Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

job done. You don’t let your feelings get involved with it. You’re like a surgeon who amputates then washes his hands and goes to tea.’
    ‘Do you know how a surgeon feels?’ Gently said.
    ‘No George. Only how I feel. Empty, hopeless and lost. Ready to get on the ledge again. Because that wasn’t entirely a fake George, I don’t have a lot to keep me here. I didn’t before, and I’ve less now, and I’ll be forty next year. Clytie’s gone. Siggy. Sybil. And here’s the surgeon removing his gloves.’
    Her eyes filmed and her mouth trembled. Her blotchy face swam close to his. Then the sharp sound of a slap rang out and she stumbled backwards, holding her cheek.
    ‘You devil! What was that for?’
    Gently smiled at her. ‘Surgery.’
    ‘My God, you’re brutal!’
    ‘Did you say your car was here? We left mine at the station.’
    They went down together in the lift. Reynolds had drawn off the reporters in his departing. Bland Street was empty again; nothing of the tumult remained except a coil of rope lying by the steps.
    Brenda Merryn unlocked the 1100 and they climbed in. Gently opened the glove-box. It contained no letter. Brenda Merryn looked straight ahead and started the engine and waited.
    ‘Where to?’
    ‘Somewhere quiet for lunch.’
    She trilled the engine once or twice.
    ‘And after that?’
    ‘I work for a living. And you’ll make your apologies and take the evening surgery.’
    ‘And after that?’
    ‘When do you finish?’
    ‘This is Friday. Say seven.’
    ‘I’ll pick you up for a bite in town. Will that do?’
    She sighed. ‘Perhaps.’

 
     
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
    H E MET FAZAKERLY again a week later, when he accepted an invitation from him to lunch. It was at the Coq d’Or. It was a very good lunch though it may be less good than the prices on the menu would have led one to expect. Fazakerly was thoughtful. He had been at the Magistrate’s hearing and had undertaken to pay for Albertine’s defence. He had since had a session with her counsel which had not entirely convinced him she would get off with a light sentence. He wanted to talk about it and to extract a favourable opinion from Gently.
    They went into a lounge for their coffee. It was not the lounge where they had met on the previous occasion but a smaller and more intimate room with deep chairs and low tables. The walls were decorated with maroon panels with a golden cock in the centre of each and the full-length velvet curtains were embroidered with cocks in gold wire near the foot. Coffee was served scalding hot. Fazakerly ordered cigars. For some minutes they sat comfortably sipping and smoking and lulled by the soft buzz of conversation.
    Fazakerly said: ‘You know, I was right in coming to you, even though you wouldn’t believe I was innocent. I knew my man. I was a bit of a tick, but I was sure if I involved you in it I would come through. I was innocent, and it had to show up. All I needed was a grain of scepticism.’
    ‘I wasn’t necessary,’ Gently said. ‘Reynolds would have got there just the same. Albertine would have seen to that. Perhaps I saved you the unpleasantness of being charged.’
    ‘For which I’m properly grateful, Monsieur. On reflection, I don’t think prison life would have suited me. One gets these notions at odd times but they don’t seem to bear the light of day.’
    ‘What are you proposing to do?’ Gently asked.
    ‘First, see Albertine off the hook. And what I haven’t told you is I have a partner in it. Sybil. Does that surprise you?’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘No, it wouldn’t. You have an eye for tattered humanity. Well, she’s going halves in the expense. She’d have probably paid the lot.’
    ‘And after the trial?’
    ‘A long holiday. I think I’m dragged with too many women. I want to cut free of them for one while until my perspective returns.’
    Gently sipped his coffee. ‘What about Sarah Johnson.’
    Fazakerly tilted a shoulder. ‘Nothing about her.’
    ‘She loves you.’
    ‘Possibly. The love of a woman.’
    ‘What else can she offer?’
    ‘That’s the point.’
    He puffed his cigar and looked quizzically at Gently.
    ‘Monsieur is a bachelor,’ he said. ‘Let him listen to Benedick the Married Man while he imparts true wisdom. A woman’s love isn’t for you. A woman’s love isn’t for marriage. A woman’s love isn’t even directed to biological ends. A woman’s love is for herself. She’s a hard core of primitive egoism