Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

she didn’t, that’s a point you’ll have to watch. And while I’m playing the Devil’s advocate, I’ll just ask you something else. You’ll have had a long session with Fazakerly?’
    ‘Of course, Chief.’
    ‘Did you let him smoke?’
    Reynolds wriggled his shoulders. ‘It’s an open-and-shut case. I didn’t see any need to be tough with him.’
    ‘But did you notice anything?’
    ‘Well . . . nothing special.’
    ‘In the way he lit his fag, or stubbed it out?’
    Reynolds gazed at him glumly.
    ‘Fazakerly is left-handed,’ Gently said. ‘And you’ve got a dab from a right-hand finger.’
    He picked up the pin again, weighing it, balancing it. It had plainly not been intended for use on a yacht. It was over a foot long and probably weighed three pounds: more likely it had been salvaged from one of the big barges. But it was lethal . . . oh yes! A tap from that would crack a skull. And however angry you were, when you picked it up, its weight would give you pause unless your intention was to kill . . .
    Yes: a killer’s weapon. You could rule out manslaughter.
    ‘Are you busy for an hour?’
    Reynolds shook his head lyingly. He could scarcely be anything else than busy, but one didn’t argue with Gently.
    ‘Let’s go over to the flat, then, and you can fill me in on the spot.’
    Reynolds bowed his head and opened the door. He didn’t even leave a message.
     
    Bland Street, Chelsea, was a short cul-de-sac ending with the block of flats called Carlyle Court. They had been built during the concrete phase of the ’thirties and had the air of a set from
Things To Come.
Slab fronts, in a medley of planes, concluded in small square towers roofed with copper domes, and the porch, a lofty Babylonian concept, carried giant bas-reliefs of wrestling women.
    Reynolds rang and they were admitted by an elderly porter in a wine-coloured uniform.
    ‘This is Dobson,’ Reynolds said. ‘He let Fazakerly in on Monday.’
    ‘What time was that?’ Gently asked.
    ‘Half past three, sir,’ Dobson said.
    ‘You’re sure of the time?’
    ‘Oh yes, sir, definitely. That clock up there had just chimed the half-past.’
    He spoke defensively, a faded old man with a waxed walrus moustache, standing peering up at Gently, his dulled eyes puckered and straining.
    ‘You know Fazakerly well, of course.’
    ‘Oh yes, sir. Been here several years.’
    ‘What did you make of him?’
    ‘Cheery, sir. Always had a kind word.’
    ‘Where did he leave his car on Monday?’
    ‘Out front there, like always.’
    ‘Like always?’
    ‘He was never in long, sir. Always out and about, that’s Mr Fazakerly.’
    ‘He parked his car, and you admitted him. Did you have any conversation?’
    ‘Well, just a few words, sir. You know how it is. Like if he’d had a good weekend, something like that.’ What sort of mood was he in?’
    ‘Cheery, sir. Never known him any different.’
    ‘Why didn’t you see him go out again?’
    ‘I must have been doing the boiler, sir.’
    Gently nodded. He was conscious of a faint fragrance pervading the thickly-carpeted hall, the walls of which, rising to the height of the second storey, were ornamented with alcoves and thick gilded grilles.
    ‘Who runs this place?’
    ‘Mr Stockbridge, sir. He’s the manager, he is.’
    ‘Where can I find him?’
    ‘He’ll be in his office, sir. Down this corridor and on the right.’
    Gently led the way down the corridor, which had plastered walls with a coloured stipple, and found a slab door painted plum red and lettered: C. F. Stockbridge (Manager). He knocked, and a voice told him to come in. They entered a large room with no windows. Instead, it was lit by concealed lights from behind panels on each of the four walls. A man rose from a desk spread with papers.
    ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I was wondering when you’d look in . . . tell me, when shall we get possession?’
    He was a dark-haired man in his forties, dressed in an expensive lounge suit. He wore an exquisite silk bow tie and had a red carnation in his button-hole.
    ‘You see, these places aren’t chicken-feed, and it’s my job to see they’re never empty. Frankly, Fazakerly couldn’t pay the rent, and you know what claiming on the estate is like . . .’
    He gave Gently a sharp glance.
    ‘Do I know this gentleman?’ he asked Reynolds.
    Reynolds murmured Gently’s name.
    ‘Ah!’ Stockbridge said. ‘More red tape.’
    He drew out a slim