Gently With the Painters Read Online Free PDF Page B

Superintendent Walker, who had a great respect for his meals, had for the last five minutes been pointedly examining his wristwatch.
    ‘Just one other thing – the knife. Did you find out where it was purchased?’
    ‘They stock them at Carter Brown’s, a draughtsman’s supplier in Prince’s Street.’
    ‘But they don’t remember selling this one?’
    ‘Not on your life. That would make it too easy. They haven’t sold one for several years – there’s a plastic job which has swept the market.’
    For lunch, Gently took Stephens to a café which he knew about in Glove Street. The young Inspector had little to say to him as he accompanied him thither. Until the sweet came he was silent, a picture of solemn preoccupation , then, dipping his spoon in a trifle, he murmured:
    ‘It’s got to be blackmail or nothing!’
    Through a mouthful Gently murmured back:
    ‘Unless the estate agent’s got a girlfriend …’

CHAPTER THREE
    I T MAY HAVE been that chance remark which led him first to visit Johnson’s office, thus ignoring some obvious preliminaries which, quite frankly, ought to have been seen to. These included a visit to the dustbins, a step which Stephens regarded as de rigueur: Gently, with a better appreciation of Hansom, expected small profit from this piece of routine.
    He had, moreover, used the car park in the past, and so was familiar with the general layout. More important for him, in the initial stages, were the things with which his mind’s eye was unable to help him.
    ‘I think I’ll take a look at the husband! Perhaps you’d like to go back to HQ?’
    ‘Whatever you say, sir. But shouldn’t we, to start with—?’
    ‘I’ll leave that to you, then we won’t be duplicating our efforts.’
    Stephens, as he had intended, was mildly complimented by this, but a little to Gently’s surprise the young man preferred to tag along with his senior.
    ‘The husband, after all, is the number one suspect …’
    It went without saying that Stephens was a graduate from Ryton. He was a product of the new policy for catching promising material young. He had been groomed into inspectorhood at an age when Gently had been proud to be a sergeant, and as with others of the new school, textbook lore came readily to his tongue.
    Johnson’s office was in Upper Queen Street, in the business area of the city. It was housed in a Victorian building which owned a dignified, sugar-ice front. The street was a traffic artery to the north and was busy with steady streams of vehicles; it adjoined the cathedral precincts at one end and was closed by the GPO at the other. The office had a prosperous appearance and it rejoiced in some brilliant paintwork. To air-force blue had been added crimson linings, with a touch of gilt on the scroll above the portal. On the plate-glass of the window appeared Johnson’s name in discreet small capitals; the window was backed by a pegboard, to which details of the properties were attached.
    ‘He seems to get the county people …’ Gently brooded over the photographs and particulars. Very few of the advertised properties were at addresses in the city. A score or more of the neatly typed cards referred to substantial country houses, and there were mentions of shooting rights and ‘half a mile of the best coarse fishing’. It was the sort of estate-agent’s window before which Gently had often stood and dreamed.
    The clerk’s office behind the window developed this note of established prosperity. It was furnished in contemporary style and contained electric typewriters and themost modern equipment. Two of the typists were middle-aged women and they paid no attention to the intruders; but the third, a rather sharp-faced brunette, rose to greet them with a flashing smile.
    ‘Is Mr Johnson busy at present?’
    ‘Did you want to see him especially, sir?’
    The smile went into a decline when Gently introduced himself, and the two typers, looking up quickly, showed that they could