till the end of this week, which is the reason why nobody hasn’t posted him as missing.’
Gently laid the receiver back softly on its rest. A faraway look had stolen into his eyes.
‘You — you have had news, Inspector?’ Pershore ventured, curiosity getting the better of affronted pride.
‘Mmn.’ Gently nodded. ‘News I didn’t expect… Lynton being the spotless town it is!’
‘I beg your pardon, Inspector?’
Gently hunched his shoulders. ‘Who knows? We may tie Lynton into it yet…’
When he was gone, he was certain, Pershore would ease his damaged feelings by taking it out on Fuller.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Roebuck, like the St George, had a large central courtyard in which stagecoaches had once changed horses, but in this instance it had been roofed with glass and now formed an extensive lounge. Tubs of palms flanked a central promenade carpeted in red and gold. From the roof depended wire baskets of ferns and geraniums. A cool, leisured, conservatory atmosphere penetrated the whole, and at this hour it had very few occupants.
Dutt was standing by the reception desk talking to the manager. Seeing Gently enter the sergeant clicked his heels and came across to meet his senior.
‘What a bit of luck, eh, sir?’
‘Good man, Dutt — you’ve beaten me to a lead!’
‘Couldn’t believe me ears, sir, when they says they recognized them. It just goes to show you mustn’t overlook nothink…’
The manager came up, a worried-looking man with the appearance of an ex-army officer. He was very deferential and spoke in a low, conciliatory voice. From time to time he glanced at the one or two patrons who sat in the lounge conversing or reading the papers.
‘I didn’t much like these men, but what could I do? They had plenty of money, and there was nothing in their behaviour to which I could take a positive exception. They drank, of course, but so do a lot of guests, and you would soon lose your custom if you started being too precious about it.’
One got the picture at once. Another section of Lynton propriety had been injured by the impact of Taylor, Ames and Roscoe. They had been in funds and they had thrown their money about. They had drunk a lot of the best Scotch and at times had been noisy. Smutty tales had been told in the alien accent of Stepney…
‘When they went I assure you I was relieved. I left orders that they were not to be readmitted, at least the two of them who had booked-out. It goes without saying that the names entered in the register bear no resemblance to those your sergeant mentioned.’
Biggs, Hawkshaw and Spenylove was the somewhat curious selection of aliases used. In each case the address given was that of a road in Finchley. Gently, who had rooms in that district, needed no convincing of the road’s fictitious character.
‘Did they have a car, these people?’
‘They came and went in a taxi.’
‘What about luggage?’
‘According to the porter they arrived here with nothing but a couple of Gladstones. They had suitcases when they left, expensive ones in solid leather.’
‘What sort of money did they use?’
‘I’m told they paid their bills in one-pound notes.’
‘Did they drop any hint about where they were going?’
‘They left no forwarding address. I have ascertained that the taxi took them to the station.’
‘I’d like to see everyone who might have overheard some of their conversation.’
The manager’s office at the side of the desk was impressed for this purpose. It was a small and accidental room with no windows and mechanical ventilation, the hissing whirr of the fan reminding one of below-deck cabins in ships.
The manager stood by unhappily as though to ensure that his staff gave the fullest satisfaction.
‘This is Hayward who tends the bar… he will have seen a lot of them.’
‘You remember these men, Hayward? Take a good look at the photographs.’
Slowly the picture began to take colour, the picture of three small-time rogues splashing about in a wonderful Pactolusean flood. Money they’d had, money to burn, money to throw away on food, drink, clothes, anything at all that took their fancy. They hadn’t known what to do with it, so unused were they to such fabulous sums.
‘They never tipped me less than a quid, and sometimes it was twice in an evening. “Don’t bring me no change,” says one of them. “It spoils the set of my nice new trousies!”
‘Another time they’d each of them bought a portable radio. They brought them into the bar and tuned them into three different stations at once.
‘Then there were the electric razors — a lot of fun they got out of them. And one night they had a flashlight camera which must have cost them a hundred quid.’
Like children they had been, children who had been given the run of a toyshop. They had rushed to each new object with feverish delight, only to throw it away when something fresh caught their eye.
‘The darkish bloke with the hard eyes bought a pair of binoculars made in Paris. The next day he’d got a better pair and he gave me the others.
‘The little fellow couldn’t get on with his razor and tossed with Harry, the night-porter, for it. He lost and handed it over. Bob, the waiter in the bar, came in for a wristwatch because it didn’t happen to be a self- winder.’
Money… a bottomless well of it! And apparently they only been nibbling the outside edge. When Hayward had ventured a remark on it he was answered with broad winks. They were on to a good thing, they said, they had got their money on a winner-and-a-half this time…
‘You never formed an impression of where that money came from?’
‘I thought they’d got a system. They were always talking about horses. The dark bloke gave me one or two tips, and all but one of them paid off all right. He knew his stuff when it came to the gee-gees.’
‘They used to make bets, did they?’
‘They never stopped making them. As often as not they’d be on the blower to someone at the course, and some flaming language got used when a nag let them down.’
‘Did they mention a system?’
‘No, not within my hearing.’
‘What gave you the idea, then?’
‘They used to have a conference over the papers every morning, and the dark bloke was working out something in his notebook. After that they got on the blower and placed their bets. Along with the lolly they chucked around, I reckoned it was a cert that they were working a system.’
There were no records of those calls; The Roebuck was equipped with pay-boxes for its patrons. Some mail had certainly arrived for one of the three men, but nobody could remember anything useful connected with it.
‘Who did you see in their company?’
‘Nobody that I can remember. They didn’t try to be pally with the regulars.’
‘How about women?’
The manager intervened.
‘We don’t permit that sort of person to be brought into The Roebuck…’
A porter was called, then a waiter and the chambermaid. Stroke by stroke they added detail to the empty spaces.
‘Were they ever away for the day?’
‘They didn’t miss a meal.’
‘Would one of them have spent a night on the tiles?’
