enthusiastically ebullient, the house had charm and didn’t seem out of place.
A voluptuously-curved brass plate was mounted on the multiple flutings of the porch.
It read:
DAVID HASTINGS
Property Agent
Late S. M. L. Sayers
Late Alistair Upley
A massively panelled door stood open, held by a green glass doorstop.
They went in.
Through swing doors was an office bisected by a long counter. A girl seated behind the counter was entering duplicated sheets in a big box-file.
The walls were fitted with sections of peg-board each of which was covered with photographs of properties and behind the counter hung framed architects’ plans and elevations.
Everything was new and up to date. The office smelled faintly of plastic file-envelopes.
The girl was pretty and smartly dressed and came forward with a smile.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’d like to see Mr Hastings.’
‘If it’s about a property on the books—’
‘No. We want to see him personally.’
‘In that case . . . have you an appointment?’
‘No. No appointment.’
‘What is your name, sir, please?’
Gently paused. ‘George Gently.’
She picked up a jade-green phone and spoke into it deferentially. As she listened her eyes flickered, took in Gently, fell away.
‘If you’ll go up the stairs, sir . . . Mr Hastings will see you.’
They went up a plastic-treaded stairway with mahogany banisters. At the top was a wide landing, freshly painted in light colours, and across it a door with frosted-glass panels on which was gilded: David Hastings.
Gently knocked. They entered. A man had risen to his feet. He’d been sitting behind a big sapele-wood desk, but now he came round it towards them.
‘Mr . . . Gently?’
‘Chief Superintendent Gently.’
‘Yes! I felt there couldn’t be two of you.’
‘You’re David Hastings?’
‘Who else?’
‘I’m investigating the murder of Peter Shimpling.’
Their eyes met. Hastings was a tallish man with sloping shoulders and an elegant figure. He wore a quiet, stylish lounge suit that accentuated his narrow waist.
He had dark hair and bluish eyes and unobtrusively handsome features; his small beard was pointed sharply and his moustache trimmed close.
His eyes had a tired sort of humour.
‘You think I can help you with that in some way?’
‘That’s why we are here.’
‘You surprise me, but never mind. Close the door and find yourselves seats.’
He went back to the desk and picked up the phone.
‘Anne, I’m busy till I ring again . . .’
Then he sat down, crossing his feet, letting his hands fall naturally on his lap.
‘Go ahead.’
‘First, look at these.’
Out came the photographs again. Hastings spread them across the desk and looked at each of them amusedly.
‘Do I know these people?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘That fellow there is my double.’
‘Just your double?’
‘People have them, you know. Who is he – what’s he done?’
He stared steadily at Gently, the bored twinkle never faltering.
All the other chairs in the room were low ones, and the desk sited with its back to the window.
‘He’s a man I want to talk to,’ Gently said. ‘His name is Miles Cheyne-Chevington. He was a doctor who supplied cocaine to prostitutes. He was struck off the Register in 1960.’
‘I remember the case,’ Hastings said.
Not once did his eyes waver.
‘But surely it was brought on framed evidence, and the verdict given was Not Guilty?’
Gently said nothing.
Hastings tapped the photograph. ‘And now you think he might be me?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘But of course.’
‘Can you prove your identity?’
‘Can you disprove it?’
Gently said: ‘If you are not that man you can easily help me by proving your identity. You can produce your birth certificate, for instance, your stamp card, your passport.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Why shouldn’t you? That’s the question I’ll ask myself.’
‘It might be I don’t like impertinent inquiries, even
A voluptuously-curved brass plate was mounted on the multiple flutings of the porch.
It read:
DAVID HASTINGS
Property Agent
Late S. M. L. Sayers
Late Alistair Upley
A massively panelled door stood open, held by a green glass doorstop.
They went in.
Through swing doors was an office bisected by a long counter. A girl seated behind the counter was entering duplicated sheets in a big box-file.
The walls were fitted with sections of peg-board each of which was covered with photographs of properties and behind the counter hung framed architects’ plans and elevations.
Everything was new and up to date. The office smelled faintly of plastic file-envelopes.
The girl was pretty and smartly dressed and came forward with a smile.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’d like to see Mr Hastings.’
‘If it’s about a property on the books—’
‘No. We want to see him personally.’
‘In that case . . . have you an appointment?’
‘No. No appointment.’
‘What is your name, sir, please?’
Gently paused. ‘George Gently.’
She picked up a jade-green phone and spoke into it deferentially. As she listened her eyes flickered, took in Gently, fell away.
‘If you’ll go up the stairs, sir . . . Mr Hastings will see you.’
They went up a plastic-treaded stairway with mahogany banisters. At the top was a wide landing, freshly painted in light colours, and across it a door with frosted-glass panels on which was gilded: David Hastings.
Gently knocked. They entered. A man had risen to his feet. He’d been sitting behind a big sapele-wood desk, but now he came round it towards them.
‘Mr . . . Gently?’
‘Chief Superintendent Gently.’
‘Yes! I felt there couldn’t be two of you.’
‘You’re David Hastings?’
‘Who else?’
‘I’m investigating the murder of Peter Shimpling.’
Their eyes met. Hastings was a tallish man with sloping shoulders and an elegant figure. He wore a quiet, stylish lounge suit that accentuated his narrow waist.
He had dark hair and bluish eyes and unobtrusively handsome features; his small beard was pointed sharply and his moustache trimmed close.
His eyes had a tired sort of humour.
‘You think I can help you with that in some way?’
‘That’s why we are here.’
‘You surprise me, but never mind. Close the door and find yourselves seats.’
He went back to the desk and picked up the phone.
‘Anne, I’m busy till I ring again . . .’
Then he sat down, crossing his feet, letting his hands fall naturally on his lap.
‘Go ahead.’
‘First, look at these.’
Out came the photographs again. Hastings spread them across the desk and looked at each of them amusedly.
‘Do I know these people?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘That fellow there is my double.’
‘Just your double?’
‘People have them, you know. Who is he – what’s he done?’
He stared steadily at Gently, the bored twinkle never faltering.
All the other chairs in the room were low ones, and the desk sited with its back to the window.
‘He’s a man I want to talk to,’ Gently said. ‘His name is Miles Cheyne-Chevington. He was a doctor who supplied cocaine to prostitutes. He was struck off the Register in 1960.’
‘I remember the case,’ Hastings said.
Not once did his eyes waver.
‘But surely it was brought on framed evidence, and the verdict given was Not Guilty?’
Gently said nothing.
Hastings tapped the photograph. ‘And now you think he might be me?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘But of course.’
‘Can you prove your identity?’
‘Can you disprove it?’
Gently said: ‘If you are not that man you can easily help me by proving your identity. You can produce your birth certificate, for instance, your stamp card, your passport.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Why shouldn’t you? That’s the question I’ll ask myself.’
‘It might be I don’t like impertinent inquiries, even
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