‘Well… I hope everything was in order…’
‘I noticed a fire smouldering in a corner near the quays, so I went over and had a look at it. It was the remains of a large, sawdust-rubbish fire, apparently one that is kept burning there almost continuously…’
‘You make a good detective.’
‘… and after stirring it about a little I came across two interesting items. One of them was the handle-frame of a gladstone bag
… and the other was the key to Fisher’s flat. They were both together in one part of the fire, which suggested to me that the key had been in the bag at the time it was introduced into the fire. The murderer, it seems, had forgotten to take it out… which was certainly a mistake, don’t you think?’
The stare of Leaming’s eyes never wavered. ‘It could have been chucked in the river, I suppose.’
‘I think that would have been safer.’
‘At the same time, there’s nothing to connect it with any one person.’
‘Oh yes… there’s the maker’s name on the handle-frame, and what may be a serial number on the lock. A little routine work should indicate the owner to us.’
Leaming shook his head slowly. ‘It won’t do, you know, it isn’t a clincher. There’ve been dozens of those bags sold, and the number on the lock is merely a convenience, in case you lose the key. Nobody keeps a record correlating it with the purchaser.’
‘Nevertheless, it will be useful to show that a certain person was the owner of such a bag. It’s surprising how points like that increase in significance when taken with other points.’
The smile glided back into Leaming’s eyes. ‘They might, if you could arrange them convincingly… but you’ve first to convince the authorities that Fisher was murdered at all. At the moment their considered opinion is that he wasn’t… we mustn’t forget that, must we? If you go to them saying, “There’s a case against A for murdering Fisher,” they will simply look blank and say, “But Fisher wasn’t murdered.” And what have you got to say to that?’
Leaming leaned back in his chair, his eyes lit and triumphant. Gently sat still and unmoved, one stubby hand clasped in the other.
‘Of course, you could talk about finding the handle-frame and the key,’ continued Leaming, ‘you could tell them all about your imaginative idea of somebody taking Fisher the money in that bag, of how Fisher was murdered over it and how the bag would then have to be destroyed. But how would you set about proving it? And as for the key, they might want to know if there couldn’t have been two of them — there usually is, isn’t there? — and how can you be sure that the one you found was the one that a murderer locked the flat with? Well, I don’t know what you could say to that, but if they asked me…’
‘Yes,’ breathed Gently, ‘and if they asked you?’
‘… I should say that the key was most probably Fisher’s spare, and that the bag was an old one that I had given him at some time.’
Leaming broke off, pleasantly, as though intrigued by an interesting speculation.
‘And how about the key which wasn’t Fisher’s spare?’
Leaming shrugged his shoulders gracefully. ‘It’s a little puzzling, of course. But the fact that it was missing didn’t seem to affect things much at the inquest… it was such a small point, after all, when the rest of the evidence was so irresistible.’ He leaned right back, tilting the chair, quizzing Gently.
Gently twisted his one hand in the other. ‘You seem to have given this matter a lot of thought…’ he said.
‘I try to help the police to the best of my ability.’
‘There’s just one thing, though.’
Leaming’s eyebrows lifted, almost negligently. ‘Something I’ve overlooked?’
‘You may not have overlooked it, but at the same time you may not have realized its full significance.’
‘Go on,’ said Leaming.
Gently spread his clumsy hands wide open on the top of the table. ‘The case that’s building up against Fisher’s murderer may be good, may be bad… that’s something we shall both find out. But if anything should turn up to suggest that Fisher may not have been the one to kill Huysmann, then that case is going to spring to life overnight.’
Leaming leaned forward off his chair. ‘Such as?’ he demanded.
‘Such as somebody’s alibi springing a leak.’
Leaming went back again, slowly, thoughtfully, the smile grown thin on his face. ‘There’s that, of course…’ he admitted softly, ‘there’s always a possibility of an alibi being cracked.’
Gently rose to his feet and beckoned to a waiter. ‘It’s getting late… I suppose you’re just going?’
Leaming looked up at him lazily. ‘I may go — I may stay on.’
‘I’ll pay my bill at all events… then I’ll be ready, whichever you decide to do.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gently had rarely felt so checkmated as he did during the next two days. It was true that the super’s interest had been well and truly roused by the discovery of the key and the handle-frame, but cautious as ever, he had scented all the difficulties that still remained before a credible case could be made out. The main weakness, he pointed out, was Gently’s inability to prove a motive. He could produce no evidence to show that Fisher had been blackmailing Leaming. Without such evidence, there was no logical connection between the handle-frame and Fisher’s death, and hence with Leaming. He agreed that Gently was being very convincing and that he appeared to be on a trail. But Gently had to remember that their own medico ruled out the possibility of murder and he, the super, still felt most inclined to support that viewpoint.
In other words, he thought that Gently had a bee in his bonnet.
Glumly Gently went back over the trail, checking and re-checking, asking the same questions again and getting substantially the same answers. He cornered the tug-skipper in Charlie’s and gave him a grilling, but he would scarcely open his mouth. The ‘Straight Grain’ people had packed up, he said, they weren’t taking any more deliveries. No, he didn’t know where their place had been. No, they didn’t own the quay… it was derelict. Anybody could use it.
Pursuing this line, Gently went down to the quay itself. There was no doubt about its dereliction. Sited between tumble-down warehouses, its rotting piles formed just enough staithe to moor a single barge. Once there had been a shallow pent roof over it, but of this there remained only a couple of beams, dangerous, decorated with willow-herb, and on each side of the run-in to the quay nettles and ragwort cropped hectically. The place was deserted. Gently hailed an old fellow who was tinkering with a hauled-out rowing boat further down the bank. ‘Hi!.. do you know who owns this place?’
The old man put down a can of varnish and came limping along to the dividing fence. He looked Gently over without interest. ‘There int nobody what own it,’ he said.
Gently pointed to the piling. ‘Somebody must have owned it at some time.’
‘Well, there was old Thrower had it… thirty odd year ago. But he never owned it neither. He just come and built that there staithe, and nobody said nothin’ to him, but he never rightly owned it.’
‘And where is Thrower now?’
‘Dead… thirty odd year ago.’
Gently sighed. ‘I suppose you don’t know anything about the people who’ve been using it lately?’
‘No, I don’t know nothin’ about them.’
Of course, if the super would put a fraud man on the books and use his resources for a general check-up, thought Gently bitterly… but then again, suppose they could bring it home to Leaming — there was still nothing to tie Leaming to the main issue. Works managers have feathered their nests before today without necessarily bumping off the proprietor. No: it was no use chasing side-issues. Once a charge was laid, the details would be ferreted out by routine work. And if the charge wasn’t laid, then the details might just as well be forgotten.
Leaving nothing to chance, he plodded across to the Railway Road Football Ground. The car park was as Leaming had described it, between the south end of the ground and the river. There was no direct entry from the
