Gently Under Fire

  Alan Hunter was born in Hoveton, Norfolk in 1922. He left school at the age of fourteen to work on his father’s farm, spending his spare time sailing on the Norfolk Broads and writing nature notes for the Eastern Evening News. He also wrote poetry, some of which was published while he was in the RAF during the Second World War. By 1950, he was running his own bookshop in Norwich. In 1955, the first of what would become a series of forty-six George Gently novels was published. He died in 2005, aged eighty-two.

  The Inspector George Gently series

  Gently Does It

  Gently by the Shore

  Gently Down the Stream

  Landed Gently

  Gently Through the Mill

  Gently in the Sun

  Gently with the Painters

  Gently to the Summit

  Gently Go Man

  Gently Where the Roads Go

  Gently Floating

  Gently Sahib

  Gently with the Ladies

  Gently North-West

  Gently Continental

  Gently with the Innocents

  Gently at a Gallop

  Gently in Trees

  Gently French

  Gently Where She Lay

  Gently With Love

  Gently Where the Birds Are

  Gently Instrumental

  Gently Sinking

  Gently to a Sleep

  Gently Heartbroken

  Gently Under Fire

  Alan Hunter

  Constable • London

  CONSTABLE

  First published in the US in 1981 as The Honfleur Decision by the

  Walker Publishing Company, Inc.

  This ebook edition published in Great Britain in 2014 by Constable

  Copyright © Alan Hunter, 1980

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-701-4

  Constable

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Pour M. & Mme Larmigny,

  Brigitte & Florence

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  ONE

  VIOLENCE CAN BE so unexpected that for a time it leaves only a sensation of wonderment.

  It was a dull evening in July on the day before the Antiques Fair was due to open. At Honfleur twilight had gathered early, anticipating the street-lights by half an hour. At The Admiral’s Bar, down by the harbour, the proprietor Jules was chatting to his son-in-law; the latter, a policeman just then off-duty, was lounging against the counter with a beer at his elbow. Only the light over the counter was switched on, so that the rest of the bar was becoming gloomy; however, the four other patrons of the establishment were seated at the table nearest to the light. These were Auguste the Algerian and his cronies, who came there nightly to play cards. They played almost silently, each with his glass, Auguste chewing an unlit cigar.

  A scene of peace and amiable leisure: just the flip of cards and murmur of conversation. The son-in-law was complaining of extra duties which, because of the Fair, were being heaped on him. When a stray visitor wandered in and ordered an anisette, the son-in-law didn’t bother to turn his head and Jules set up a glass almost resentfully.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three francs.’

  The intruder was a type that Jules knew well – fancy shirt, tight slacks, trendy sunglasses: you saw them everywhere. This one had shoulder-length hair and was aged around thirty. Having paid for his drink, he pocketed the change and retreated down the bar to a bench by the door.

  ‘So, like that, you’ll be on every night . . .’

  ‘Just my luck, you might say. The others have got split-duty, but the way it works out is that one of us . . .’

  Meanwhile Auguste, his face interestingly blank, was raising the stakes by another ten francs.

  Outside, on the sandy walk that ran beside the Public Gardens, the usual bunch of fishermen had been playing boules until half an hour since. Then they’d all trooped in for a quick one, to be paid for by the losers, before mooching off for a spot of shut-eye in anticipation of an early tide.

  After that, just a few passing cars, or a caravette seeking le camping; though further up the Gardens, in a freshly erected pavilion, things were doubtless busy enough. There the Fair was preparing for its opening, with dealers from Paris and all over: from the door of The Admiral’s one could see, among trees, the amber glow of the pavilion’s roof.

  A policeman’s headache . . . because it was so vulnerable, not only Jules’s son-in-law would be spending wakeful nights.

  ‘I’m calling you.’

  Little Dubourg had had enough of Auguste’s sprucing. Agog, he watched as the artful ex-colonial paid out his cards one by one.

  ‘Oh, the devil! He’s done it again.’

  ‘My friend, I’ve played poker with General Giraud . . .’

  ‘Winner pays for the round.’

  ‘Why not? Since I’ll be paying with your money.’

  But Auguste’s big moment was interrupted in a most surprising fashion. Into the bar had come stalking an amazing figure, oozing mud and water and beribboned with seaweed. Slowly it squelched down to the counter, leaving a trail like a sea-monster, hitched itself on a stool and, in a wretched accent, ordered:

  ‘A brandy.’

  Jules was gaping, they were all gaping: even the phlegmatic son-in-law. It was as though out of nowhere had stepped the Old Man of the Sea himself. Moreover his accent was so abominably English that Jules, in his astonishment, could only stammer the one phrase in that language that he had memorized for English customers:

  ‘How is it going then, OK?’

  The muddy-faced apparition gazed at him.

  ‘Never mind that. I speak French. Just give me a double brandy.’

  ‘But, monsieur . . . what has happened?’

  ‘Somebody tipped me into the harbour.’

  ‘Into the harbour?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Now for heaven’s sake get a move on!’

  Jules hastily filled a glass and the Englishman took quick gulps. A middle-aged man, he was solidly built and his jacket sagged from hefty shoulders. Also he had an air of authority, of being a man who could handle a situation. As far as one could tell his clothes were of good quality and his waterlogged brogues perhaps handmade.

  ‘Monsieur, I am a policeman.’

  The son-in-law’s name was Bocasse. A pale-faced young man, he piqued himself on remaining impassive on every occasion. The others had fewer inhibitions; they clustered around, their cards forgotten: the rugged Auguste, his mate Albert, the mechanic from the garage and t
he pint-sized Dubourg. Auguste, whose wartime exploits were legendary, was staring at the Englishman with fascination.

  ‘Who was responsible, monsieur?’ Bocasse asked.

  ‘How the devil would I know! I was leaning on the parapet minding my business. Then someone got hold of my legs and heaved me over into the harbour.’

  ‘Just like that . . .’

  ‘It’s a six-metre drop. I thought I heard him mutter: “Swim, you bastard!” Then I was sailing through the air to land with a flop that nearly winded me.’

  ‘And then . . .?’

  ‘I swam, of course. Along beside the wall till I came to some rungs.’

  ‘And you didn’t see him?’

  ‘How could I? By the time I’d climbed out there was nobody about.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘Just across the road. Fifty metres from the gates of the Public Gardens.’

  The Englishman tossed back his brandy. You could see he was taking it almost as a joke. It was too absurd: he’d been gazing into the harbour, when suddenly – whoops! Some practical joker . . .

  But Bocasse was first and last a policeman.

  ‘Monsieur, I regret that I must take particulars.’

  The Englishman shrugged. ‘Just as you like. But first, I must trouble the patron for a blanket.’

  And there and then he stripped to his pants, revealing a solid and well-muscled torso. Jules, hastening through the strip-curtain at the rear of the bar, soon returned with a towel and a beach-robe.

  ‘I can lend you dry clothes, monsieur . . .’

  ‘Thanks, I shall need them.’

  But for the moment he was happy with the beach-robe. Once the mud was off his face one saw square, fresh features and a whimsical expression as he turned to Bocasse.

  ‘Right . . . fire away.’

  ‘Your identity, monsieur.’

  ‘Hand me my jacket, if you please.’

  From the pocket he took a sodden wallet, and from the wallet a card in a transparent holder. Then he went on scrubbing his hair while Bocasse studied the card.

  Oh dear! Bocasse was going pink. He stared from the card to the unconcerned Englishman. Suddenly his impassivity was deserting him, he was beginning to dither like a common mortal.

  ‘I do not understand . . . perhaps my English . . .’

  ‘You’ve got it right. I’m who it says.’

  ‘Monsieur is a Chief Superintendent?’

  The Englishman nodded.

  ‘From . . . the Central Office?’

  ‘I’m here on holiday.’

  Poor Bocasse. He handed back the card, at the same time stiffening to attention. Yet the occasion seemed to call for some extra acknowledgement: a little speech at the very least.

  ‘Monsieur, may I regret that a man of your distinction . . .’

  The Englishman grinned. ‘We’ll take that as read.’

  ‘Monsieur may rest assured that every possible step . . .’

  ‘Has anyone come in here in the last ten minutes?’

  ‘Has . . .?’

  As though a switch had been pulled, every head turned towards the bench by the door. And sure enough he was still sitting there, the visitor in the sunglasses and flowered shirt.

  ‘You!’ Bocasse rapped. ‘Come here.’

  Briefly the man hesitated, crouched in the shadows. Then he slid along the bench and headed fast for the door.

  ‘Stop – I order you.’

  The man turned; in his hand had appeared a gun. There were three hissing pops and bullets screamed down the bar, shattering a glass by the Englishman’s hand.

  It was quite preposterous – one couldn’t believe it. Even the gun made a sound like a toy. Yet splinters had been torn from the front of the counter, and a broken bottle on the shelf was decanting Dubonnet . . .

  For a moment not a soul stirred, so complete was their astonishment. And meanwhile the man had vanished, though they could hear his running steps in the street.

  Then Auguste gave a howl.

  ‘The bastard! I’m going after him to wring his neck . . .’

  ‘Stay here – do you want a bullet through you?’

  ‘I’ve been shot at by better men than him!’

  Nevertheless he paused at the door, advancing his head round it with caution. Meanwhile Bocasse had run round the counter and was raking off a number on the phone.

  ‘Listen – this is Bocasse. There’s been a shooting at The Admiral’s Bar . . . a youngish man, medium build, dressed in light-coloured shirt and slacks . . . armed with a silenced revolver . . . that’s right, it had a silencer . . . he made off towards the town . . . no, I didn’t know him . . . wait a minute . . . hold on!’

  Auguste had come back, panting.

  ‘The swine – he took off in a car.’

  ‘What make?’

  ‘Do me a favour. It was white, might have been anything.’

  ‘Did you get the number?’

  ‘No I didn’t! Do you think he was kind enough to switch on his lights? He took off like a dose of salts – you must have heard the screech of tyres . . .’

  Auguste dropped on a chair. He stared at the Englishman, who hadn’t stirred from his stool by the counter. Two of the bullets had struck the woodwork close to him, the third was the one that had shattered his glass.

  ‘You . . . you’re a lucky bastard, aren’t you?’

  The Englishman merely grimaced.

  ‘First he tries to drown you, then he tries to shoot you: how do you get to be as popular as that?’

  Into the phone Bocasse was muttering: ‘I’ve got someone here who might be able to help us . . .’

  ‘You are Chief Superintendent George Gently of the Central Office in London. You have not previously visited Honfleur and you arrived here today at 6 p.m. Where are you staying, monsieur?’

  ‘At Equemauville. At the house belonging to a Monsieur Poulain.’

  ‘Ah yes. You are a friend of Monsieur Poulain?’

  ‘He is a colleague of my brother-in-law, Geoffrey Kelling.’

  It was three-quarters of an hour later and the scene at The Admiral’s Bar had subtly changed. Because every light was switched on one became aware of a quaintly nautical décor. At one of the tables Auguste and his mates were giving formal statements to Bocasse, while Jules was hovering about a plain-clothes man who was digging the bullets out of the counter.

  Gently also had suffered a sea-change; he was clad now in a fisherman’s tan slop and jeans. The property of Jules’s cousin, a longshoreman, they barely fitted his bulky frame.

  At a table apart he sat puffing a pipe, a cup of laced coffee at his elbow. Opposite him, also with a cup, the local Inspector, Frénaye.

  ‘You have no other acquaintances in the town?’

  ‘In point of fact, I don’t even know Poulain. My brother-in-law met him at a legal conference, as a result of which they struck up a friendship. Now Pou-lain has lent us his house while he stays at Geoffrey’s place in Somerset.’

  ‘And the gunman – you are positive he is strange to you?’

  ‘For all I could see behind his glasses.’

  ‘You had no reason to anticipate . . . trouble?’

  ‘None at all. It came from nowhere.’

  Inspector Frénaye sipped coffee. He seemed almost too mild-mannered to be a policeman; dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a small moustache, he put questions in a soft, caressing voice. A bedside manner: you could more easily have taken him for a doctor, perhaps a specialist.

  ‘Monsieur, I scarcely need to remind you . . . in our profession we make enemies. No doubt from time to time there have been those who have threatened your life. Can you not recollect some criminal of this type who, it may be, has been lately released?’

  Puffing, Gently shook his head. Yes, he had known a few threats of that sort. Explosions of hatred in the dock when a killer realized he wasn’t going to win. But they were bluff. As the long sentence crept by, prudence returned to temper hatred. One migh
t come out to settle with a grass, but a policeman was another matter . . .

  ‘Let me ask you a question, Monsieur Inspector. Do criminals go gunning for policemen in France?’

  ‘In France, monsieur, the police are armed. From time to time there are what you call shoot-outs.’

  ‘But deliberate attempts – with silenced guns?’

  Frénaye gazed at him sadly, then twitched a shoulder.

  ‘And do they follow their victims overseas?’

  Frénaye sipped coffee and said nothing.

  Behind them, Auguste was arguing with Bocasse about whether the gunman’s hair was black or dark brown, while little Dubourg, when he could get a word in, was assuring them that the man had a limp. Meanwhile a gendarme who’d been searching under tables came to deposit a spent shell before Frénaye.

  ‘Belgian . . . it turns up everywhere.’

  ‘Give Puits a hand with recovering the bullets.’

  Jules, who’d been watching the latter operation with anguish, now burst out:

  ‘But what I say is, who’s going to pay?’

  Frénaye chivvied the shell with apparent lack of interest.

  ‘Let us return to the first incident, monsieur. It would perhaps be helpful to have your movements, say from when you arrived here at 6 p.m.’

  Gently nodded. ‘We left Dieppe at 3.30 and drove here by Tote and the Tancarville Bridge, then continued to Equemauville, where we collected the key from a neighbour. The others were tired, but after a meal I decided to take a look at the town. At about 8.30 I drove down here and parked my car behind the bus terminus.’

  ‘You were not aware of being followed.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can recall, shall we say, no unusual incident?’

  Gently thought about it but shook his head. ‘I don’t remember anything suspicious at all.’

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘I strolled around the Old Basin and looked at two or three boats for sale there. I passed plenty of people – fishermen, visitors, lovers strolling with arms round each other. Also, by the Governor’s House, talking to two gendarmes, I recollect seeing yourself, monsieur.’

  ‘That would not have been remarkable, monsieur.’

  ‘In fact the police presence seemed considerable.’