the maid he was at his father’s house this afternoon and there was a quarrel. That was just before 4 p.m. and the body was found by the housekeeper at 5 p.m. At least, he was the last person to see Huysmann alive.’
‘As far as you know,’ added Gently mildly.
‘As far as we know,’ the superintendent corrected himself. ‘The weapon used was one of a pair of Indian throwing knives which hung on the wall. He was stabbed under the left shoulder-blade, the knife penetrating well into the heart. Hansom thinks he was kneeling at the safe at the time and the murderer had to push the body aside to get the money. The money was principally in five-pound and smaller notes.’
‘Are any of the numbers known?’ enquired Gently.
‘We’ve got a list of numbers from the bank for one hundred of the five-pound notes, but that’s all.’
‘Who was in the house at the time of the murder?’
‘Only the maid, as far as we can make out. The housekeeper had the day off till tea-time: she was out from 11 a.m. till just before five. Gretchen, the daughter, went to the pictures at half-past two and didn’t get back till well after five. There’s a chauffeur, but he went off duty at midday. The only other person with normal access to the house was the yard manager, who was watching the football match at Railway Road.’
Gently pondered a moment. ‘I like alibis,’ he said, ‘they’re such fun, especially when you can’t disprove them. But this maid, how was it she didn’t hear Huysmann being killed? People who’re being knifed don’t usually keep quiet about it.’
The superintendent twisted his report over and frowned. ‘Hansom hasn’t said anything about that. He got this report off in a hurry. But I dare say he’ll have something to say about it when he’s through questioning. The main thing is, are you going to help us out?’
Gently placed four thick fingers and two thick thumbs together and appeared to admire the three-dimensional effect he achieved. ‘Did you say the house was by the river?’ he enquired absently.
‘I did. But what the hell’s that got to do with it?’
Gently smiled, slowly, sadly. ‘I shall be able to look at it, even if I can’t fish in it,’ he said.
Queen Street, in which stood the house of Nicholas Huysmann, was probably the oldest street in the city. Incredibly long and gangling, it stretched from the foot of the cattle market hill right out into the residential suburbs, taking in its course breweries, coal-yards, timber-yards, machine-shops and innumerable ancient, rubbishy houses. South of it the land rose steeply to Burgh Street, reached by a network of alleys, an ugly cliff-land of mean rows and wretched yards; northwards lay the river, giving the street a maritime air, making its mark in such nomenclatures as ‘Mariner’s Lane’ and ‘Steam Packet Yard’.
The Huysmann house was the solitary residence with any pretension in Queen Street. Amongst the riff-raff of ancient wretchedness and modern rawness it raised its distinguished front with the detached air of an impoverished aristocrat in an alien and repugnant world. At the front it had two gable-ends, a greater and a lesser, connected by a short run of steep roof, beneath which ran a magnificent range of mullioned windows, projecting over the street below. Directly under these, steps rose to the main entrance, a heavily studded black door recessed behind an ogee arch.
Gently paused on the pavement opposite to take it in. A uniformed man stood squarely in the doorway and two of the three cars pulled up there were police cars. The third was a sports car of an expensive make. Gently crossed over and made to climb the steps, but his way was blocked by the policeman.
‘No entrance here, sir,’ he said.
Gently surveyed him mildly. ‘You’re new,’ he said, ‘but you look intelligent. Whose car is ZYX 169?’
The policeman stared at him, baffled. On the one hand Gently looked like an easy-going commercial traveller, on the other there was just enough assurance in his tone to make itself felt. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer questions,’ he compromised warily.
Gently brought out a virgin, freshly purchased packet of peppermint creams. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘have one of these. They’re non-alcoholic. You can eat them on duty. They’re very good for sore feet.’ And placing a peppermint cream firmly in the constable’s hand, he slid neatly past him and through the door.
He found himself in a wide hall with panelled walls and a polished floor. Opposite the door was a finely carved central stairway mounting to a landing, where a narrow window provided the hall with its scanty lighting. There were doors in the far wall on each side of the stairway, two more to the left and one to the right. At the end where he entered stood a hall table and stand, and to the right of the stairway a massive antique chest. There was no other furniture.
As he stood noting his surroundings the door on his right opened and a second constable emerged, followed by a thin, scrawny individual carrying a camera and a folded tripod.
‘Hullo, Mayhew,’ said Gently to the latter, ‘how are crimes with you?’
The scrawny individual pulled up so sharply that the tripod nearly went on without him. ‘Inspector Gently!’ he exclaimed, ‘but you can’t have got here already! Why, he isn’t properly cold!’
Gently favoured him with a slow smile. ‘It’s part of a speed-up programme,’ he said. ‘They’re cutting down the time spent on homicide by thirty per cent. Where’s Hansom?’
‘He — he’s in the study, sir — through this door and to the left.’
‘Have they moved the body?’
‘No, sir. But they’re expecting an ambulance.’
Gently brooded a moment. ‘Whose is that red sports car parked outside?’ he asked.
‘It belongs to Mr Leaming, sir,’ answered the second constable.
‘Who is Mr Leaming?’
‘He’s Mr Huysmann’s manager, sir.’
‘Well, find him up and tell him I want to see him, will you? I’ll be in the study with Hansom.’
The constable saluted smartly and Gently pressed on through the door on the right. It led into a long, dimly lit passage ending in a cul-de-sac, with opposite doors about halfway down. Two transom lights above the doors were all that saved the passage from complete darkness. A heavy, carved chest-of-drawers stood towards the end, on the right. Gently came to a standstill between the two doors and ate a peppermint cream thoughtfully. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and turned the handle of the right-hand door.
The room was a large, well-furnished lounge or sitting-room, with a handsome open fireplace furnished with an iron fire-basket. A tiny window pierced in the outer wall looked out on the street. There was a vase of tulips standing in it. At the end of the room was a very large window with an arched top, but this was glazed with frosted glass. Gently looked down at the well-brushed carpet which covered almost the entire floor, then stooped for a closer inspection. There were two small square marks near the outer edge of the carpet, just by the door, very clearly defined and about thirteen inches apart. He glanced absently round at the furniture, shrugged and closed the door carefully again.
There were five men in the study, plus a sheeted figure that a few hours previously had also been a man. Three of them looked round as Gently entered. The eyes of Inspector Hansom opened wide. He said: ‘Heavens — they’ve got the Yard in already! When the hell are we going to get some homicide on our own?’
Gently shook his head reprovingly. ‘I’m only here to gain experience,’ he said. ‘The super heard I was in town, and he thought it would help me to study your method.’
Hansom made a face. ‘Just wait till I’m super,’ he said disgustedly, ‘you’ll be able to cross Norchester right off your operations map.’
Gently smiled and helped himself from a packet of cigarettes that lay at the Inspector’s elbow. ‘Who did it?’ he enquired naively.
Hansom grunted. ‘I thought you were here to tell me that.’
‘Oh, I like to take local advice. It’s one of our first principles. What’s your impression of the case?’
Hansom seized his cigarettes bitterly, extracted one and returned the packet ostentatiously to his pocket. He lit up and blew a cloud of smoke into the already saturated atmosphere. ‘It’s too simple,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t appreciate it. We yokels can only see a thing that sticks out a mile. We aren’t as subtle as you blokes in the Central Office.’
‘I suppose he was murdered?’ enquired Gently with child-like innocence.
For a moment Hansom’s eyes blazed at him, then he jerked his thumb at the sheeted figure. ‘If you can tell me how an old geezer like that can stab himself where I can’t even scratch fleas, I’ll give up trying to be a detective and sell spinach for a living.’
