‘So what is a policeman going to think when he’s being a common, ornery policeman? He’s going to think that we should pull in Mallows and have a cosy, comfortable chat with him!’
Gently blew him a puff of smoke by way of reward for this performance. ‘Don’t ever rush a fence like Mallows… you’re liable to wind up in the ditch.’
‘Does that paper and knife look like we’re rushing something?’
‘At least we can wait to check them for prints. And it might be wise to compare the Times with the letter, just in case someone has tried to work a ringer.’
‘And who in the blue blazes would do that?’
‘I don’t know… think it over for yourself. But in either case we’ll need to check the prints, to find if Mallows’s are actually on The Times.’
‘They won’t be. Chummie doesn’t leave his prints.’
‘Then surely you can see the implication? Mallows would hardly have been so careful as to handle the paper with gloves — nor would anyone else, except for a very special purpose.’
‘You mean’ — Hansom struggled to grasp this knotty point — ‘unless chummie was expecting us to find the paper?’
‘Just so — in the normal way, you’d expect the paper to be destroyed. It would be much easier to do that than to cut out small capitals while wearing gloves.’
‘Yeah!’ Hansom paused to let the idea sink in. But only a moment or so was necessary to deduce the grateful consequence:
‘So like that, Johnson may have planted it!’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Sneaked in after he did the job, and popped the evidence under the boyo’s doormat! Because he knew darned well that there’d be a search — there’d have to be, after Farrer showed us the letter; and if he knew where his missus had got the gash paper — bingo! Mallows was sitting right in the target area.’
Gently blew some more smoke at this promising pupil. ‘We can assume, I dare say, that Johnson knew about his wife and Mallows…’
‘Hell yes! It stands out. There’s revenge in this too — he may have plotted it from the beginning to throw suspicion on Mallows. Or maybe just to drag him in, to roll his character in the mud: and this is the crafty way he’s done it — killing a couple of birds at once.’
‘He’s a bright lad, as you were saying.’
‘Yeah — only not so bright as he thinks!’
In common with the group members, Mallows had had his prints taken, so there was the briefest of delays in checking the fresh evidence. As Gently had surmised, the artist’s prints were not on the Times; it showed only the detective constable’s and a pair of others, not on record. A comparison with the letter disposed of the other point — this was the veritable Times which had supplied the characters. The knife, needless to say, was bright and unsmirched, and identical in pattern with its two predecessors.
They had tea, like lunch, sitting at Hansom’s special table, and the local man was too absorbed to notice Gently’s continued abstraction. He was busy devising plans for the further and decisive trapping of Johnson, and was now triumphant, now subdued, according to the aspect that came uppermost.
‘We’ll get Chelmsford to identify those spare sets of prints — they’re bound to find them at one of the newsagents. Then an identity parade, as soon as we lay hold of Johnson… it’s the devil, that chummie being able to fly!
‘And then there’s the knives. Of course, you’re right about them being bought here. The whole thing was planned, not done on the spur of the moment. Johnson hated the Palette Group because his wife ran around with it, he’s got the natural motive for wanting to slash those pictures…
‘So we’ll get on to the supplier, who probably recognized Johnson anyway… if not, it’s only a question of another identity parade. There’s this to be said for that chummie, he isn’t difficult to pick out — once seen, never forgotten, not unless he’s lost his moustache…
‘Where do you reckon he headed for — was it Orly, or somewhere quieter?’
While they were eating another report was brought in, but now Hansom had no use for these tedious messages. The events of the day, though occasionally teasing, had all finally supported his dogged contention. He could see only Johnson, fenced in by every circumstance. Whatever line you chose took you straight to the estate agent. Like a spider he was sitting in the middle of a web of facts, and though at times they spiralled round him, their connection was never severed.
It was Johnson who was Hansom’s chummie — however far he meant to roam!
‘A message from Inspector Stephens, sir…’
Hansom deafened his ears to this fresh invasion of privacy. At the moment there was only one message he wanted to hear about, and that must come via the Yard, from the Quai des Orfevres. By a stretch of imagination he could picture the desired event, he could see two sombre figures waiting to greet the taxiing Proctor… ‘M. Johnson, I believe? You must accompany us, monsieur’ — followed by a call from the nearest phone box, and a quick relaying of the news…
Irritably, he noticed that Gently was speaking to him:
‘We’ll take your car, then, and get on the road…’
‘Take my car where?’
‘Why! After Stephens, naturally.’
‘What the blazes for — hasn’t he got a car of his own?’
He was aware that Gently was looking at him oddly, and then of the slow smile that spread over the Superintendent ’s face.
‘Didn’t you hear the message he sent? Miss Butters has vamoosed in her sister’s Jaguar, and Stephens is busy tailing her, in a westerly direction…’
‘Miss Butters… on her own?’
‘Yes, driving fairly fast. And I don’t think she’s gone after a breath of fresh air…’
They were mobile in minutes, with Hansom taking the wheel; Gently barely had time to retrieve his pipe from the office. Two of the minutes, however, had been judiciously spent: they were occupied in the signing out of a police-issue Webley.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time they had got clear of the city streets, Gently was beginning to feel sorry that he had let Hansom drive. The Chief Inspector, with all due allowance for his eagerness, was not a model of the correct and approved police driver. His deficiencies were the more apparent because they were meeting a flow of traffic. The spasmodic efflux of Saturday had become the steady influx of Sunday. It might have been worse, it was true: they were on the Fosterham Road; towards Starmouth, the traffic would now be packed in nose to tail. But there was plenty enough here to produce some breathtaking moments, and what was worse to suggest that such were commonplaces of Hansom’s style.
Over his knees Gently had spread the three-inch map from the car’s pocket, and on this, with pencilled crosses, he was plotting their progress. They were in constant radio contact with the pursuing Stephens, who was conscientious in reporting every location he passed.
‘Hallo car ex-two… we’ve just come to a village… get you the name if I can… yes… Saxham King’s Head!’
On a more southerly route they were catching up with the other two, whose progress was governed by the whims of Miss Butters. She was making straight across country with all the confidence of local knowledge, never hesitating to use a side road where its line was the most direct.
‘Hallo car ex-two… she’s just stopped for petrol… I had to go past her… don’t think she noticed… am waiting in side road, Braningham one mile.’
‘Hallo car ex-seven… don’t follow her so closely!’
‘Hallo car ex-two… message understood.’
Gently held up the map so that Hansom could glance at it, the pencilled crosses now strung out in purposeful direction. ‘Does it suggest anything to you?’