Gently Under Fire Page 3

  ‘Here he is lads, the brave Englishman! I’m telling you his glass was shot out of his hand and he never as much as batted an eyelid. You should have seen it – bullets whistling everywhere – bottles crashing in all directions! And him, he never moved a muscle, though the bullets were parting his hair . . .’

  Then, leaving the counter in charge of an assistant, he grabbed Gently and hauled him through the strip-curtain. They entered a sort of parlour-kitchen, where a girl was busy with saucepans at a stove.

  ‘Monsieur – the word got round. I tell you, it will be the making of this place. I’ve been on to the suppliers twice already – we’ve sold a fortnight’s booze in one morning.’

  ‘That should help pay for repairs to your counter.’

  ‘Repair the counter? Oh, monsieur, what a thought! It’s the most famous counter in Honfleur – if only that swine had shot some more holes in it. I shall have the holes covered with glass, you understand? Then I’ll have a framed notice mounted beside them. But most of all, monsieur, I must have your photograph to hang behind the counter where all may see it . . .’

  Gently grimaced at the pale-faced girl, who had turned from her saucepans to stare. The parlour-kitchen smelled of boiled onions and had a mean, grey look; like the girl herself.

  ‘Have you seen your son-in-law?’

  ‘Maurice? He’s on duty down at the Fair. He did look in for five minutes, but it seems there’s nothing to report.’

  ‘No trace of that fisherman?’

  Jules rocked his head. ‘Between you and me that was just a joke. I know the fishermen round here, and they don’t go about heave-hoing the visitors. No, monsieur, no. It was the same man each time. Only the first time he caught you bending, yes? So he thought he would economize in ammunition.’

  ‘Was the car traced?’

  ‘Maurice said nothing. I’d say they were still all at sea. But that fellow would have come from Paris, so there’s not much hope of their catching him.’ Jules’s eyes narrowed curiously. ‘You’re quite certain that you didn’t know him? I mean – I’m no blabbermouth! – and it does seem, well, strange . . .?’

  Gently merely shrugged. ‘My thanks to your cousin.’

  ‘Oh, but monsieur will surely stay for a drink?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush.’

  ‘Monsieur – anytime! Drinks on the house!’

  Gently negotiated the curtain and, head down, shoved his way through the bar. At the door he could still hear Jules calling after him:

  ‘Any time, monsieur! Ah, the brave Englishman . . .’

  He had not miscalculated the attractions of the Codec and he met Bridget and Geoffrey just coming out. Each was laden with a stuffed carrier and that of Geoffrey’s clinked as he walked.

  ‘Look at this, George – we saw the locals buying it! Only three francs sixty a litre. Then you get sixty back on the bottle . . . what does that work out at? Seven bob a litre?’

  ‘Did you buy your tobacco?’ Bridget asked suspiciously.

  ‘I couldn’t find a shop with a brand I liked.’

  ‘Well, we’ve decided to picnic at the Côte de Grâce, if that meets with everyone’s approval.’

  Gently took one of the carriers and they sauntered back through the narrow streets, past the church, past intriguing shops that sold everything from espadrilles to dried sea-horses. Fishermen lounging by the Old Basin eyed them indifferently as they passed; the painter had gone; the pompiers, their work finished, were indulging in a smoke.

  ‘Wine must be the only cheap thing in France . . . except beer. That’s even cheaper.’

  ‘Have you tasted it?’

  ‘It’s jolly nice. A bit light and lagerish, but an excellent tipple.’

  At the car Gently paused to let his eye wander over the scene: the streets, buildings, pedestrians, the score of cars lined up in the shade. A scene of peace and innocence, with theirs the only GB car on the park. In effect the sacred lunch-hour was approaching, quick to arrive, slow to depart, anticipated already by the deserted bus terminus and by the lounging forms of the pompiers. Why then did he experience a sudden prick of apprehension, his finely honed instinct jumping to an alert? Wherever his eye strayed, innocent people, quiet buildings, sunny vistas . . .

  ‘Come on, George!’

  With a shrug he got in the car and reached for his pipe: imagination, without doubt . . . or perhaps a twinge of delayed shock.

  Geoffrey idled them through the town while Bridget studied a plan in her Green Michelin. At the second attempt they found the Rue des Capuchins and the exceedingly steep Rue Charrier de Grâce. Houses ceased; the street became a road stretching upwards through trees; then a breakneck left turn brought them back to a level and to an unexpected prospect of the estuary. It was a veritable coup d’œil. From under tall trees one viewed the spectacle: the majestic Seine melting into the Channel and the hazy shoulder of Le Havre, the latter several miles distant. All about stretched a park-like scene of grassy sweeps and ancient trees, among which stood a little white-walled chapel with a low, square tower surmounted by a belfry.

  Cautiously, Geoffrey pulled off to park across a gully intended only for French suspensions. Several other cars were dotted under the trees where, on benches, people were eating their picnics. The place had the air of being the pleasaunce of a château, and indeed behind the chapel one glimpsed interesting roofs. At the cliff-edge, framed in trees, a great painted calvary was silhouetted by the sea.

  ‘France, thine other name is style,’ Geoffrey exclaimed, jumping out to gaze with rapture at the chapel.

  ‘According to Painter, Proust was here in 1892 and 1902,’ Bridget supplied.

  ‘In another hour, when the sun is full on it . . .’

  ‘This could be the site of his La Raspelière . . .’

  ‘Bridget, Cotman may have missed it, but I tell you, after lunch . . .’

  Pipe in mouth, Gently followed this pair of enthusiasts on their rounds, first into the dim chapel with its model ships and many memorials, then strolling under the trees, then down to the gaudy calvary. Surely his premonition had been ridiculous. It certainly hadn’t followed him up here: either the sea-breeze had dispersed it, or the sunny sanctity of the spot. Here, ambling with hands clasped behind him, he felt at peace with the world, the world with him.

  They fetched the picnic from the car and spread it out on a convenient bench: Camembert, French bread and French butter, two pâtisseries apiece and Geoffrey’s plonk. The latter, though sweetish, had a lingering roughness, while the pâtisseries one ate in silence . . .

  At last Geoffrey stretched and sighed. ‘And now I really must get to business. If you two prefer you can pick me up later, but I need a few hours alone with that chapel.’

  Bridget however had brought a copy of A l’Ombre which she wished to read on hallowed ground, and Gently, who had brought nothing, was content to laze with Geoffrey’s glasses slung round his neck. A moment of harmony without alloy. Geoffrey setting up his easel, Bridget opening her book, while, close at hand, another clockwork-like bird was creaking its song from some high tree-top . . .

  Leaving them, Gently wandered down to the viewpoint where a coin-operated machine spoke a historical commentary: but spoke it so rapidly and in a tone so low that one needed to stoop one’s ear to listen. He let it babble and turned his glasses on Le Havre. From a smudge of a town was strung a ribbon of refineries; but also, beyond these and riveting the eye, a liner painted in Cunard colours: La France! Like a queen she lay there, raked prow, lean sheer, asymmetrical funnels, commanding the estuary, the port and the blue haze of the Channel . . .

  While the goon-like voice raced on beside him Gently gazed at the vision across the estuary, scarcely aware that something else was taking place, something so slightly out of pattern. Then it happened fast. Turning casually he caught sight of a blue Ami stealing towards him, the window dropped as though the driver were about to make an enquiry. Dark, shoulder-length hair, dark glasses, a wide jaw with a dimpled chin . . . Adrenalin pumped, Gently flung himself flat, and bullets fizzed past him like angry bees. Immediately the car’s engine roared and, with squealing tyres, the Ami dived down the hill towards the town: though not before its registration number had photographed itself on Gently’s brain.

  And . . . no one had noticed!

  A few heads were turned curiously, but attracted only by the outburst from the car’s engine. On her folding chair Bridget still read unmoved, at his easel Geoffrey was dabbing away.

  Scrambling to his feet, Gently raced up the slope ignoring Bridget’s interrogative stare. Beside the chapel was an office: he hammered on the door. It was opened by a surprised-looking elderly lady.

  ‘Monsieur, the times of opening are on the noticeboard . . .’

  ‘Madame, this is urgent! I must call the police.’

  Startled-faced, she backed off into the office, which was crowded with postcards, rosaries and crucifixes. But there was also a telephone. After maddening delay, he found himself connected with Frénaye’s office.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Gently . . . there’s been another shooting!’

  ‘But . . . monsieur! You are not injured?’

  ‘I’m all right. Now please listen . . .’

  Without more ado Frénaye took down details.

  ‘Monsieur, I will alert our patrols immediately and, in the meantime, may I say . . .’

  ‘Never mind that! Just pull in this lunatic.’

  ‘At once. Monsieur is in the right.’

  Still breathless, Gently paid for the call and emerged into sunlight. Again he had the curious feeling that what had just happened was not quite real. Not quite real! It should have happened to another, who could perhaps have supplied the appropriate reaction – because h
is own had been half an act, and that act thoroughly unconvincing.

  Nodding to Geoffrey, he walked back to the car, where Bridget looked up disapprovingly from her book.

  ‘And what was that all about?’

  How could he avoid grinning?

  ‘I’m sorry! But I’ve just been shot at again.’

  ‘And this was the same man, monsieur – you can identify him as the one you saw on the ferry?’

  What had struck Gently at once about Frénaye’s office was an odd similarity to his office at home. Doubtless the same multi-national suppliers were responsible for the desk, chairs and filing-cabinets, but in addition there were a number of small personal touches that betrayed an affinity of tastes. For example the ashtray: a heavy glass bowl, at present deep in pipe-dottle sown with matches; also the unofficial desk-chair, non-issue carpet, and rush basket replacing the regulation tin bin . . .

  Feeling instantly at home, his first act on entering had been to scrape out and refill his pipe.

  ‘I can’t swear to that. On the ferry I wasn’t paying him much attention. But apart from the colour of the hair, it could well have been the same man.’

  ‘His hair is probably a wig, monsieur, but the features . . .’

  ‘Each time he was wearing dark glasses.’

  ‘You are saying a wide jaw with a cleft chin?’

  ‘That was the glimpse I got of him today.’

  Nodding, Frénaye opened a drawer and took out an album of mug-shots. While Gently flipped through it, almost stealthily the French Inspector filled and lit a pipe of his own. The pipe was a bent-stemmed briar, with an ornate carved bowl.

  ‘These are from Paris.’

  ‘Just so. They were referred to us by the Sûreté.’

  ‘Well . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘It is not important. But perhaps this gentleman will be more familiar.’

  From the same drawer he took an envelope and from the envelope a single sheet. At once Gently recognized it as a photostat copy of an English CRO card.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘As it happens, yes! By chance I once arrested that man. Jewel thieves are not in my line of business, but I came across him while on another job.’

  ‘So he would know you too.’

  ‘That follows.’

  ‘Monsieur, this man has vanished from London. We have reason to believe he is in France, and very probably here in Honfleur.’

  Gently stared at the photograph. ‘But a man like Norton . . .’

  ‘Pardon, monsieur.’ Frénaye raised his hand. ‘You were going to say that such a man is not violent, or at least is not known to be so when in London. But let us consider further. This Norton is half French – as you see, his mother’s maiden name was Vernier. He is a man who can pass for either French or English, and who is as much at home in Paris as in London. Is that not suggestive?’

  ‘He has Paris connections?’

  Frénaye puffed. ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘And they’re planning a job?’

  ‘We have had a whisper that a raid is intended on the Fair.’

  Gently eased back on a chair that creaked exactly like those in his office at home. Each with his pipe, they faced one another, expressionless, weighing each other up.

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Thank you, monsieur. Clearly this Norton is a valuable man. He is an expert in stones and jewellery, one who can separate the grain from the chaff. He will make his rounds, memorize the stands, mark up a plan for the gang to follow. “Clear this one and this one,” he will say, “but leave that one alone – they are dealing in paste.”’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘How unfortunate, monsieur! On the boat coming over there is an English detective – one, alas, who knows Norton by sight, and who that same evening is seen strolling in Honfleur. Has someone talked? Are their plans known? At least, it is a most frustrating coincidence. If Norton is to do his job for the gang, dramatic measures may need to be taken.’

  ‘But Norton is no gunman.’

  Frénaye swayed his shoulders. ‘Monsieur must remember that he is in France. Regrettably guns are more commonplace here, and one would certainly have been issued to Norton.’

  ‘And he would have used it to go hunting a cop?’

  ‘Monsieur, the attempt may have been required of him. Or alternatively, if he were unwilling, there would be others with less compunction. Does not the photograph match your description?’

  Reluctantly Gently scrutinized the photostat. The pictures showed Norton with a prison haircut, but supplying a wig . . . some dark glasses?

  He shook his head.

  ‘There are points of resemblance?’

  ‘This is not the man I saw today. The cleft, the jaw-line was more marked. Also I recall a different-shaped mouth.’

  ‘Then perhaps in the album . . .?’

  ‘He wasn’t in there.’

  Frénaye looked put out. ‘This is difficult, monsieur. If you wish to eliminate this Norton and his friends, we are left with a mystery indeed. Perhaps monsieur has suggestions . . .?’

  Gently grunted. ‘Perhaps we should leave theories and stick with the facts. Did you find your fisherman?’

  ‘In the light of fresh events . . .’

  ‘What about the car?’

  Frénaye drew quick puffs. ‘The car has been found. It was stolen in the town. The owner confesses to having left the keys with it.’

  ‘Stolen from where?’

  Frénaye nodded to the window, from which the park across the street was clearly visible.

  ‘And where found?’

  Frénaye twitched his shoulders. ‘It was, of course, in a different slot . . .’

  Once more they gazed at each other; Frénaye’s cheeks were slightly pinker. He fingered the ornate carving on his pipe thoughtfully.

  ‘Monsieur will no doubt appreciate our feelings . . . the car must have been replaced while I was still on the phone.’

  Gently nodded gravely. ‘A very cheeky villain.’

  ‘It will give me keen pleasure to place him behind bars.’

  THREE

  THAT EVENING THEY dined at the village Routier with Gently in deep disgrace. It was not that Bridget lacked concern for her brother, but that she felt herself trapped by a chronic frustration: throughout his career he had shown a perverse inability to close office doors behind him. Also it was doubtless occurring to her to wonder how far his present peril was real, when she herself had been present at a ‘shooting’ of which only Gently seemed to be aware. Had it indeed been genuine, or had it been a prank to excuse his wilful involvement with Frénaye? Certainly Gently himself hadn’t treated it seriously and had giggled foolishly when he told her . . .

  Perhaps her suspicions had been hinted to Geoffrey, who kept sending his brother-in-law sly glances; however, the meal proceeded with slight thaw in the frosty atmosphere. Isolated at his corner of the table, Gently was condemned to eat in silence, or to draw what entertainment he might from the amiable madame and her three comely waitresses. The latter, coming and going with springing steps, were never short of a smile for the neglected Englishman.

  ‘George, if you will kindly give your attention . . .’

  Mackerel in white wine had been the entrée; then there’d been steak and a mountainous dish of chips which at first sight it had seemed they would never get through. At which point the wine had been replenished . . . had they really emptied a whole carafe?

  ‘I’ll take the gâteau.’

  ‘That makes three.’

  ‘Wait,’ Geoffrey said, ‘make mine an ice.’

  ‘Monsieur would perhaps like an ice with his gâteau?’

  ‘Oh lord!’ Geoffrey said. ‘What’s the use of trying?’

  By this time their faces were rosy and they were feeling an inclination to lean elbows on table. The atmosphere was warm; to an odour of food and cooking oil was beginning to be added that of coffee and Gauloises.

  ‘As regards tomorrow . . .’

  With her back turned to Gently, Bridget was trying to settle the next day’s programme. Her business was Proust, and her problem of the moment to inspire Geoffrey to make the long haul to Illiers.

  ‘If we started by 9 . . .’

  ‘It’s quite a way, Bridget.’

  ‘I’ve checked the map, and by avoiding Chartres . . .’