Gently Sahib by Alan Hunter

of the Yard . . .
    ‘Hello, chief ?’
    ‘What’s the big secret?’
    ‘Something to do with the Mau-Mau business.’
    ‘Is it, by heaven!’
    ‘In 53. That’s when—’
    ‘I know. Just stick to the facts.’
    ‘It was in August 53 at a place called M’Butu, Northern Province. Somebody burned a Kikuyu village and shot eight of the natives.
    ‘There was an inquiry. Groton was there. He was staying at a game farm three miles off. The night before some animals were slaughtered and one of the boys had his head cut off.
    ‘The inquiry was closed for lack of evidence and the burning was blamed on rival tribes, but the authorities are convinced it was done by white men and that Groton was the instigator.
    ‘He was given a one-way ticket and the affair was hushed up.’
    ‘No mention of journalists nosing round?’
    ‘Sorry, chief. Nothing about that.’
    ‘Do we know the dates of Shimpling’s visit?’
    ‘He was there from March till September.’
    So there it was, dovetailing neatly, just as he had been certain it would: the connection between the blackmailing Shimpling and the fierce but vulnerable South African.
    What evidence had Shimpling collected in Africa?
    That they were never likely to know.
    Unless, perhaps, the Banks woman had been privy to the secret . . .
    But one thing was becoming clear – Groton was a very slippery customer. The English police, like their Kenya counterparts, might be reduced to issuing a one-way ticket . . .
    ‘Tell them I want Banks and want her quickly.’
    ‘Willco, chief. It shouldn’t take long.’
    ‘It’s taken too long already!’
    He could sense Ferrow shrugging his shoulders.
    ‘Also I want a check on Cheyne-Chevington. I’d like to know where he’s living.’
    ‘Matthews has been checking for you, chief, but he hasn’t picked up the trail so far.’
    Gently hung up.
    Bradfield met his eye with an interrogating smile.
    ‘Everything all right . . . ?’
    The man was an ass! Gently had an impulse to say something rude.
    Over by the door, a shrinking violet, hovered the uniformed figure of Police Constable Kennet. He made a sort of inclination as Gently’s eye fell on him and shuffled forward a couple of steps.
    ‘Excuse me, sir . . .’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s something that came to me, sir. About the bungalow and who owns it. I thought it might be of use to you.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Hastings handled it, sir.’
    ‘Who are Hastings?’
    ‘They’re estate agents. They’ve an office in the Buttermarket, sir. I look in their window when I’m passing.’
    ‘And they advertised the bungalow?’
    ‘Yes, sir. It came back to me, I’d seen the card in their window . . .’
    Kennet broke off. Inspector Perkins had suddenly come out of his long trance. He was quivering in his excitement and exclaimed:
    ‘That’s him! It’s David Hastings!’
    Everyone turned to him, and he flushed. But he kept on repeating enthusiastically:
    ‘It’s David Hastings – the man with the car! I
knew
I recognized him! It’s David Hastings!’

CHAPTER SIX
    P RECISELY AT THAT moment the phone went – it was Matthews wanting to give Gently a personal report; and then Ferrow came back on the line with a report from Divisions about Shirley Banks.
    Both reports were entirely negative, but of course, Gently was expected to listen!
    While over his head Perkins kept expostulating and Bradfield chimed in his amazement and incredulity.
    ‘We’d better be careful about this, Perky . . .’
    ‘No, I’m positive – it’s the expression! He’s got a little beard, now, and a moustache, but a man can’t alter his expressions.’
    ‘. . . he simply faded out from Kensington, chief. A man called Beevor took over the practice . . .’
    ‘You’d expect he’d try to alter his appearance, after all . . .’
    ‘We don’t want to stir up trouble locally . . .’
    For five minutes the babel went on, then Gently hung up and everyone fell silent.
    Perkins, red in the face, was