Sunday sun falling steadily on the platinum beaches, on the lazy combers, on the strangely subdued streets. On the well-spaced, comely mansions of High Town. On the quaint, huddled rookeries of the Grids. On the highly- polished bonnet of a police Wolseley as it halted on the crisp gravel of Christopher Wylie’s retired drive. On the more sober bonnet of PC Atkins as he knocked on the door of No. 17 Kittle Witches Grid.
‘I knew he won’t come to no good, that kid of Baines’s,’ said a frowsy matron to the newspaperman as they watched a goggle-eyed Bonce being marched away. ‘I said so as soon as I saw him in that fancy get-up of his. Did you ever see such frights as they look? And then for him to be mixing with that young Wylie… I said it would be his ruination.’
‘Going about the town at all hours and taking up with all sorts,’ said the cook at Wylie’s, relinquishing her vantage-point at the larder window, ‘they should’ve let me had the handling of Master Jeff — I’d have let him mix with riff-raff like the Baineses, I would!’
‘I dunno,’ returned the kitchen-maid dreamily, ‘I rather liked him in that silly suit of his.’
The cook snorted. ‘Well, you can see where it’s got him now, my girl!’
In the ill-lit parlour of No. 17 John George Baines, dock labourer, sat in his shirt-sleeves staring sullenly at the News of the World. His wife, a bold-faced woman, was slapping together the breakfast plates at a table covered with oil-cloth and two juvenile Baineses were scuffling and screaming on the floor.
‘It wouldn’t have happened,’ snapped Mrs Baines for the twentieth time, ‘it wouldn’t have happened, not if you’d kept a proper hand on him…!’
‘Oh, shut your mouth, woman… it’s your fault if it’s anyone’s.’
‘You’ve never give him a good hiding in your life!’
‘And who was it encouraged him with that bloody suit — trying to be up to His Nibs…?’
More silent was the breakfast-room in High Town. No sound fell upon the ears of Christopher Wylie, except the sobbing of his wife Cora. He stood with his back to her, staring out of the expensive oriel window, staring at his cypress and monkey-puzzle trees, his impeccable gravel drive.
‘I’ll get on to the chief constable,’ he muttered at last, ‘we’ll get it straightened out, Cora… there can’t be anything in it.’
‘Oh, Chris… I’m so frightened… so frightened!’
‘It’s all a mistake… we’ll get it straightened out. The lad’s due for his service in October…’
Up the long High Street marched PC Atkins, the Sunday-silent High Street with its newspaper-men, milkmen and a few early-stirring visitors in holiday attire. Beside him slouched Bonce, looking neither to right nor left. Behind him frisked Nits, a chattering, excited Nits. Halfway along the High Street PC Atkins paused to address the ragged idiot. ‘You run along home, m’lad, and stop making a nuisance of yourself… off with you now, off with you!’ Nits backed away apprehensively while the constable’s eyes were on him, but as soon as the march recommenced he was dancing along in the rear again…
The sunshine had renewed Gently’s feeling of nostalgia. They had all been sunny days, on that holiday of long ago. He remembered getting sunburned and his nose peeling, and the peculiarly pungent lotion they had put on his arms to stop them blistering (though of course they did blister), and, by association the suave smell of the oiled- paper sunshades which had been fashionable about then.
‘We had rooms somewhere about where we’ve got them now,’ he confided to a bleary-eyed Dutt as they set out for headquarters. ‘They used to do you awfully well in those days… I can remember having chops at breakfast.’
‘Don’t know as I should think so much of that, sir,’ admitted Dutt honestly.
‘Nonsense! You’ve been having these degenerate meals of bacon-and-egg too long.’
‘I should think a chop sits a bit heavy on your stomach first thing, sir.’
‘It’s true I was only a boy, Dutt… all the same, I think I could still face one.’ He plodded along silently for a space, a little frown gathered on his brow. ‘We seemed to be younger in those days, Dutt…’
‘Younger, sir?’ inquired Dutt in surprise.
‘Yes, Dutt… younger.’
‘Well, sir, I s’pose we was — in those days!’
But there was no smile on the face of his superior as they turned up the steps at headquarters.
The landlord of the Southend Smack was waiting patiently in the office which the super had assigned to Gently, and Copping, who had got to bed earlier than most, and was consequently his old spry self, officiously performed the introduction.
‘You think you can remember the youth who changed the note?’ inquired Gently dryly.
‘Ho yes, sir — don’t you worry about that!’ replied the landlord, a red-faced beery individual called Biggers.
‘You’ve seen him before, then?’
‘Ah, I have — once or twice.’
‘You know his name?’
‘No. No, sir. But he’s been in the bar once or twice, I can tell you that.’
‘It didn’t occur to you that he might be a little young to be served in a bar?’
‘W’no, sir… I mean… there you are!’ Biggers faltered uneasily, beginning to catch on that he wasn’t Gently’s blue-eyed boy. ‘He looked old enough, sir… couldn’t be far off. You can’t ask all of them to pull out their birth- certificates.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘Ho yes, sir!’
‘Does he always come into your bar on his own?’
‘Y-yes, sir, as far as I remember.’
‘How do you mean, as far as you remember?’
‘Well, sir… I wouldn’t like to swear he never had no one with him.’
‘A woman, perhaps.’
‘No, sir — no women!’
‘Another youngster dressed like himself?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s it!’
‘Dressed exactly like himself?’
‘Yes, sir, exactly!’
‘And younger — about a year?’
‘Yes, sir… I mean…!’ Biggers trailed away, realizing the trap into which he had been unceremoniously precipitated. Gently eyed him with contempt.
‘This hundred-dollar bill… didn’t it seem odd to you that a young fellow should have one in his possession?’
‘Oh, I dunno, sir… what with the Yanks about and all…’
‘And how should he have acquired it from an American?’
‘Well, sir, they’re master men for playing dice.’
‘You thought he’d won it gambling?’
‘I never really thought… that’s the truth!’
‘Good,’ retorted Gently freezingly, ‘I’m glad it’s the truth, Biggers. The truth is what we are primarily interested in… let’s try sticking to it, shall we? How much did you give him for it?’
‘I… I give him its value.’
‘How much?’
‘Why, all it was worth to me…’
‘How much?’
Biggers halted sulkily. ‘I give him a tenner… now turn round and tell me it wasn’t enough, when it was a dud note in the first place!’
Gently turned his back on the sweating publican. ‘Is the parade lined up?’ he asked Copping.
‘They’re in the yard — just give me a moment.’
It was a scrupulously fair parade. Copping had wanted to impress Gently by his handling of it, and after witnessing the momentary appearance of the mailed hand lurking beneath the chief inspector’s velvet glove he was
