couldn’t quite believe it had happened to him. Always before the luck that smiles on good detectives had smiled on him at the crucial moment… he felt suddenly that he must be getting old and past it. He was falling down on a case.
At the city end of Queen Street was a small, cheap cafe, nearly on the corner of Prince’s Street. Gently went in, bought himself a cup of tea and some rolls, then sat down with them at a marble-topped table. He’d got to get himself straightened out, to get his thoughts in order. At the moment they were tumbling over each other in a wild commotion, refusing to come together in a coherent picture: while through them all wound the insidious echo — it was there, if you could have found it.
He bit the end off a roll that wasn’t fresh and washed it down with some over-brewed tea. His mind was balking, it wouldn’t settle down. Stupidly he began to fight his way back into the afternoon, beginning with his walk down Queen Street and adding to it, piece by piece, the people who went in front, the people who went behind, the cars that hooted, the programme-sellers using a sand-hopper for a stall. There was the bridge and the bridge- keeper, who wouldn’t have noticed his own brother going by, and the bedlam of the car park with its entrance almost flush opposite the artery of Riverside.
Slowly the picture came into focus, the turnstile, the crowd running loose round the backs, the shove down into the terraces, the music of the loud-speakers. And the game with its end-of-the-season looseness, and the comments of the crowd round about. It came back now, sharp and incisive, even tiny details like the worn paint and patches of rust on the crush-rail. Gently munched on down the roll, the distant look came back into his eye. What had they said about the goalkeeper? Ken was standing in the goal and laughing at them. Well, he looked as though he might have been, up there, watching his team-mates make one glaring miss after another — ‘Lord knows how Noel missed that last one.’ But the championship was virtually settled: it was time to laugh at one’s mistakes. ‘At least it was a clean game… not like the lot last week.’ That was true, there had been very few fouls. ‘I reckon Robson is still feeling the effects of that foul.’ ‘Anyway, it got us a goal.’
Gently paused, the tail-end of the roll halfway between his plate and his mouth. The words echoed back through his mind: Robson… foul… goal. What was it there that struck a chord, that reached out towards some mental pigeon-hole with a faint, but definite persistence? He took a deep breath and put down the end of the roll. ‘Have you got a phone I can use?’ he asked the woman who was serving.
‘You can use the one in the hall,’ she replied, reluctantly.
Gently dialled and waited impatiently. ‘Chief Inspector Gently… Is the super there?’ They put him through to the super’s office, but it was Hansom who answered the phone. Gently said: ‘Look, Hansom, are the reports of those interrogations where you can lay hands on them?’ Hansom snorted down the phone. ‘Haven’t you turned that job in yet…?’ Gently said: ‘This is important. I want you to read me over the first few questions and answers of the report on Leaming.’
There was a long pause while the phone recorded nothing but vague noises and shifts of sound. Then came the sound of Hansom picking up the instrument again. ‘I’ve got the report here,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Just start reading it.’
‘It starts with some junk about football.’
‘That’s what I’m after… don’t miss out a word.’
Hansom read in a sing-song voice: ‘Chief Inspector Gently you’ll be able to tell me who got the City’s first goal yesterday was it Robson. Leaming it was Smethick actually he scored from a free kick after a foul on Jones S. Chief Inspector Gently ah yes in the twenty-second-’
‘Wait!’ interrupted Gently, ‘let’s have that bit again.’
‘What — all of it?’
‘The Leaming bit.’
Hansom repeated: Leaming it was Smethick actually he scored from a free kick after a foul on Jones S.’
‘Ah!’ murmured Gently, ‘Jones S.!’
There came an impatient rustle from the other end. ‘Say!’ bawled Hansom, ‘what the hell is this?’
Gently smiled cherubically. ‘Never mind now… just keep that record where it won’t get lost. Oh, and Hansom-’
‘I’m still connected.’
‘You might get on to the super and warn him that things could get exciting later on.’
‘How do you mean — exciting?’
‘Oh… you know… just exciting.’ Gently pressed the instrument firmly down in its cradle, then lifted it and dialled again. ‘Press office? I want the sports editor… no, I don’t care if he is busy getting out the football — this is the police.’ There was a short, busy pause, then a brisk hand seized the other instrument. ‘Sports editor — who’s that?’
‘Chief Inspector Gently. I want some information about the report printed last week of the match at Railway Road.’
‘Well… what is it?’
‘Your account said that the City’s first goal was scored by Smethick after a foul on Jones S., whereas I understand that the foul was on Robson. Can you corroborate that?’
‘Yes — it was on Robson. Our reporter misread his notes when he was telephoning… we have to work at considerable speed to make the deadline.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Gently genially, ‘there’s no need to apologize. A slip like that won’t worry many people.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leaming’s car stood stood in the corner of the timber-yard, a crouched glowing presence in the gathering dusk. One of the sliding doors of the machine shop stood ajar, sufficient to show a gleam of light in the office at the far end, and Gently, who was long-sighted, could make out the dark figure of the manager bent over his desk. Gently was in no hurry. He ambled over to the car and examined the doors, which were locked. Then he quietly raised the bonnet and removed a small item from the engine.
Leaming was so intent on his work that he failed to notice Gently’s approach until warned by the creak of an opening door. But then he spun round and to his feet in one crisp movement. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, his dark eyes sharp and thrusting, ‘what do you want?’
Gently shrugged and closed the glass-panelled door behind him. ‘I’ve been to the football match,’ he said, ‘I thought you might like to hear about it.’ He moved round from the door to Leaming’s desk and peered disinterestedly at the open ledger. Leaming watched him closely. Gently felt in his pocket and produced two peppermint creams, which he placed on the desk, pushing one towards Leaming with a stubby finger. ‘Have one,’ he said.
Leaming remained tense, watching.
Gently pulled up a little chair and sat down weightily. ‘It wasn’t a very good match. It was a bit end-of-the- season. And the people! I think it must have been near the ground record… forty-two thousand, isn’t it?’ His green eyes rose questioningly.
‘A little more than that.’
‘A little more?’ Gently looked disappointed. ‘I thought you would have been able to give me the exact figure… I know how precise you are about football matters.’
Leaming bit his lip. ‘What does it matter, anyhow?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t, not really… but I thought you would have known.’
‘It’s forty-three thousand one hundred and twenty-one.’
‘Ah!’ Gently beamed at him. ‘I was sure you could tell me. And wasn’t that at the cup-tie with Pompey a couple of seasons ago… when Pompey won two-nought?’
Leaming came a step forward. ‘See here,’ he snapped, ‘I don’t know what you’re after, and I don’t care. But I’ve got work to do… we’ve got the accountants coming on Monday.’
‘And you’ve got the “Straight Grain” books to prepare and make plausible before then… haven’t you?’
