glasses projected above a glassed-in cubicle. A thin face, steel-rimmed glasses, meagre hair turning grey: the man suddenly caught his eye and the head was abruptly withdrawn. Gently turned to the group behind him.
‘Inspector, there’s something I left in the car…
As Evans approached Gently muttered in his ear:
‘Talk to the bloke in the cubicle there!’
He strode back to Stanley, who was watching him intently.
‘You know, I could make myself awkward about this. If I thought it was worthwhile I could put a squad of men in here. There’d be a stink, I can tell you. You’d make the headlines all right.’
‘But, Superintendent, we’re trying-’
‘What do you keep in those files?’
‘There’s nothing, I feel certain-’
‘How am I to know that? You started off by lying to me, and you’ve done your best to head me off. As far as I can see you’ve prepared for this visit very thoroughly…’
It was a row and an enjoyable row, because indulged in deliberately. With a dozen deft touches Gently brought his man to the boil. It was the more humiliating for Stanley because his employees stood about him, wholly fascinated by the sight of their managing director being bullied. Certainly, nobody had seen Evans disappear into the cubicle, nobody had a moment to spare to interrupt his proceedings…
‘I’ve a good mind to make a complaint to your superiors, Superintendent!’
When he was angry, Stanley’s lips trembled and he snatched his head as he spoke.
‘Good Lord, to come in here, trying to play the little Hitler — do you realize, do you understand-’
‘I understand that you want to hide something.’
‘In heaven’s name, hide what?’
‘I’d like to know that too, of course.’
‘You’ve got an obsession, Superintendent! This is persecution, nothing less…’
For ten minutes Gently kept it going with a malicious pleasure. Stanley had asked for something of this sort and Gently was delighted to oblige. Then he saw Evans leave the cubicle and make a rounded sign with his thumb and finger; it was time to call a halt, to round off the entertainment gracefully…
‘In any case, I’m dissatisfied with the result of my inquiries. I shall expect those records found without further delay.’
‘We shall find them, make no mistake. I’ll not have this sort of thing twice.’
‘And on another occasion I suggest you don’t play clever with the police.’
He marched off; not failing to catch the gleam of relief in Stanley’s face; into the lift, over the carpets and down the steps to the waiting Wolseley. Evans pushed open the door for him; the driver backed them out of the courtyard. Behind them, high in the murky gloom, Met. L’s neon sign blazed sinisterly.
‘Did I hear you having a spat, man?’
Gently’s grin betrayed his satisfaction. ‘A frank exchange of views, perhaps. Did it buy us anything from the man in the corner?’
‘Oh yes. It bought us a lot.’
‘Who was the fellow?’
‘His name is Piper. He’s the senior wages clerk and he’s been with the firm since nineteen-thirty.’
‘Ah. And he did remember Kincaid?’
‘He worked beside him for nearly three years.’
Gently snuggled down into his seat, fetched up his pipe, and put a match to it. He compressed the ash with his thumb, puffing. ‘Good, he said. ‘Let me have it.’
‘Well, this Piper believes in Kincaid. He says he’s certain that it’s the same man. He says he was always a bit of a card and used to have ideas about religion.’
‘That tallies with our Kincaid.’
‘So I thought. And there’s more to come. He knew the girl who Kincaid married. She used to work for Metropolitan Electric too.’
‘She worked for them too!’
‘So he says. She was a comptometer operator in those days. Paula Blackman, he got the name right, and she lived with her mother in a flat on the King’s Road. And Piper was keen on her himself; which is why his memory is so good. But Kincaid was the one she fancied and Piper’s stayed a bachelor ever since.’
‘She must have been quite a girl.’
‘I got a similar impression.’
‘Did he give you a description?’
‘You bet he did. I wrote it down.’ Evans brought out his notebook and thumbed over the pages. ‘Here it is, the best I could get from him after a great deal of questioning. She stood five feet seven and a half. She had a fine figure and some glamorous legs. She had a lot of fine hair, a broad forehead, a delicate nose, a pale, clear complexion and a wideish, thin-lipped mouth. Oh, and a cultivated voice.’
‘What was her colouring, confound him?’
‘Ah, now there’s the big snag, and likewise the reason why Kincaid couldn’t remember it. She used to dye and peroxide her hair. Piper never knew its real colour. He’s seen it everything between black and a strawberry blonde. He thinks — only thinks, mind you — that it ought to have been golden brown; but if you get a hot suspect, never mind about her hair, man.’
‘And her eyes?’ Gently grunted. ‘Does she switch those too?’
‘No man. They stay grey, as far as Piper remembers.’
‘She wouldn’t be using contact lenses, come in six different colours?’
‘Well, I didn’t think to ask. But I’ve got Piper’s phone number.’
‘And that’s the lot?’
‘No, not quite. Here’s another small item. It seems that Fleece used to work for the same firm in those days.’
‘Fleece…!’
Evans winked evilly. ‘I thought you’d like to hear about that. I’ve been saving it up special — a sort of titbit, like.’
‘So there is a connection there!’ Gently sucked in long puffs. This had got to be relevant, however awkwardly it fitted in. Kincaid, his wife, and Arthur Fleece had all been contemporaries at Metropolitan Electric, and for reasons unknown the present boss there wanted to hide this. Why? Was he affected by it personally? Or had someone put pressure on him? And if the latter, who had the power to put pressure on Stanley…?
‘Was Fleece in wage accounts?’
‘No, he was a very junior executive. Assistant manager or some such, in a production department.’
‘When did he leave Met. L?’
‘Straight after the Everest expedition. Apparently he came into a bit of money; then he started up on his own.’
‘And then he married?’
‘I wouldn’t know, man. Now you’ve heard everything Piper told me. But it gives me a curious sort of sensation, as strong as any of Kincaid’s.’
‘About Mrs Fleece?’
‘You’re guessing, man.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Out Kingston way.’
Gently tapped their driver’s shoulder. ‘Cut across to Kingston,’ he said.
They switched to the North Circular and proceeded southwards towards Kew, the rain pattering down now and beating hard on the windscreen. Quite childishly, Gently began humming the old Air Force song, and immediately Evans chimed in with a strong, practised baritone: She’ll be coming round the mountains- She’ll be coming round the mountains- She’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes…
It was perhaps less than dignified, but wasn’t this l’affaire Kincaid? Their driver caught the spirit; he came in strongly with the chorus.
