Gently was dreaming what seemed to be a circular dream. It began at the stab wounds in the man who wouldn’t wake up, took in all the principal characters at ‘The Feathers’ and wound up again with that stabbed torso. And it continued like that for round after round. Or was it all going on simultaneously? His dream-self found time to wonder this. There seemed to be two of him in the dream: he was both actor and producer. First (if there was a first), came the chest of the corpse, caught in a sort of golden glow, and he noticed with surprise that, although the stab-wounds were present, the pathologist’s carvings were not. Next, his dream-camera lifted to take in Jeff, or rather the top part of Jeff: the rest of him dissolved into the haze which surrounded the corpse. He was shrugging his shoulders and saying something. Gently didn’t know what it was he was saying, but he was acutely aware of the implication. Jeff wasn’t responsible. He might have done it, of course, that was beside the point. But he wasn’t responsible. You couldn’t possibly blame him.
As though to make it more emphatic the camera shifted to Bonce, who was blubbing and stuttering his innocence in the background. They couldn’t help it. Gently fully agreed. They had done it at the behest of some irrevocable Fate, which was curious but in no way blameable. It was just how things were… And then Bonce shrank and his blubbing mouth disappeared. He had become Nits, and Nits had become nothing but two protruding green eyes, painfully straining. Gently knew what he was saying. The halfwit’s words piped clearly in his brain. ‘I’ve been a good boy,’ they echoed, ‘I’ve been a good boy,’ and Gently tried to ruffle his hair good-naturedly, but the head sank away under his hand
…
Then it was Frenchy’s rather knobbly knees trying hard to make themselves look attractive: the camera wouldn’t lift to her face, it just kept focussed on those unfortunate knees. We aren’t bad, they seemed to be pleading (and Gently heard a twang of Frenchy’s croon, though there weren’t any words): you’ll see a lot worse than us on the beach. Of course, you’ve got to make allowances, but it’s the same with everyone… honestly now, we aren’t bad at all… you must admit it. And Gently admitted it. What was the use of struggling? He’d been round before and knew the rules of the game…
So the camera faded across to the parrot-faced man and Artie. They’d got a lot of empty bottles, squash-bottles, and Gently only had to see the bottles to know that he was the one who had emptied them. Not that they were being nasty about it, those two. On the contrary, they seemed to be almost sympathetic, in a sad sort of way. Gently had blotted his copy-book. He’d drunk through all those bottles of squash without paying for them. They knew he couldn’t help it, but all the same… a man of his reputation… Gently felt in his pocket for some money. They shook their heads. It wasn’t just paying for it that counted. It was the fact that he’d done it at all…
And now Louey’s gold tooth filled all the screen, a huge, glowing tooth with (and it seemed so natural that Gently realized he was expecting it) a glittering solitaire diamond set in the top and a bisected circle engraved underneath it. It doesn’t matter, the tooth was saying, the inspector can do what he likes, he’s always welcome. It’s not the same with the inspector, he’s an old friend of mine. Yes, he can do what he likes… he can do what he likes… it’s not the same with the inspector… And then the glowing tooth became the glowing chest of the corpse again, and the dream was off anew. Or was it, after all? Wasn’t it really simultaneous, flashing on and off like the arrow outside the arcade…?
Either way, the dreaming Gently perceived at last a change coming o’er the spirit of his dream. There was a word that kept getting interjected into the mechanism, and for some reason or none he didn’t want to hear that word, he kept struggling not to hear it. But he did hear it. It persisted. It paid no attention either to himself or his characters, who were showing similar disapproval.
‘Raouls! Otraouls!’
It was making Frenchy’s knees jiffle and the empty bottles fall off the counter.
‘Raouls! Raouls!’
Gently held Frenchy’s knees still with one hand and tried to pick up bottles with the other, but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
‘Raouls! Otraouls! Raouls!’
He made a final effort to shore-up his collapsing world, to ward off that frightful trump of doom. It was no use. Frenchy kicked the bottles from under his arm. There was a crash of glass which he knew to be the descent of every bottle in the bar and he was dragged back out of the dark or red-lit tunnel in the nick of time…
‘Raouls! Otraouls!’
Gently snorted and rubbed his eyes. There really was a sound like that. It was coming through his bedroom window, and getting louder every minute. He jumped out of bed and went to have a look. And then he remembered… over how many years? It was the boy with the hot rolls, that wandering voice of the morning… his very accent had been handed down intact.
Gently hammered on the communicating door. ‘Dutt! Aren’t you up?’
‘Yessir. Been hup half an hour.’
‘Half an hour!’ Gently glanced at the watch propped up on his dressing-table. ‘You’re late, Dutt. You should have been up before.’
‘Yessir.’
‘We aren’t on holiday, Dutt, when we’re out in the country.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Discipline,’ said Gently, shoving his feet into his bedroom slippers, ‘that’s the key to success, Dutt. Discipline and luck, but mostly discipline. Is Mrs Davis providing hot rolls for breakfast?’
‘Well, sir, I really don’t know…’
‘Then find out, Dutt, find out, and if she isn’t go down and buy half a dozen off that expert out there.’
Twenty minutes later a shining morning Gently put in his appearance at the breakfast table. The papers he had ordered lay fragrant on his plate and he turned them over as he stowed butter into his first roll. The case was still making front-page in the local. They had found a bigger and better photograph, one of which Gently was just a little proud. And they were up-to-date on his visit to the mortuary, and especially up-to-date on his calling out of the pathologist.
PATHOLOGIST RECALLED IN BODY-ON-THE-BEACH CASE, ran the local.
GENTLY MOVES — PATHOLOGIST RECALLED — SENSATIONAL MIDNIGHT DEVELOPMENT, ran a London paper.
Gently shoved them across to Dutt. ‘Nice press,’ he said laconically.
‘We’ll have ’em round our necks today,’ grumbled the sergeant.
Gently clipped the top off a boiled egg and took another bite from his roll. ‘They make it seem so exciting,’ he mumbled, ‘as though we were shifting heaven and earth. I wonder what people would think if they knew how simple it all was?’
They were still finishing breakfast when Inspector Copping was ushered in. He bore an envelope in his hand and an almost reverential expression on his face.
‘You were right!’ he exclaimed, ‘my God — and how! There wasn’t only traces of gum on the face, there was crepe hair too, and quite a bit of it considering. The super’s blown up the pathy for not finding it the first time and the pathy’s as sniffy as hell.’
‘Wasn’t his fault,’ grunted Gently stickily, ‘his job is finding out how they died…’
He wiped his hands on his serviette and thumbed open Copping’s envelope. It contained the pathologist’s report. He glanced over it.
‘Must have been a full beard,’ he mused, ‘I’m glad he found some of the hair… it might have been a different colour.’
‘You were even right about it not being spirit gum. He’s going to do a thorough analysis when he’s had some shut-eye.’
Gently shrugged. ‘Don’t wake him up specially. Have you got any artists down at headquarters?’
‘Artists?’ Copping stared.
‘Somebody who can put a beard on some photographs.’
‘Oh — that! Our camera bloke can do it for you.’
‘Then I’ll want some copies of the Missing Persons’ list and anybody you can spare to help Dutt go the rounds.’
‘I’ll have them laid on. But’ — Copping looked doubtfully at the marmalade Gently was lavishing on his toast — ‘what makes you so positive he came from the town?’
‘I’m not,’ grunted Gently, poising the piece of toast,
‘it just seems to fit the picture, that’s all.’
‘What picture?’ queried Copping.
‘Mine,’ retorted Gently, and he bit largely and well into the marmalady toast.
The super seemed a little off-hand that morning. He didn’t seem as pleased as he ought to be with the progress being made. He congratulated Gently briefly on his discovery of the beard and asked some terse questions about what he proposed to do. Gently told him.
‘You can have a couple of men,’ said the super.
‘There’s something else… I mentioned it to Copping.’
‘If it means more men, Gently, I’m afraid I can’t spare them just now.’
‘No hurry,’ murmured Gently, ‘I daresay it will keep. But it might be worth keeping an eye on the amusement arcade called “The Feathers”.’
The super frowned. ‘Well?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t know quite what… vice, perhaps, for a start.’
‘In that case it will have to wait. Vice is too common during the season in towns like this.’
‘Could be something else… I thought it was worthwhile mentioning it.’
‘I’ll make a note of it, Gently. Is there anything else you want?’
‘Not just at the moment.’
‘Then I won’t take up any more of your time.’
Outside the super’s office Gently shook his head. ‘Of course,’ he said to Copping, ‘I don’t expect gratitude…’
‘Oh, don’t let the Old Man worry you,’ returned Copping. ‘He’s got something else on his plate now, as well as homicide.’
‘It must be fascinating, whatever it is.’
‘It’s forgery — a faked hundred-dollar bill. The super’s panicking in case he has to run to the Central Office again. He’s trying like mad to trace it to some American Forces personnel.’
Gently clicked his tongue. ‘Why should American Forces personnel forge hundred-dollar bills to work off in Starmouth?’
‘Search me — but if the super can get back to one of them he’s in the clear.’
‘Of course, I appreciate his point.’
Copping led the way to the photographer’s shop, where Sergeant Dutt was watching the technician apply the final beard to half a dozen postcard prints. He had made two sets, profile and full-face, and the difference between the face bearded and the face unbearded was certainly striking.
Copping whistled when he saw them. ‘No wonder we drew a blank the first time round… why do you think he dolled himself up that way?’
Gently shrugged. ‘The usual reason — he didn’t want somebody to recognize him.’
‘But that’s fantastic when you come to think of it. Nobody does that sort of thing outside spy thrillers.’
‘Could be a spy thriller we’re working on,’ suggested Gently, dead-panned.
‘Could be,’ agreed Copping seriously.
It was a Saturday, a day of coming and going. As Gently plodded down Duke Street, which led from the dock side of the town to the Front, he was obliged to thread his way through a stream of parties and individuals lugging bags and suitcases, all of them in a hurry, all of them going one way. He surveyed them lugubriously. They were all good potential witnesses — any one of them might hold the clue he wanted, the unsuspected information. And now they were departing in their hundreds and thousands. They were splitting up and scattering to the four quarters of the Midlands.
On the Front it was the same. The beach had a patchy and unsettled look. Up and down the promenade chased laden cars, taxis and coaches, while the touts stood about in disconsolate groups, their function in abeyance. Everything had stopped. For a few hours the Pleasure Machine stood still. There were those who stayed on, but nobody paid them much attention: they were only there on sufferance, it seemed, until a new lot arrived and the machine began to turn again.
Gently crossed over by the Albion Pier and leaned on the balustrade overlooking the beach. In his breast pocket he could feel the stiff pasteboard of the two doctored photographs, and in the distance he could see the post set up by the Borough Police. If Nits knew him when he was alive, thought Gently, it was at least an even chance he met him here, on the Front… and if he met him on the Front it was ten to one he met him on this stretch, between the two piers. Because that was where ‘his’ part was, and beachcombers were jealous of their territories.
What next… where was the best prospect after that?
Did he drink, this false-bearded fugitive? Did he play bowls, or tennis, or eat a sandwich at one of the tea-shacks that prospered along the golden mile? Or buy himself a straw hat or sunglasses? Or an ice-cream?
Sunglasses, mused Gently, rummaging in his pocket for a peppermint cream — he’d want some sunglasses if he were playing hard-to-find. At least, he would if he hadn’t bought them earlier, about the same time as he was buying crepe hair and adhesives. But it was no use making difficulties. There was a beach-gear stall only a dozen yards away. Gently swallowed the peppermint cream and presented himself at the counter.
‘Police,’ he said tonelessly, ‘can you remember having seen this man during the last week or ten days?’
By lunchtime he’d got the usual mixed bag of possibles and improbables. There were people who thought they had, and those who weren’t quite sure: there were numbers who were determined to recognize nothing shown them by a policeman. One gentleman, indeed, was completely positive. The deceased had been to his stall two days running — he’d bought some sun-tan lotion and a pair of frog-man flippers. ‘When was that?’ asked Gently eagerly. ‘Yesterday and the day before,’ responded the helpful one…
It was a dispiriting business. He’d been through it before many a time, and with similar results. But here and today it seemed particularly dejecting, as though the whole prospects of the case were tied up with his good or ill success that morning…
They weren’t, of course. He was only probing a little of the surface. Elsewhere Dutt and his colleagues were at work on the lines of strongest probability. He glanced at his wristwatch and made for a phone-box. By now they ought to have made some progress.
He dialled, and got the switchboard girl.
‘Chief Inspector Gently. Give me the desk.’
She gave him the desk and the duty sergeant answered slickly.
‘Gently here… has Sergeant Dutt reported back yet?’
There was a buzz and a faraway question and answer.
‘No, sir,’ returned the duty sergeant, ‘Bryce and Williams have come in — they’re in the canteen having their lunch. I don’t think they had much luck, sir. Shall I get them to speak to you?’
‘No… don’t bother them.’ Gently made a rapid survey of the terrain without. ‘When Dutt comes in get him to phone me at the Beachside Cafe… you got that?’
‘The Beachside Cafe… what is the number, sir?’
‘Find out,’ retorted Gently peevishly, ‘I’m a policeman, not the local directory.’
He hung up frowning and shouldered his way out of the box. So Bryce and Williams had drawn a blank also. Like himself. Like Dutt, probably. And there couldn’t be so many chances left on that list…
He directed his steps to the Beachside Cafe. It was one of the smaller of the cafes on that part of the Front, a green-painted wooden structure with a sort of veranda that faced the sea. Gently sat himself at one of the veranda tables and ordered a table d’hote lunch. Three out of the four of them had drawn a blank… three out of four. Was it going to fold up on him, that little streak of luck — his ‘dramatic midnight move’, as the paper called it? But he’d been right
… the man had been wearing a false beard. And Nits had known about it, so the man must have been in Starmouth…
‘Your soup, sir,’ said the waiter at his elbow. Gently grunted and made room for the plate.
‘Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you Chief Inspector Gently?’ faltered the waiter, hovering at a respectful distance.
Gently eyed him without enthusiasm. ‘I might be,’ he said.
‘I recognized you from your picture in the paper, sir.’
‘You’re good at it,’ said Gently, ‘my mother wouldn’t have done.’
‘Naturally we’re interested, sir, it all happening so close…’
Gently sighed and gave the waiter the benefit of a prolonged stare. ‘You wouldn’t like to be helpful, I suppose?’ he asked.
‘Of course, sir…’ The waiter sounded as though he were conscious of being about to buy something.
‘Really helpful?’
‘If there’s anything I can do…’
Gently produced his two doctored prints and shoved them under the waiter’s nose. ‘What did he have for lunch last time he was here, or don’t you remember?’
The waiter gulped like a guilty schoolboy. ‘Dover sole and chips, sir, and fruit salad to follow.’
‘He had what-!’
‘Dover sole and chips, sir. I remember because it was on the Tuesday, which is the only day we have it.’
There was a razor-edged pause while Gently clutched at his chair to prevent it revolving quite so fast. The waiter flinched and edged back a pace.
‘Now let’s be calm about this,’ said Gently sternly, ‘it was Dover sole and chips — not just Dover sole?’
‘No, sir… it was always chips. He was very fond of them.’
‘You mean he’d been here before?’
‘Of course, sir. He came here regular.’
‘Regular! How long does it take someone to become a regular?’
The waiter looked worried. ‘I think it was Thursday last week… might have been Wednesday. Anyway, he came every day after that, including Sunday… he sat at this table, sir. I thought perhaps you knew him.’
Gently laughed with a certain amount of hollowness. ‘I do,’ he said, ‘in a manner of speaking. But I’ve still a lot to learn. What’s your name?’
‘Withers, sir.’
‘Well, take that other chair, Withers.’
‘Y-yes, sir.’
‘Don’t be nervous — I’ll square you with your boss. And you can fetch in the roast beef when I’m ready for it — even Central Office men have to eat.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir!’
Withers pulled out the chair and lowered himself dubiously on to the edge of it. He had the unhappy air of someone who had bitten off more than he could chew. Gently crumbled some roll into his Brown Windsor and tested a mouthful. It seemed up to a fairish standard in provincial Brown Windsors.
‘So he came here first on Thursday, Withers. Or it might have been Wednesday.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘You haven’t any preference.’
‘N-no, sir… I just don’t remember.’
Gently nodded intelligently and tried another spoonful of soup. ‘Did he have any name that chanced to leak out?’
‘He said to call him Max, sir.’
‘Max, eh?’ Gently rolled the word round his tongue. Now he’d even got a name for the fellow! ‘Max anything or just Max?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Just Max, sir.’
Gently sighed. ‘I felt it had to be. He had an accent, though, this Max?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘What sort of an accent… did you recognize it?’
The waiter stirred tormentedly. ‘Foreign, I’d say, sir.’
‘Was it French, for instance?’
‘Yes, sir, it might have been.’
‘Or German?’
‘No, I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Russian, maybe?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say it wasn’t, sir.’
‘You couldn’t imitate something he said?’
The waiter shook his head and sent a haunted look towards the rear of the cafe. Gently shook his head also and reapplied himself to his soup. But why should he complain, he asked himself, why look such a regal gift-horse in the mouth? Ten minutes ago he had begun to despair and now he actually knew the dead man’s name…!
‘Describe it,’ he said, ‘describe Max coming in here and having lunch.’
‘H-how do you mean, sir?’ faltered the waiter.
‘Tell me, man! Tell it as though he were just coming in at the door.’
The waiter twisted his hands together agonizedly and cleared his throat. ‘H-he’d come in…’ he began, ‘he’d stand for a moment looking about… as though he expected to see somebody he knew…’
‘Did he ever see that somebody?’
‘No, I d-don’t think so, sir.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘He’d got a light grey suit, sir. On Sunday he wore a darker one, but the other days it was the light grey. And he had a blue bow tie.’
‘Go on.’
‘He carried an attache case, sir, he had it with him every day except the last day… then there was his beard, that struck me as being funny… and the way he spoke…’
‘What did he say?’
‘When he first came in he asked me my name, sir. Then he sort of laughed and told me to call him Max.’
‘Was there any reason for that?’
‘It was because I called him “sir,” sir. He said they didn’t call people “sir” where he came from, and then he laughed again and patted me on the arm.’
‘He was a friendly type, was he?’
‘Oh yes, sir, quite a gent.’
‘So he patted you on the arm. What happened then?’
‘He ordered the chicken, sir, and sent me out for a bottle of wine … we aren’t on the licence here, sir.’
‘And what day were you serving chicken last week?’
‘Wednesday, sir.’
‘Ah!’ said Gently with satisfaction. He laid down his spoon. ‘We’ll pause for a moment on that happy note… just pop along and see what the roast beef is doing.’
‘Certainly, sir!’
‘And fetch me a lager, Withers. The occasion seems to justify it.’
The waiter slipped from the chair and resumed his function with obvious relief. Gently smiled distantly at a paddling child. Another time Withers wouldn’t be quite so forward in accosting chief inspectors who got their pictures in the papers…
And the name was Max. Max, in a light grey suit with a blue bow tie. Max, who came from somewhere where they didn’t ‘sir’ people. Max, who was friendly. Max, who was quite a gent. Max, who had sat at that same table from Wednesday till Tuesday, eating his chicken, his Dover sole and chips, and drinking the wine Withers brought him from over the road… and Max, who had finished up as Exhibit A on the mortuary slab exactly a week after his first appearance. He was getting into focus, that one. Gently was beginning to see him, to fit him in. And over all there was his foreign-ness, pervasive and misty, his Franco-German-Russo-what-have-you foreign-ness…
Withers returned with Gently’s roast beef and the lager. He seemed to have been gone a good deal longer than was strictly necessary, even allowing for the trip across the road. Gently raised his eyebrows to the unhappy man.
‘Talked it over with the boss, Withers?’ he inquired affably.
‘I–I beg your pardon, sir!’ stammered Withers, spilling some lager.
‘Never mind, Withers… and don’t be well-bred about the vegetables.’
The waiter served, and Gently picked up his knife and fork. It was odd, but he hadn’t been feeling hungry when he came into the cafe…
‘Sit down,’ he mumbled to Withers, ‘you’ll give me indigestion, jiffling about like that.’
‘I b-beg your pardon, sir, but really I ought to be getting on with my work… there isn’t n-nothing I haven’t told you, honest…’
Gently beamed at him over a mouthful of lager. ‘Nonsense, Withers, we’ve only just begun…’
‘It’s making extra work for the others, sir,’ persisted Withers, encouraged by the beam.
‘Sit down!’ retorted Gently with a slight touch of Bogartesque.
Withers sat down at great speed.
‘… Now,’ continued Gently, after a certain amount of plate-work, ‘we got to him ordering the chicken and sending out for some wine. What sort of wine did he send for?’
‘Just red wine, sir. I got him a brand they specialize in over the road.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment. Did he express his satisfaction?’
‘N-no sir, not really.’
‘Did he order the same wine the next day?’
‘He asked if they hadn’t got another brand… I couldn’t understand the name he gave it.’
‘What did it sound like?’
‘It just sounded foreign, sir…’
‘Like what sort of foreign?’
‘I d-don’t know… just gibberish.’
‘Did you ask if they’d got it?’
‘No, sir. I couldn’t say the name.’
‘So what did he have?’
‘I got him Burgundy, sir, when he wanted a red, and Sauternes when he wanted a white.’
‘And that was satisfactory?’
‘He seemed a bit surprised at the price, sir.’
‘He was a foreigner, Withers.’
‘Yes, sir, I dare say that had something to do with it.’
Gently brooded a moment over a roast potato. Then he halved it meticulously and transported one half, suitably garnished with gravy, to a meditative mouth. ‘What did he have for sweet, Withers?’ he asked through the potato.
‘Ice-cream, sir.’
‘Not much to be deduced from that… was his coffee black?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he smoke…? Cigarettes…?’
‘He bought a box, sir.’
‘A box, Withers?’
‘Twenty-five Sobranie, sir.’
Gently raised an eyebrow. ‘And what particular variety?’
‘Just Balkan Sobranie, sir. He bought a box every day after that …’
‘He seems to have been a well-heeled foreigner, Withers.’
‘Yes, sir. He never tipped less than half a crown.’
Gently finished his roast beef and motioned to have his plate removed. Withers took it adroitly and produced a cold sweet from a side-table. It was a trifle, a robustly constructed affair involving sliced pineapple, and Gently inserted a spoon in it with unabated gusto.
‘Of course, he asked a few questions,’ volunteered Withers, beginning to feel that Gently wasn’t so bad after all. ‘He wanted to know if we got many foreigners in Starmouth.’
‘Mmph?’ grunted Gently, ‘what did you tell him?’
‘I told him we scarcely saw one — not a right foreigner… just midlanders and such-like.’
‘Yanks,’ mumbled Gently.
‘Well there… we don’t count them.’
‘Was he happy about the situation?’
‘It didn’t seem to worry him, sir. He said we might have him around for a bit… and later on, of course, he picked up with a woman …’
Gently made a choking noise over a segment of pineapple. ‘What was that, Withers…!’
‘He picked up with a fern, sir. Brought her in to lunch here on the Tuesday.’
Gently got rid of the pineapple with a struggle. ‘So he did… did he! Just like that! Why the flaming hell didn’t you say so sooner?’
‘You never asked me, sir!’ exclaimed Withers, surprised and apprehensive, ‘it wasn’t nobody really, sir… just one of the girls you get around here during the season…’
‘Just one of the girls!’ Gently gazed at the wilting waiter. Then he took himself firmly in hand and counted ten before firing the next question. ‘You know her name? It wouldn’t be Yvette, by any chance?’
‘No, sir! I don’t know her name! I’ve never had nothing to do with women of that class…’
‘She’s the little dark one with long slinky hair.’
‘But this one’s a blonde, sir — quite well set-up. And her hair is short.’
‘Nice legs — smooth, rounded knees.’
‘I d-didn’t notice, sir…’
‘Don’t lie at this stage, Withers!’
‘I thought they were bony, sir — I did, honest I did!’
‘She speaks with an educated accent.’
‘Not this one, sir — she’s terribly common!’
‘You’d recognize her again?’
‘Of course, sir. Anywhere!’
A telephone began pealing at the counter inside the cafe and Gently relaxed his hypnotic attention from the freshly-shattered Withers. ‘Go and take it,’ he purred, ‘it’s probably for me.’
Withers departed like greased lightning. He was back inside seven seconds.
‘A S-sergeant Dutt, sir, asking for you…’
Gently made the phone in even better time than Withers.
‘Gently…!’ he rapped, ‘what’s new with you, Dutt?’
‘We’ve placed him, sir!’ echoed Dutt’s voice excitedly, ‘he was missing from a lodging in Blantyre Road — disappeared on Tuesday evening and nothing heard since. The woman who let the room identified him straight away. His name was Max something — she didn’t know what.’
A faraway look came into Gently’s eyes. It was directed at the ceiling, but in reality it plumbed sidereal space and lodged betwixt two spiral nebulae.
‘Get a car, Dutt,’ he said, ‘come straight down here and pick me up…’
‘Yessir!’ rattled Dutt, ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
‘Ten minutes,’ mused Gently, ‘that’ll just give me time to drink my coffee… won’t it, Withers?’