Gently French Read Online Free PDF

the ribbon-development of half-comely Wrackstead, which lives across the river from Haughton; and finally the vandalized humpback bridge, a victim of traffic and official callousness.
    A few years ago you could have parked by the bridge while you strolled back to admire the boating scene. Now you crawled over a bumping Bailey structure to be marshalled through yellow lines to a suicidal crossways. One of the roads I remembered had vanished, its place taken by a sprawling Superstore. Another had been widened in an unlovely way, hastening more traffic to the inevitable jam. No logic, no way out, except possibly a surgical use of the bomb. Many years behind need the local authorities would doubtless concede a new river-crossing.
    We negotiated the jam, then turned left into a road that paralleled the river. The Barge-House, an Edwardian pub enlarged into a hotel, occupied a site opposite to a bank. It was a heavy, redbrick building, set flush to the pavement, with a small forecourt intended for horse-gigs; also a yard to one side, which was presently resembling a car-dealer’s lot. Not a love-some place; but what you didn’t see was that it had lawns running through to the river. A sign-board, not yet modernized, offered launches, skiffs and row-boats for hire.
    I parked and sat appraising the scene. The road was called Bylore Road. Traffic was queued all along it, waiting to break into the chaos at the crossroads. Adjacent to the Barge-House were three sad terrace cottages, apparently built with bricks left over; then a slightly more engaging, white-plastered building, exhibiting the sign of Three Tuns. I nudged Dutt.
    ‘Think like a villain who wants to keep an eye on Flash Freddy.’
    Dutt grinned. ‘He couldn’t have hired the bank, sir.’
    ‘So go buy yourself a pint before the bar closes.’
    Dutt went. I parked the Lotus in the forecourt, where there was space beside a badge-heavy Alfa. Two good-looking cars: though one had stood there lately which – for looks – would have smeared either into the woodwork.
    The exterior of the Barge-House did it an injustice; once through the swing-doors things became plusher. You stepped into a long hall with concealed wall-lighting, a spongy carpet and a smell of old brandy. Left was the reception office: empty. I pressed the bell-push and waited. Across the end of the hall passed deft young waiters, presumably en route between kitchen and dining-room. A door to the bar was opposite the office and from that way came conversation, clinking and laughter. Finally, from kitchenwards, hurried a man in a lounge-suit. He glided up to me, smiling apologetically.
    ‘So sorry to keep you. We’ve been busy.’
    ‘Mr Frayling?’
    ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘Shall we go in the office?’
    His smile slipped a notch; but only for a moment. We went into the office.
    Frayling was the manager. He had guessed who I was, but I told him all the same. He was a slim, willowy type, mid-forties, a lined face and conciliatory eyes. Somehow he suggested to me a busted school-master, but I didn’t go into his record. He flicked the glass shutter across the reception window and we sat down on two well-padded chairs.
    ‘I’m here about the killing, not the robbery, though there’s a probable connection. I intend to make the hotel my base. I’ll need rooms for myself and my Inspector.’
    ‘Of course, I’d like to help you, but—’
    ‘Good. You can begin by booking us in.’
    He shrugged but pulled over the register. A couple of the existing guests got shunted.
    ‘Now tell me about Quarles.’
    Frayling’s eyes jumped. ‘I – I made a full statement to Inspector Hanson.’
    ‘I know.’ I patted the brief-case I had with me. ‘And now I want to hear it at first-hand. Have you any objection?’
    ‘No, of course not!’
    ‘You had no connection with Quarles, for instance?’
    ‘Good lord, no!’
    ‘Then give me a quick run through. I’d like to know why he chose the