Gently Sahib by Alan Hunter Read Free Book Online Page B

expression.’
    Outside Headquarters they ran into the pressmen, who had somehow lost track of them during the lunch break. Now they came running over to the car as Gipping parked it in a slot.
    ‘We’ve something for you, chiefie – a bit of info about Shimpling.’
    ‘Meet Harry – Harry Barnes’
    ‘Harry’s freelance for Smith’s PA.’
    They pushed an elderly, dark-jowled man towards him and immediately flashbulbs began to pop. This was news at all events – a pressman telling the Yard something.
    ‘So what’s this info?’
    ‘I was working with Shimpling. He was at Smith’s PA for a while.’
    When?’
    ‘’Fifty-two, ’fifty-three. We were in Paris together.’
    ‘Lucky for you. What then?’
    ‘They sent him to Nairobi to cover Mau-Mau. He was out there six months. Then he dropped out of sight.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘He left Smith’s. He hasn’t been newsing for anyone since.’
    ‘Sure?’
    ‘Pretty sure. Someone would have heard if he had.’
    ‘And Groton was out that way,’ somebody put in. ‘He was a hunter before he came to England.’
    ‘Shimpling might have had something on him.’
    ‘There’s your tie-up for you, chiefie.’
    Gently looked from one to another of them.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now I can go home. Just tell me how a man can be juggling with tigers at Abbotsham while he’s sitting in a club in Kingsway.’
    ‘Is Groton in the clear then?’ came from all over.
    ‘No comment on Groton.’
    ‘Oh, give us a break, chiefie.’
    ‘Groton has been assisting us. We think his truck was used. And you can print what you like about Shimpling and Kenya.’
    Once more, as soon as they were certain they’d got all he was going to give them, they dashed away to talk it up into a story on the phones.
    Meanwhile Superintendent Bradfield, who’d watched complacently from the steps, smiled deprecatingly and murmured:
    ‘The Yard have been on the phone for you . . .’
    They went with him into his office, a large room smelling of varnish, at a table in which a plain-clothes man was typing on a machine with a double carriage.
    ‘This is Sergeant Hargrave—’
    ‘What extension was it?’
    ‘Oh. Extension one-seven.’
    Sergeant Hargrave, who had bobbed to his feet, sat down again, but didn’t dare go on with his typing.
    Gently took the swivel-chair at the desk, dialled and asked for the extension. Bradfield, Perkins and Gipping stood by the desk like three naughty boys up for a wigging.
    ‘That you, Ferrow?’
    ‘Ferrow here, chief.’
    ‘Have you picked up Banks yet?’
    ‘Divisions are working on it, chief. They haven’t come up with anything yet.’
    ‘What have you got?’
    ‘About Shimpling, chief. He worked as a journalist at one time.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘He was sent to Kenya—’
    ‘I know. Skip Shimpling. What about Groton?’
    ‘Just a minute, chief. A confidential report . . .’
    Everything from the Foreign Office was confidential! Gently stared woodenly across the desk while he listened to Ferrow playing around with some papers.
    ‘Here we are. He was born in Griqualand—’
    ‘Never mind about Griqualand.’
    ‘Well . . . he’s been fined twice for ill-treating natives and once for poaching game in the Kruger National Park. Suspected connection with ivory-poaching but no charge brought. Another fine for tax-dodging and one for the illicit sale of a firearm.’
    ‘Nothing big?’
    ‘There’s a sealed envelope stamped “For Your Eyes Only”.’
    ‘Open it, for heaven’s sake!’
    ‘Thought I’d better ask you, chief.’
    Further pause, with background sounds of Ferrow dealing with the envelope. Bradfield, after jiffling for a moment, pulled up a chair and sat down on it awkwardly.
    Bradfield . . . Gently remembered him now: he’d been a detective constable in those days. A bland-faced youngster, fresh off the beat, who’d picked up a man in a shooting incident.
    Now he was Super, running his own show, smitten with the glamour