like getting Hicks to take him some place where the hideaway wasn’t.’
‘Why should he bother?’
‘Well, he seems to have been a pretty crafty planster so far.’
Gently shook his head with slow decision. ‘The bit that doesn’t fit in anywhere is the week he spent on the yacht … it just wasn’t necessary on the facts we’ve dug up. His false trail started at the beginning of that week. What made him hang around the neighbourhood till the end of it?’
‘Christ! Let him be human. He was having a honeymoon.’
‘There were safer places to do that. It was a risk, however little he was known.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he sent for Hicks. Someone recognized him, so he had to cover his tracks again.’
‘No … it doesn’t sit square in the picture. We haven’t got the reason yet.’
Hansom sniffed meanly and tore off a light for hissecond whiff. ‘Anyway, you won’t mind me following up this hideaway angle just in case I’m being right somewhere?’
Gently grinned and blew out his colleague’s match.
‘It’ll keep you out of mischief, won’t it?’ he replied.
CHAPTER SIX
P AUL LAMMAS WASN’T quite so petite as his mother, but otherwise he was very, very like.
Dark, slender, he had the same big brown eyes and fragile features, the same low, clear voice. And he moved the same way, quickly and nervously, though always with grace. The difference about him was difficult to pin down. It was something in his manner rather than his appearance. Mrs Lammas struck one as icy, Paul as though he concealed a secret fire; her emotions were rigidly controlled, his seemed at the point of spilling over. He was wearing a dark-red linen sports shirt with ash-grey jacket and trousers in gaberdine. His rope-and-canvas sandals matched his shirt. He came into the room so quietly that nobody could have sworn to seeing him enter.
‘I am Paul Lammas. My sister informed me that you were ready to question me.’
Gently turned round from the veranda where he had been basking and watching the yachts.
‘That was kind of her. I hadn’t really made up my mind.’
‘If you want Mother I will go and fetch her.’
‘No, don’t bother. I daresay your sister knows best.’
He came back out of the veranda. Paul Lammas stood quite still, watching.
‘Sit down, Mr Lammas, if you please …’
‘Thank you. But I’d rather stand.’
‘We may be some little while, you know …’
‘All the same I’d rather stand, if it isn’t breaking immutable regulations.’
Gently shrugged and seated himself heavily at the table. He seemed in no hurry to begin. He emptied his pipe in the ashtray, filled it slowly and expertly, sucked it once or twice to test the packing and then lit it at some length. Even then he appeared to hesitate before getting down to business.
‘You’re a poet, they tell me …?’ he remarked, patting down the ash on the pipe with a yellowed forefinger.
The young man flushed.
‘I don’t see how that comes into it.’
‘It doesn’t; there’s nothing culpable about it. I’m just one of those people who read poetry from time to time.’
Paul Lammas looked at him as though he thought it unlikely.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t have seen anything of mine. It’s only been published in Panorama and the Eastern Daily Post , and a little book I brought out myself.’
‘Did it sell?’ inquired Gently naively.
‘I suppose you’d say it didn’t – and judge it entirely from that point of view!’
‘Oh, I don’t know … the provinces are hardly the place to peddle poetry.’
‘It’s not a question of whether it sells, anyway. And one doesn’t peddle poetry, as you’re kind enough to put it.’
‘Then how do people like me get to see it?’
‘They don’t – and it doesn’t matter. Creation is the only thing that signifies.’
Gently nodded. ‘I heard it in a play somewhere … but the author wasn’t sad because it pulled in some audience.’
‘That’s the cynical view one
‘Why should he bother?’
‘Well, he seems to have been a pretty crafty planster so far.’
Gently shook his head with slow decision. ‘The bit that doesn’t fit in anywhere is the week he spent on the yacht … it just wasn’t necessary on the facts we’ve dug up. His false trail started at the beginning of that week. What made him hang around the neighbourhood till the end of it?’
‘Christ! Let him be human. He was having a honeymoon.’
‘There were safer places to do that. It was a risk, however little he was known.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he sent for Hicks. Someone recognized him, so he had to cover his tracks again.’
‘No … it doesn’t sit square in the picture. We haven’t got the reason yet.’
Hansom sniffed meanly and tore off a light for hissecond whiff. ‘Anyway, you won’t mind me following up this hideaway angle just in case I’m being right somewhere?’
Gently grinned and blew out his colleague’s match.
‘It’ll keep you out of mischief, won’t it?’ he replied.
CHAPTER SIX
P AUL LAMMAS WASN’T quite so petite as his mother, but otherwise he was very, very like.
Dark, slender, he had the same big brown eyes and fragile features, the same low, clear voice. And he moved the same way, quickly and nervously, though always with grace. The difference about him was difficult to pin down. It was something in his manner rather than his appearance. Mrs Lammas struck one as icy, Paul as though he concealed a secret fire; her emotions were rigidly controlled, his seemed at the point of spilling over. He was wearing a dark-red linen sports shirt with ash-grey jacket and trousers in gaberdine. His rope-and-canvas sandals matched his shirt. He came into the room so quietly that nobody could have sworn to seeing him enter.
‘I am Paul Lammas. My sister informed me that you were ready to question me.’
Gently turned round from the veranda where he had been basking and watching the yachts.
‘That was kind of her. I hadn’t really made up my mind.’
‘If you want Mother I will go and fetch her.’
‘No, don’t bother. I daresay your sister knows best.’
He came back out of the veranda. Paul Lammas stood quite still, watching.
‘Sit down, Mr Lammas, if you please …’
‘Thank you. But I’d rather stand.’
‘We may be some little while, you know …’
‘All the same I’d rather stand, if it isn’t breaking immutable regulations.’
Gently shrugged and seated himself heavily at the table. He seemed in no hurry to begin. He emptied his pipe in the ashtray, filled it slowly and expertly, sucked it once or twice to test the packing and then lit it at some length. Even then he appeared to hesitate before getting down to business.
‘You’re a poet, they tell me …?’ he remarked, patting down the ash on the pipe with a yellowed forefinger.
The young man flushed.
‘I don’t see how that comes into it.’
‘It doesn’t; there’s nothing culpable about it. I’m just one of those people who read poetry from time to time.’
Paul Lammas looked at him as though he thought it unlikely.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t have seen anything of mine. It’s only been published in Panorama and the Eastern Daily Post , and a little book I brought out myself.’
‘Did it sell?’ inquired Gently naively.
‘I suppose you’d say it didn’t – and judge it entirely from that point of view!’
‘Oh, I don’t know … the provinces are hardly the place to peddle poetry.’
‘It’s not a question of whether it sells, anyway. And one doesn’t peddle poetry, as you’re kind enough to put it.’
‘Then how do people like me get to see it?’
‘They don’t – and it doesn’t matter. Creation is the only thing that signifies.’
Gently nodded. ‘I heard it in a play somewhere … but the author wasn’t sad because it pulled in some audience.’
‘That’s the cynical view one
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