who slipped you the quid?’

  ‘No, it’s the truth! I’ve never m-met him.’

  ‘But he did slip you a quid?’

  ‘He d-didn’t, I tell you!’

  ‘So how much was it? Fifty pence?’

  ‘I – no, n-nothing! I d-didn’t see anyone!’

  I left off before he dropped the tray.

  But I was luckier after breakfast, when I paid a visit to the Three Tuns. Both Eddie Jimpson, the licensee, and his wife Doris had had avowed contact with ‘Peter Robinson’. On Thursday Eddie had been serving in the bar, and he had passed on the man to Doris. Doris had booked him in and taken him up to show him his room.

  ‘Could this have been the man?’

  They went into a huddle over the photographs.

  ‘It’s like him,’ Eddie said. ‘He’s fair, isn’t he?’

  ‘Fair. Grey eyes. About five feet ten.’

  ‘This one was big with it,’ Eddie said. ‘Looked as though he could be a rum customer.’

  ‘This one is big with it. He can be rum.’

  ‘Then I reckon it’s the same man.’

  I looked at Doris. ‘What do you say?’

  Doris, plump and curly, was frowning.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. It could be him, but it isn’t easy to tell from a photograph.’

  I whipped the photographs away. ‘Describe your man.’ Doris leaned her haunch against the bar. ‘Well, he was fair all right, and I didn’t much like him. He’d got dead sort of eyes. You were just muck to him.’

  ‘Any special features?’

  ‘Not that I remember. Though of course you could tell he was a cockney.’

  ‘Eddie?’

  E
ddie shook his head. ‘That’s what I was going to say,’ he said.

  ‘Try thinking about his face. Just let it come to mind, don’t force yourself into seeing it.’

  ‘He was looking a bit scruffy,’ Doris said, after a moment. ‘Sweaty. Like he might have been driving all day.’

  ‘Sweaty and grimy?’

  ‘A bit of that too. You’d have thought he would have washed before he went out.’

  ‘But in the morning, at breakfast, he would be tidied up?’

  ‘Well yes, he was smart enough then.’

  Could they have missed the scar? It wasn’t very prominent, except perhaps to an eye conditioned like mine: it followed the natural lines of the face, it might register without at first being recognized. As for the missing joint, he would keep that inconspicuous.

  ‘Did you watch him sign the book?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did he use his right hand or his left?’

  Doris gestured helplessly. ‘If he had used his left hand, I should think I would’ve noticed that.’

  ‘Anything else about his hands?’

  ‘They weren’t very clean.’

  ‘Do you mind if I see the book?’

  Doris fetched it. The ‘Peter Robinson’ entry had been made in bold but back-slanted writing. No visible dabs, and a poor paper for latents: not much to hope for from that.

  ‘What I would like to see now is the room where he slept.’

  ‘The room has been let again, you know.’

  I sighed to myself. ‘Never mind. Just ask the occupant if I may step in.’

  In fact, the occupant was out. Doris used her pass-key to admit me to a small, pleasant room, the single window of which was framing a view of a giant chestnut in lavish bloom. It was fitted with a wash-basin, mirror, a glass shelf and a tooth-glass located in a chromium-plated holder. The paint was clean and shiny on the frame of the sash-window, a white-enamelled dressing-table, and the door.

  ‘Who serviced the room after he left?’

  ‘I did,’ Doris said.

  ‘Tell me what you did.’

  ‘I changed the bed-linen, hoovered, dusted and gave it all a wipe over.’

  ‘How much is all?’

  ‘Well, the wash-basin mostly; the shelf, the mirror. And I changed the glass.’

  ‘Did you touch the paintwork?’

  ‘Only with a duster. The paint was washed a fortnight ago.’

  Which sounded like a frost; but to turn every stone, I rang Hanson to send out a dabs team. They arrived within half-an-hour. I gave them the register and turned them loose in the little bedroom. A lot of insufflating and snazzy camera-work and paint left looking as though the devil had stroked it; then Eddie, Doris and the apprehensive room-occupant were check-printed for comparisons. Results: nil. Bilney wasn’t yet a certainty, just a hot front-runner. One witness liked him, one was cautious. But I felt the wind was blowing his way.

  And the more so when I returned to the Barge-House, where Dutt was just putting down the phone.

  ‘That was Dainty, sir.’

  ‘Has he collared Fring yet?’

  ‘No sir. But he’s been chatting-up Bilney’s girl-friend.’

  I shrugged and sat. The girl-friends of villains are a highly variable quantity. Even when they are jealous their information is suspect, and in the normal way they simply go dumb.

  ‘Why has this one suddenly turned chatty?’

  ‘Dainty says it’s because she’s scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  ‘Of Bilney’s being missing, sir. She reckons he ought to be back by now.’

  I grunted. But somebody might love Bilney.

  ‘What’s this girl-friend’s name and trade?’

  ‘Name is Mavis Treadwell, sir, and she claims to be a photographer’s model. It seems she had a date with Bilney for Friday. She has a key to his flat in the Bush. When she arrived there she found he’d left a note for her saying he’d been called away on a job.’

  ‘On a job?’

  ‘Well, that’s what she infers, sir. And she’s the one who should know. But the point is he’s been gone for three or four days now, and she reckons that something must have happened to him.’

  ‘Then she knows more than she’s saying.’

  ‘Dainty thinks not, sir. She’s sure Bilney would have rung her before now. All the other jobs he’s done have been in the locality. He’s never been away so long before.’

  ‘Any inkling of what job?’

  ‘Afraid not, sir.’

  ‘Had she any idea of where he was heading?’

  Dutt shook his head. ‘I did put some questions, sir. But what I told you was all Dainty had got.’

  I drew invisible lines on Frayling’s desk. The picture was growing.

  ‘It would be on Thursday that Bilney left the note.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Dainty did go into that. Treadwell says the note wasn’t dated. She’d last seen Bilney on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘So on Thursday someone called him up here, and we assume he was the man who booked in at the Three Tuns. His first move then was to contact Deslauriers. There can’t be much doubt about what the job was.’

  ‘Not very much, sir.’ Dutt looked glum.

  ‘Then Deslauriers installed him in Freddy’s hideaway. On Friday the trouble with Rampant provided an opportunity, and Deslauriers phoned Bilney with instructions. Straightforward so far?’

  Dutt nodded.

  ‘Bilney did the job and returned to the hideaway. But now we have a problem. Bilney stayed put. He didn’t hurry back to home and Mavis. Why would that be?’

  Dutt puckered his eyes. ‘Could he have been on the same lark as Rampant?’

  ‘You mean blackmail?’

  ‘He might have had a bash at it. His sort don’t go in much for brains.’

  I considered it. ‘It’s the simple answer, and it fits with Deslauriers secretly meeting him. But she must have warned him yesterday that I nearly caught her with him. You would think he would be back home by now.’

  Dutt hunched a shoulder. ‘Some of them are thick. Perhaps he thinks the pressure will make her cough up.’

  ‘The alternative is that Bilney is her boy-friend. Which raises another problem. I can’t believe it.’

  A tap at the door interrupted the conference; semi-handsome Hanson stalked in. He was looking happy. He leered at each of us before sprawling himself on the third chair.

  ‘Are you still wanting Bilney?’

  I stared. ‘Have you got him?’

  ‘Well, maybe not yet under lock and key. But we’ve found his little paw marks at Raynham. I thought you might like to come along.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘PAW MARKS’ WAS a metaphor: at that precise juncture all Hanson had was a missing person. But the person was missing from a riverside inn, and the description mentioned a scar and an amputated finger-joint. Furthermore, Raynham was the next village downstream from Sallowes; the inn, the Reed-Cutters, stood opposite the staithe. Bilney, now using the pseudonym of H. Wilson, had booked in there on the Friday evening.

  ‘One of the County men called there yesterday,’ Hanson explained. ‘We thought the description sounded interesting. But chummie was out. When we called this morning the publican told us he hadn’t come back.’

  ‘Did he leave his gear?’

  ‘So I’m told. He must have got word from the lady and skarpered. But this description of Bilney is a snap fit. There can’t be two like him swanning around. Is Friday right?’

  ‘Friday is right.’

  ‘Then it looks like this case is falling together.’ He plucked his lip. ‘A pity, really. I was tipping you to get round to Rampant in the end.’ He got to his feet. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘First, I want a man and a car.’

  ‘Huh?’ Hanson looked aggrieved.

  ‘We’ll need to leave this place covered. If Bilney’s on the loose, this is where he may head for.’

  In the end I got a van
and two men, with a third man to cover the river approach. Dutt I left with the special mission of keeping his willing eye on Mimi.

  Raynham was nine country miles from Haughton. It was a small village on a bluff by a broad; its handsome church tower stood high among trees, with below it pantiled cottages and infillings of bungalows. The broad was small and fly-blown with hire craft, a handful of yachts in a slum of motor-cruisers. An ugly beard of battered craft fringed the tiny staithe, which was itself parked solid with the cars of day-visitors. Facing the stage was a cramped junction and in one of its angles stood the Reed-Cutters. Two police cars were parked on the handkerchief of frontage, leaving bare room for us to slot in too. Hanson rammed us home. We got out.

  ‘Welcome to Mug’s Corner,’ Hanson said sourly. ‘Once I kept a half-decker in the dyke here. The second time they sank it I gave up.’

  ‘But it looks a good spot for a chummie to hole-up in.’

  ‘Oh sure.’ He stared about savagely. ‘These are the conditions of crime, sonny. Greed-pollution. Maybe it’s time we had another war.’

  We pushed into the bar, where there was standing-room only, and through a door to the back premises. Hanson introduced me to the licensee, Silkin, and the County C.I.D. man, Inspector Breckles. Silkin was a heavy, fresh-faced countryman, Breckles a cherub with watchful eyes. We pulled up seats round a massive table; I spread out the Bilney photographs in front of Silkin.

  ‘Is this your customer, H. Wilson?’

  Silkin looked them over. ‘Yes, that’s him, sir.’

  ‘What made you notice his little finger?’

  Silkin blew out his cheeks. ‘Don’t rightly know, sir.’

  ‘Did you see it when he filled in the register?’

  ‘No. Because I filled it in myself.’

  ‘Did you see him write anything?’

  Silkin looked puzzled. ‘Now you mention it, I don’t think I did. I reckon I noticed that finger when he was sinking a pint, that’s the time when I saw most of him.’

  A left-handed drinker.

  ‘Was he in the bar a lot?’

  ‘I’m telling a lie, sir. He wasn’t in often. Just last thing he’d come in for a couple, and then go straight up to bed.’

  ‘Did he talk to anyone?’

  ‘That’s difficult to say, with all the crowd we get in here. But I can’t say I noticed he was very sociable. He never said much to me or the missus.’