Gently to the Summit by Alan Hunter Page B

twice a year!’ Her eyes flamed. She strained towards him like a bitch protecting its litter. ‘It was just a tradition, that precious club, it didn’t mean anything to anybody. They’d drifted apart. They were strangers. The club bored Arthur stiff!’
    ‘So you didn’t meet any of them again?’
    Mrs Fleece groaned. ‘I told you so.’
    ‘Not even Dick Overton, with whom you were acquainted?’
    ‘I simply mentioned his name. It was the only one I could think of.’
    Gently hesitated. He wondered whether to press the matter further. There was oil in it somewhere, of thathe was certain. But whether it touched on what they had come after was another matter again: he was groping in the dark for facts which were largely undefined. He rose to his feet slowly.
    ‘There may be other questions, Mrs Fleece.’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    She rose also, smoothing her black widow’s dress.
    ‘In the meantime I’d like to borrow a good photograph of your husband … one with you on it too, if you’ve got one to spare.’
    ‘You’re perfectly welcome.’
    Without demur she went to a small ebony cabinet and fetched from it an album, which she handed to Gently. It was filled with postcard-size and larger prints showing the usual domestic subjects: mostly herself and the two children, against a variety of backgrounds. In the few which included her husband the photos were less skilfully taken but there was one, a regular portrait, of a much greater merit.
    ‘A friend of ours did that. He’s exceptionally good with a camera.’
    Gently removed it from its mount and spent a moment or two studying it. It showed Fleece full-face, wearing a lumberjack shirt, a piton in his hand, and a slight smile on his lips. His pendulous nose gave a Semitic cast to his pale, oval face; the skull, egg-shaped, made a polished cone above a scanty fringe of hair. His eyes and ears were both small, his neck short, his shoulders bowed. The eyes were light-coloured and looked disparaging. They were almost sneering at the photographer.
    ‘Is this a recent photograph of your husband?’
    Why did spots of colour appear in her cheeks?
    ‘Yes, quite recent. This summer. It’s the last one I have of him.’
    ‘Who took it?’
    ‘Just … just a friend. He wouldn’t like his name brought into it.’
    Gently grunted and searched on through the album for a revealing shot of Sarah Fleece. He found one loose in the back, unmistakably a counterpart to that of her husband. It was taken against the same background and showed a similar technical skill, but in this instance the smile of the sitter was unalloyed by any sneer. Sarah Fleece looked radiantly beautiful, her dark hair loosened, her grey eyes sparkling.
    ‘Your friend is certainly an excellent photographer.’
    ‘Yes … of course, that’s another of his.’
    ‘I’ll borrow these two if I may.’
    ‘Yes, certainly.’ But she seemed reluctant. ‘I’ll get them back again, won’t I?’
    ‘They’ll be returned in a few days.’
    He gravely wrote out the receipt while she was finding him an envelope, then she accompanied them to the door, the receipt still held in her hand. On the steps Gently turned.
    ‘You’ll be called at the trial, naturally. But would you have any objection to seeing Kincaid in his cell?’
    She gave a gasp. ‘No – no! Not that!’
    ‘You have specific reasons for refusing?’
    ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Not the man who did that to Arthur!’
    Gently touched the brim of his trilby. ‘We wouldn’t press you, of course, Mrs Fleece …’
     
    Back in the Wolseley Evans tackled their driver about the owner of the sports car, but the circumstances had been against any accurate observation. The man had appeared from the rear of the house and had entered his car on its far side, while their driver had had no reason to be especially curious about him.
    ‘It was raining like the devil and he’d got his collar turned up; a bloke around five feet ten, light-coloured