Free Gently Sahib by Alan Hunter

upstairs office.’
    ‘A blonde, eh . . . ?’
    ‘So she says. Shirley Banks is a blonde, chief.’
    ‘She’d have to have risen a bit in the world to fit the rest of the description. Anyone you know, Inspector?’
    Perkins shook his head disconsolately.
    ‘I hope they serve good cuppas here,’ Gently said. ‘We may need a man up there, drinking them. What else, Dutt?’
    ‘As soon as you went out, chief, Hastings grabbed up the phone and dialled a number. And he wasn’t ringing the bird downstairs, because she kept banging away at a typewriter.’
    ‘Ringing his pals,’ Gently said, ‘to let them know we’d be round checking.’
    ‘Or ringing the blonde,’ Dutt said, ‘to warn her off from coming here.’
    Gently shrugged. ‘We might not be interested. Could be it’s nothing to do with us. But a blonde is a blonde is a blonde . . . perhaps you’d better go back and have tea there, Dutt.’
    ‘That’s the way I feel about it, chief.’
    ‘Also, you can keep an eye on Hastings.’
    Dutt went.
    Perkins said: ‘That’s Cheyne-Chevington all right, isn’t it?’ Gently nodded. ‘Not much doubt. But we’ll have to pin him down on that. Put a man on checking – tax office, National Insurance, licence office – and borrow specimens of his handwriting. We’ll get witnesses who can identify him if neceessary.’
    ‘I knew I’d seen the man in that photograph.’
    ‘Do you remember a blonde from when he lived near you?’
    ‘I’ll ask the wife. She may remember. What do you think – is he the chummie?’
    Gently smiled at the eager local man, began to walk back towards Headquarters. How could it possibly be a coincidence that Cheyne-Chevington was on the spot? And yet . . .
    ‘I don’t think we’ll find he’s the one who drove the truck. We’ll check his alibi, of course. But I imagine it will stand up.’
    ‘But if he went to arrange about the tiger . . . !’
    ‘We’re only guessing it was him. I think it was, but it doesn’t follow he was the chummie in the job.
    ‘Look at the pattern. Groton has the tiger, so he’s out – he must have an alibi. Cheyne-Chevington sets it up, but he’s vulnerable too – another alibi.
    ‘What we’re looking for is a third man, one who has no traceable connection with Shimpling – a man who
doesn’t
need an alibi, because we wouldn’t think to check it. Also, if this third man’s alone in the world and can vanish after the job’s done . . . that’s perfect!
    ‘The link is missing, and we can never bring it home to them.’
    ‘And the third man . . . ?’
    ‘Samuel Sayers. It seems to stick out a mile.’
    ‘But Sayers . . .’
    ‘Did you know him?’
    ‘Yes. I found him a likeable sort of chap.’
    ‘That’s not the point! Tell me about him. How old was he, for a start?’
    ‘Oh, he wasn’t so very old – mid-fifties, I’d say; medium height, podgy build, gone bald on top.’
    ‘Pretty active?’
    ‘Oh yes. He used to be secretary of the Lads’ Club. Went in for badminton and judo – he could send you sailing over his shoulder. But all the same . . .’
    ‘He fits the bill. I’d say he was just the man we were looking for. Especially his being a judo expert – he’d probably have needed to lay Shimpling out.’
    ‘But I rather liked him.’
    Gently grinned. ‘We’ll have to dig him up,’ he said. ‘We can start by phoning a description to Bournemouth, though Hastings may have given us that for a blind. Then we can try the post office and the banks . . . perhaps his bank’ll be the best bet.
    ‘Where a man’s account is transferred to isn’t confidential information.’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ Perkins said, wriggling.
    ‘Remember, the fellow was a queer.’
    Perkins’s ears reddened about the lobes. He muttered:
    ‘That lot happened before I knew him . . .’
    They talked on, along Abbeygate Street, filled now with rush-hour traffic. Above ornate, bronze-framed windows a gilded glass panel read: K. Ashfield,