Gently to the Summit (4 page)

‘I can only repeat that I never met them.’

‘But you remember now that Kincaid was employed here?’

‘I admitted I did. But dash it, only as a wage clerk.’

‘Thank you for the information.’ Gently inclined his head politely. ‘I didn’t know that. But now I do, we’ll be getting along to the appropriate department.’

Stanley’s lips compressed tightly. He seemed about to defy Gently. Instead, he shrugged well-tailored shoulders and rose without another word.

The wage-accounts department of Metropolitan
Electric
was housed on the second floor of the new executive block. They went up to it in a lift which was heated and quite noiseless; it bore the company’s trade-plate on its chaste ivory panelling. Stanley, still saying nothing, led them into the brightly lit offices, down an aisle between banks of desks and into a smaller, glass-partitioned room. Here, at desks of weathered sycamore, sat the head accountant and his lieutenants; the former a heavy-built, grey jowled man with sleeked black hair and a small moustache. At Stanley’s approach he rose. He gave them a deferential smile.

‘This is Dunmore, our wages chief, Superintendent. Dunmore, Superintendent Gently of the C.I.D.’

Dunmore seemed trying to decide whether this called for a handshake, but after a tentative movement
with his hand he dropped it again nervously. Stanley congratulated him with a grunt. He said:

‘The superintendent has a query. He appears to think we can tell him something about this Kincaid who used to work here. I feel certain we’ve nothing for him, but of course we must assist the police. So if you know anything about Kincaid, don’t be afraid to come out with it.’

Dunmore looked worried. ‘But wasn’t he here rather a long time ago, sir?’

‘He was, Dunmore. Twenty-two years ago, I’m told.’

Dunmore brightened. ‘Then I’m afraid I couldn’t know anything about him, sir. I was with Intrics, like yourself, sir. I didn’t come here until the merger.’

‘What about Wilson, Dunmore?’

‘No, sir. He was with me at Intrics.’

‘Spence? Baker?’

‘We can ask them, sir. But I feel positive you’ll find …’

He went through the farce of summoning his junior assistants, but one saw at a glance that they were strictly post-Kincaid. Baker, a man of forty, remembered hearing about him when he joined the firm, but even hearsay was dead by the time Spence had arrived there. Gently tried a pass at Baker.

‘When did you join Met. L?’

‘In nineteen-forty. I escaped war service on medical grounds.’

‘Who told you about Kincaid?’

‘Oh, it was just general talk. He was famous in a sort of way, and his having been here gave us a kick.’

‘Name some people in this department who were here in nineteen-forty.’

‘That isn’t easy … there were a lot of changes made here during the war. People left and didn’t come back; most of the clerical staff were temporaries. Bayntun, he knew Kincaid, but he went west at Tobruk …’

‘Give me just one name.’

Baker glanced uneasily at Stanley. ‘I don’t think I can. The war changed things so much …’

‘You see?’ Stanley broke in smilingly. ‘We’re being reasonable, Superintendent. But we just seem to lack the information you require.’

Gently stared at him; then he turned his back and stumped over to the door. Through it came the clatter of typewriters and the rhythmic cadence of computers. There were fifty employees in the room at least, sitting at desks, moving about with papers; girls, youths, men of Baker’s age: they seemed a positive conspiracy of youth. Then a flash of light caught Gently’s eye, reflected from the far corner of the room. The head of someone wearing glasses projected above a glassed-in cubicle. A thin face, steel-rimmed glasses, meagre hair turning grey: the man suddenly caught his eye and the head was abruptly withdrawn. Gently turned to the group behind him.

‘Inspector, there’s something I left in the car …

As Evans approached Gently muttered in his ear:

‘Talk to the bloke in the cubicle there!’

He strode back to Stanley, who was watching him intently.

‘You know, I could make myself awkward about
this. If I thought it was worthwhile I could put a squad of men in here. There’d be a stink, I can tell you. You’d make the headlines all right.’

‘But, Superintendent, we’re trying—’

‘What do you keep in those files?’

‘There’s nothing, I feel certain—’

‘How am I to know that? You started off by lying to me, and you’ve done your best to head me off. As far as I can see you’ve prepared for this visit very thoroughly …’

It was a row and an enjoyable row, because indulged in deliberately. With a dozen deft touches Gently brought his man to the boil. It was the more humiliating for Stanley because his employees stood about him, wholly fascinated by the sight of their managing director being bullied. Certainly, nobody had seen Evans disappear into the cubicle, nobody had a moment to spare to interrupt his proceedings …

‘I’ve a good mind to make a complaint to your superiors, Superintendent!’

When he was angry, Stanley’s lips trembled and he snatched his head as he spoke.

‘Good Lord, to come in here, trying to play the little Hitler – do you realize, do you understand—’

‘I understand that you want to hide something.’

‘In heaven’s name, hide what?’

‘I’d like to know that too, of course.’

‘You’ve got an obsession, Superintendent! This is persecution, nothing less …’

For ten minutes Gently kept it going with a malicious pleasure. Stanley had asked for something of
this sort and Gently was delighted to oblige. Then he saw Evans leave the cubicle and make a rounded sign with his thumb and finger; it was time to call a halt, to round off the entertainment gracefully …

‘In any case, I’m dissatisfied with the result of my inquiries. I shall expect those records found without further delay.’

‘We shall find them, make no mistake. I’ll not have this sort of thing twice.’

‘And on another occasion I suggest you don’t play clever with the police.’

He marched off; not failing to catch the gleam of relief in Stanley’s face; into the lift, over the carpets and down the steps to the waiting Wolseley. Evans pushed open the door for him; the driver backed them out of the courtyard. Behind them, high in the murky gloom, Met. L’s neon sign blazed sinisterly.

‘Did I hear you having a spat, man?’

Gently’s grin betrayed his satisfaction. ‘A frank exchange of views, perhaps. Did it buy us anything from the man in the corner?’

‘Oh yes. It bought us a lot.’

‘Who was the fellow?’

‘His name is Piper. He’s the senior wages clerk and he’s been with the firm since nineteen-thirty.’

‘Ah. And he
did
remember Kincaid?’

‘He worked beside him for nearly three years.’

Gently snuggled down into his seat, fetched up his pipe, and put a match to it. He compressed the ash with his thumb, puffing. ‘Good, he said. ‘Let me have it.’

‘Well, this Piper believes in Kincaid. He says he’s
certain that it’s the same man. He says he was always a bit of a card and used to have ideas about religion.’

‘That tallies with our Kincaid.’

‘So I thought. And there’s more to come. He knew the girl who Kincaid married. She used to work for Metropolitan Electric too.’

‘She worked for them too!’

‘So he says. She was a comptometer operator in those days. Paula Blackman, he got the name right, and she lived with her mother in a flat on the King’s Road. And Piper was keen on her himself; which is why his memory is so good. But Kincaid was the one she fancied and Piper’s stayed a bachelor ever since.’

‘She must have been quite a girl.’

‘I got a similar impression.’

‘Did he give you a description?’

‘You bet he did. I wrote it down.’ Evans brought out his notebook and thumbed over the pages. ‘Here it is, the best I could get from him after a great deal of questioning. She stood five feet seven and a half. She had a fine figure and some glamorous legs. She had a lot of fine hair, a broad forehead, a delicate nose, a pale, clear complexion and a wideish, thin-lipped mouth. Oh, and a cultivated voice.’

‘What was her colouring, confound him?’

‘Ah, now there’s the big snag, and likewise the reason why Kincaid couldn’t remember it. She used to dye and peroxide her hair. Piper never knew its real colour. He’s seen it everything between black and a strawberry blonde. He thinks – only thinks, mind you
– that it ought to have been golden brown; but if you get a hot suspect, never mind about her hair, man.’

‘And her eyes?’ Gently grunted. ‘Does she switch those too?’

‘No man. They stay grey, as far as Piper remembers.’

‘She wouldn’t be using contact lenses, come in six different colours?’

‘Well, I didn’t think to ask. But I’ve got Piper’s phone number.’

‘And that’s the lot?’

‘No, not quite. Here’s another small item. It seems that Fleece used to work for the same firm in those days.’

‘Fleece …!’

Evans winked evilly. ‘I thought you’d like to hear about that. I’ve been saving it up special – a sort of titbit, like.’

‘So there is a connection there!’ Gently sucked in long puffs. This had got to be relevant, however awkwardly it fitted in. Kincaid, his wife, and Arthur Fleece had all been contemporaries at Metropolitan Electric, and for reasons unknown the present boss there wanted to hide this. Why? Was he affected by it personally? Or had someone put pressure on him? And if the latter, who had the power to put pressure on Stanley …?

‘Was Fleece in wage accounts?’

‘No, he was a very junior executive. Assistant manager or some such, in a production department.’

‘When did he leave Met. L?’

‘Straight after the Everest expedition. Apparently he
came into a bit of money; then he started up on his own.’

‘And then he married?’

‘I wouldn’t know, man. Now you’ve heard
everything
Piper told me. But it gives me a curious sort of sensation, as strong as any of Kincaid’s.’

‘About Mrs Fleece?’

‘You’re guessing, man.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Out Kingston way.’

Gently tapped their driver’s shoulder. ‘Cut across to Kingston,’ he said.

They switched to the North Circular and proceeded southwards towards Kew, the rain pattering down now and beating hard on the windscreen. Quite childishly, Gently began humming the old Air Force song, and immediately Evans chimed in with a strong, practised baritone:

It was perhaps less than dignified, but wasn’t this
l’affaire
Kincaid? Their driver caught the spirit; he came in strongly with the chorus. 

T
HE FLEECE RESIDENCE
in point of fact was in the parish of Thames Ditton; it stood opposite the eyot below Hampton Court and enjoyed the luxury of a river frontage. A short, serpentine, gravelled drive connected the house to the public road, curving its way through paling willows whose leaves were descending in the steady rain. The house which appeared was stockbroker’s Tudor, but of the less offensive type. Its windows were plain, its timbering restrained and its gables chaste and probably functional. Before the porch the drive formed a roundabout in the island on which were planted chrysanthemums, and to the right, through a long pergola, one saw the lawns running down to the river.

There were no lights in any of the windows, though it was now becoming dusk, but a green and cream sports car stood parked beside the roundabout. Gently rang, and rang again. They could hear the sound of the bell clearly; for nearly a minute, nevertheless, nobody came to answer the summons. Then the light was
switched on in the porch overhead, a bolt drawn behind the door and the door itself opened.

‘Mrs Fleece?’

‘Y-yes. Who is it, please?’

She was a woman whose appearance checked with several firm clicks. Her height was approximately five feet seven, she had a strong-framed, slightly voluptuous figure, her hair was black, but had the sheen of dye on it, and her eyes were of a greyish hazel. She would be forty more or less, and was carelessly dressed in a black button-down frock. Her make-up was heavy and smeared and she had dark crescents beneath her eyes. She dispensed a heavy scent of carnations.

‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D.’

‘Oh, I see. It’s about Arthur again …?’

‘There’s a little routine which we have to clear up.’

‘Yes, naturally. Though I thought the people at Surbiton …

She stood dithering, as though reluctant to ask them into the house; her eyes frowning vacantly at a spot behind Gently.

‘The servants are out … it’s rather difficult. I wasn’t expecting any callers. Up till yesterday I had the children at home here, too …

‘We won’t waste much of your time, Mrs Fleece.’

‘Oh, I know. You have to do these things.’

‘We’re sorry to trouble you at a time like this.’

‘No, that doesn’t matter. I’m getting used to it, anyway …’

At last she made up her mind and stood back from the doorway. They entered, and she led them down a
panelled hall and switched on the lights in a room at the end of it.

‘If you’ll wait in here, please, I’ll be with you in a minute. I was just seeing to something. It’s the servants’ day out …’

Evans closed the door softly behind her and then turned to Gently with a grimace. ‘Twenty-two years make a lot of difference, but that’s life for you. It could well be her.’

Gently nodded. ‘She’d have lost that complexion.’

‘Aye. And she’s dyeing her hair for a reason. But you can’t get away from her eyes, nor the figure neither. She’s still a fine woman.’

‘I wonder …’

Gently wandered musingly round the large, pleasant room. It was a lounge, and had big bow windows which faced down the lawns to the river. The furniture was light and modern and over in a corner stood a miniature grand. A long, low couch in two-tone leather was placed back to the window; its cushions were crumpled. Evans was sniffing.

‘Can you smell it too, man?’

Gently nodded again. ‘Yes. Gold Block, isn’t it?’

‘Gold Block – that’s it. I couldn’t quite put a name to it.’

‘And it’s strictly a pipe tobacco.’

‘Goodness gracious! She isn’t a pipe-smoker?’

Gently smiled at him thinly. ‘We’ll perhaps hear the sequel in a minute.’

He had hardly spoken when they heard the sports car being started; a couple of full-throated roars, then a
scrape of gears and the rattle of gravel. Evans started for the door, but Gently dropped a hand on his arm:

‘Take it easy! You’re too late, and it may not be our business anyway.’

‘But she had a bloke in here!’

‘That’s not one hundred per cent criminal.’

‘You don’t know – it might be that Stanley. It might tie in good and proper.’

Gently shrugged, shaking his head. ‘He couldn’t have got over here ahead of us. Better be a sportsman, laddie. After all, it’s the servants’ day out …’

Evans relaxed, but he still looked indignant. ‘The deadly wickedness of the world!’ he said. ‘And her old man still lying in the mortuary – due for burial Friday, they tell me.’

‘There couldn’t have been much love lost there.’

‘You’re telling me there couldn’t, man.’

‘It’s a point that’s worth remembering … and perhaps our driver can describe the bloke.’

When Mrs Fleece rejoined them she was looking inconspicuously neater and she darted a timid glance at them, as though anticipating comment. She chose a straight-backed chair and sat awkwardly, folding her hands in her lap. She said quickly:

‘I had to let out the plumber. We’ve been having trouble with the drains …’

Evans raised his eyes to the ceiling, where the prospect seemed to fascinate him.

Gently said: ‘We’d like some information about your husband, Mrs Fleece. It’s a painful subject, I’m afraid, but we’ll be as brief as we can. When were you married to him, by the way?’

‘When? Oh, in nineteen-thirty-nine.’ She appeared surprised by the question, but she answered it quite readily.

‘Had you known him for very long?’

‘Well, a year or two, I think.’

‘How did you come to be acquainted?’

‘I met him at a party my mother gave. Actually’ – she gave her shoulders a twist – ‘he was brought there by a friend of mine. I probably behaved very badly – Sally was awfully cut up, poor girl. But I really couldn’t help it, and it’s such a long time ago …

‘And when was that?’

‘Oh, years ago. Before he went on the expedition. They were planning it at the time, so it would be the autumn of nineteen-thirty-six. I remember Arthur taking me somewhere to look at their equipment – odd sort of tents and weird gas-masks, and the most frightful-looking food. It was all very expensive and I could never see the point of it.’

‘Did you meet other members of the expedition?’

‘I – well, I met some of them.’

‘Which ones, Mrs Fleece?’

‘Er, well … there was Dick Overton.’

‘Who else?’

‘I don’t know … there were several. I don’t remember.’

‘But you do remember Reginald Kincaid?’

‘No. I never actually met him.’

Her reactions were curious; Gently couldn’t quite fathom them. For instance, his question about Kincaid had the effect of relieving a mounting distress. As
though it were somehow a safer subject, she added hurriedly:

‘But I knew about him, of course. He used to work for the same people as Arthur, and Arthur told me of his funny ways.’

‘Didn’t you ever see him at the works?’

‘Me? How should I? I never went there. It was before Arthur started on his own, an electrical firm in North London somewhere. I was doing secretarial work for a business agency in Balham – Dyson’s, that was the place. They’ve moved to Lambeth now, I believe.’

‘What was your maiden name, Mrs Fleece?’

‘Amies. Sarah Amies.’

‘And you’ve always lived in Fulham?’

‘Fulham? Never – did I say I’d lived in Fulham?’

‘I understood that your mother lived there.’

‘Oh no; you’ve been misinformed. Actually, I was born not far from Dorking. Then we took the house in Kensington when’ – she shrugged – ‘when Mother’s divorce came through.’

‘And your mother still lives in Kensington?’

‘No. She died ten years ago.’

All this was quite cool and without a sign of hesitation. Now she opened her handbag and lit a cigarette. It was baffling. Her fingers were trembling and she was obviously ill at ease, yet by all the signs this had nothing to do with either Kincaid or her identity. If she was Paula Kincaid, was she so certain of her ground? And if so, what was the subject which was making that little lighter tremble?

‘Where were you and Mr Fleece married?’

She snatched eagerly at the question. ‘At Penwood near Dorking, where my home used to be. My mother had some friends there and I was married from their place – it’s a pretty little church, it’s got an avenue of yew trees.’

‘A white wedding …’

‘Oh, yes. Orange blossom and white lilac. It was at Whitsun, you see, just after the crisis. We’d been going to the Black Forest … it’s such a long time ago.’

‘What was the name of your mother’s friends?’

‘Wait … I’ll remember it in a minute. They were elderly people of about Mother’s age. They lived in a house not far from the church. Baxter or Blackstable … I’m sorry, I’m not certain. Arthur was the one who remembered names …

‘Was your marriage a happy one?’

She faltered at that. For a second or two Gently thought she intended to challenge the question. But she didn’t, she rallied.

‘Oh yes … I think you’d say so. But latterly, of course, Arthur’s been terribly busy.’

‘With business you mean?’

‘Yes, business took up his time. I don’t think he always realized how much I was alone.’

‘Was he away from home often?’

‘Yes; and the children, they’re at school. We’ve twins, you know. A son and a daughter.’

‘But naturally you’d have friends?’

‘Well, that’s not quite the same.’

‘People like – Mr Stanley, for example?’

‘Him?’ She shook her head definitely. ‘We’re not in his class; he’s a millionaire or something. Arthur knew him through the business, but I’ve only met him once or twice.’

‘What about Dick Overton?’

He saw the cigarette shudder.

‘I haven’t met him for years. None of the Everest Club members.’

‘Didn’t you go to their annual dinners?’

‘No – no, they were just for members …’

‘Weren’t you on the ramble last week?’

‘Good God, no! I was here … in London …

‘In this house?’

‘No, not in this house. At a hotel. I wanted a change.’

‘Which hotel, Mrs Fleece?’

‘The Suffolk in Knightsbridge. Does it really matter?’

It did; that was clear from the way she was taking it. Her free hand was on her breast; she had leant forward; her cheeks were pale. She suddenly burst out:

‘What does all this matter, anyway? Kincaid killed him; you know he did. Can’t you leave the rest alone …?’

Gently hunched his shoulders wearily and stared at the darkened panes of the window: Stanley had said the same thing in his more calculated way. Kincaid wasn’t to be probed, he was to remain an enigma; they could hang him or lock him up if they liked, but they mustn’t unreasonably seek the truth …

He said: ‘You were acquainted with your husband for nearly three years before you married him?’

She nodded and he sensed again that he was wide of that which worried her.

‘That’s a long time surely?’

‘He wanted to get on his feet. He left his job after the expedition and set up his own firm.’

‘He had capital, did he?’

‘Yes. He came into some money.’

‘It was left him?’

‘He didn’t tell me … no, I don’t think it was that.’

‘Why don’t you think it was that?’

‘Oh, just the way he spoke about it. He was awfully pleased with himself, as though he’d done something clever.’

‘Was it a loan from someone?’

‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t.’

‘From one of the club members?’

Crash! – he was back in the target area.

‘He had nothing to do with the club members. He only met them twice a year!’ Her eyes flamed. She strained towards him like a bitch protecting its litter. ‘It was just a tradition, that precious club, it didn’t mean anything to anybody. They’d drifted apart. They were strangers. The club bored Arthur stiff!’

‘So you didn’t meet any of them again?’

Mrs Fleece groaned. ‘I told you so.’

‘Not even Dick Overton, with whom you were acquainted?’

‘I simply mentioned his name. It was the only one I could think of.’

Gently hesitated. He wondered whether to press the matter further. There was oil in it somewhere, of that
he was certain. But whether it touched on what they had come after was another matter again: he was groping in the dark for facts which were largely undefined. He rose to his feet slowly.

‘There may be other questions, Mrs Fleece.’

‘I suppose so.’

She rose also, smoothing her black widow’s dress.

‘In the meantime I’d like to borrow a good photograph of your husband … one with you on it too, if you’ve got one to spare.’

‘You’re perfectly welcome.’

Without demur she went to a small ebony cabinet and fetched from it an album, which she handed to Gently. It was filled with postcard-size and larger prints showing the usual domestic subjects: mostly herself and the two children, against a variety of backgrounds. In the few which included her husband the photos were less skilfully taken but there was one, a regular portrait, of a much greater merit.

‘A friend of ours did that. He’s exceptionally good with a camera.’

Gently removed it from its mount and spent a moment or two studying it. It showed Fleece full-face, wearing a lumberjack shirt, a piton in his hand, and a slight smile on his lips. His pendulous nose gave a Semitic cast to his pale, oval face; the skull, egg-shaped, made a polished cone above a scanty fringe of hair. His eyes and ears were both small, his neck short, his shoulders bowed. The eyes were light-coloured and looked disparaging. They were almost sneering at the photographer.

‘Is this a recent photograph of your husband?’

Why did spots of colour appear in her cheeks?

‘Yes, quite recent. This summer. It’s the last one I have of him.’

‘Who took it?’

‘Just … just a friend. He wouldn’t like his name brought into it.’

Gently grunted and searched on through the album for a revealing shot of Sarah Fleece. He found one loose in the back, unmistakably a counterpart to that of her husband. It was taken against the same background and showed a similar technical skill, but in this instance the smile of the sitter was unalloyed by any sneer. Sarah Fleece looked radiantly beautiful, her dark hair loosened, her grey eyes sparkling.