They came down Mariner’s Lane, Gently instinctively steering outwards at the spot where the masonry had been aimed at him. Queen Street was lit dully in the twilight. Across the way the Huysmann house reared more blankly and detachedly than ever, white and looming in the blueness of a mercury lamp. ‘Whereabouts is your bunk-house, pardner?’ enquired Gently.
‘Just here, mister — one of those in the row.’
Gently paused in the act of dismissing him. ‘Who gave you the two bob yesterday?’ he queried.
‘Oh, it was a man.’
‘Somebody you know?’
‘No… he wasn’t anybody. He came down the Lane when I was keeping watch on Red Hawk.’
‘When was that?’
‘I don’t know… it wasn’t tea-time.’
‘Coming down the lane, was he?’
‘That’s right, mister. I was just on the corner there, keeping watch down the alley. He give me the two bob to go on the fair… only it wasn’t going in the afternoon.’
Gently bent closer to the little freckled face. ‘This man, what was he like?’
‘He was just a man…’
‘Did you notice if he was carrying a bag?’
‘That’s right, mister — he’d got a bag, one of those bulgy ones.’
‘And did he go up the alley?’
‘I don’t know… he might have done.’
Gently stood back again, brooding, gazing into the far distance towards Railway Bridge. The Cactus Kid fidgeted from one foot to the other. ‘It wasn’t anyone, mister… it was just a man.’
‘Which way did you go to the fairground?’ asked Gently abruptly.
‘I went up the lane and along the top… but it wasn’t going.’
‘Did you see a racing car standing at the top — a real fast one, painted red?’
‘One that could go a hundred miles an hour?’
‘About that… maybe faster.’
‘Oh yes, I saw that one, mister — it had got an aeroplane on the front — I blew the propeller round!’
A slow smile spread over Gently’s face and he felt in his pocket for his bag of peppermint creams. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take the lot… but don’t eat them all tonight or you’ll have nightmares. There’s just one other thing before you go… I suppose you haven’t found a key up there round the alley?’
The Cactus Kid shook his head vigorously.
‘Ah!’ sighed Gently, ‘we mustn’t strain providence too far, must we, pardner?’
The front doorbell of the Huysmann house was engulfed afar off, giving back to the ringer not the faintest vibration to encourage him in his practices: one rang, and waited unhopefully. Eventually Gently heard the soft pad of feet down the hall and the shooting of’ the bolt. It was Susan who melted in the doorway.
‘Oh, Inspector…!’
Gently remained on the step. ‘I just want some information,’ he said.
Susan’s blue eyes chided him softly. ‘Won’t you come in, Inspector? Miss Gretchen has gone to bed, and Mrs Turner has gone to tell her sister about everything… it’s lonely in here, on your own.’
‘I don’t think I’ll come in at the moment…’
‘Inspector, I thought you were wonderful in court… absolutely wonderful.’
‘Thank you, my dear… I’ve had considerable experience.’
‘The way you stood up there in front of them all — so cool and strong — ohh! It just did something to me!’
‘I hope it was nothing irremediable. Now, my dear-’
‘You’re sure you won’t come in… just for a little while?’
Gently sighed. ‘I’m busy,’ he said.
‘Oh… I see.’ Susan’s face fell. ‘We-ell… what did you want to know?’
‘I want to know where I’m likely to find Mr Leaming.’
‘Him! I s’pose he’s gone home.’
‘He didn’t strike me as the home-loving kind… I thought he might be around in the city.’
‘Well, he might have gone to a show… or he might be at the Venetian. He used to go there a lot.’
‘Is that the place near the Castle?’
‘That’s right. It’s a classy sort of place with an orchestra. He was always one to flash his money about.’
‘Thank you, my dear… you’ve always been a great help.’
Susan’s eyes swam up to him. ‘It’d be so nice to have someone to talk to for a bit.’
But Gently had gone.
The Venetian Club was underground, beneath one of the larger and more expensive hotels. One reached it by a long, wide, sweeping stairway with a rail supported on criss-cross steel rods, painted maroon and ivory. Below was a large floor, open in the centre for dancing, carpeted at the sides with deep-pile carpet, also maroon. At the far end was the orchestra rostrum, and on the right the bar. Down each side and along the top ran the tables, glass tops on criss-cross ivory legs, spaced out with tubs of ferns and an occasional settee upholstered in ivory leather. The lighting was soft and diffused. There was an atmosphere of leisured peace and timelessness.
Gently left his coat and trilby upstairs, went jerkily down the stairway, aware of the out-of-placeness of his rather shabbily dressed, heavy figure. He knew Leaming was there. He had seen the vermilion Pashley parked just over the way. Near the foot of the stairs he paused to run his eye over the floor, table by table. Leaming was seated by himself not far from the bar, eating, a bottle of champagne in ice beside him, his back half-turned to the stairs. Gently continued down the stairs.
‘A single table, sir?’ The head waiter looked down his nose at the incongruous arrival.
‘I’ll take that one over there,’ said Gently, pointing to a table near the wall at the side opposite to where Leaming sat. The head waiter ushered him across and he seated himself heavily in a padded, criss-cross chair. Another waiter slid into position at his elbow. Gently grabbed the menu and examined it, frowning. ‘Bring me a coffee,’ he said.
There was a pregnant interval. ‘… only a coffee, sir?’ queried the waiter.
Gently turned slowly about and faced him. ‘Only a coffee,’ he said.
The waiter wilted. ‘Very good, sir… a coffee.’
Gently lapsed back into his chair and tossed the menu aside. The orchestra was playing its pale, emasculated semblance of music, obviously not to be listened to, and two or three couples on the floor were obviously not listening to it: the rhythm alone guiding their sauntered steps. On Gently’s right an elderly man in evening dress sat with his wife. They were silently eating asparagus and drinking white wine. On his left, partly obscured by a tub of ferns, sat a party of four, rather noisy, busily attended by two waiters.
‘My dear, I thought it was because Gerald wasn’t coming…’
‘Did you really think he wouldn’t come… I mean, did you?’
‘Well, I mean, under the circs…’
‘Tony sounds as though he knows more about it than we do… my dear, it’s just possible that he does!’
Followed by laughter.
Gently received his coffee in a small, exquisite cup. Across the way a waiter was pouring out Leaming’s champagne. Leaming seemed to be cracking a joke with him about something, and they both laughed as Leaming took the filled glass and the waiter returned the bottle to its ice. Leaming was having a little celebration, no doubt. As he lifted the glass, Gently caught his eye. Leaming hesitated a brief second, the glass poised and winking: then he drank it off, turning again to the waiter and laughing.
Gently stirred several lumps of sugar into his inadequate cup. Leaming didn’t look his way again. Handsome, smiling, polished, well-dressed, the manager of Huysmann’s fitted the picture as though he were made to measure. The waiters admired him, the management rejoiced in his patronage… and ‘He was always one to flash his money about.’ Yes, there was no doubt that Leaming fitted the picture.
He had got to his cigar now. As the waiter lit it for him, Leaming took the waiter’s pad and scribbled
