Gently Go Man by Alan Hunter

ordered him. ‘He’ll have the box after I’ve seen it.’
    ‘What’s going on?’ said the customer, a navvy.
    ‘Police,’ Gently said. ‘In pursuit of a felony.’
    ‘It’s a bloody lie!’ Leach shouted, white-faced. ‘It’s him committed felony – he’s pinched those chocolates!’
    ‘They’re not mine,’ the old man was quavering. ‘Please give them back to me, they belong to someone else.’
    Gently motioned to the navvy. ‘Guard this door,’ he said. The navvy looked stupid, but he moved in front of the door. Gently took the box to a table, stripped the ribbon from it and lifted the lid. Under brown corrugated wrapping lay a neat layer of chocolates.
    ‘Look at them,’ Leach was beginning. ‘Bleeding chocolates, that’s all.’
    But Gently had scooped the chocolates out and lifted the separator that was under them. He stood back.
    ‘Just chocolates?’
    The second layer was of cigarettes. Slightly brownish, loosely made, there would be four to five hundred of them.
    ‘Gawd,’ Leach said, ‘gawd.’ His face was a greyish mess.
    ‘Any comment?’ Gently asked.
    ‘Yeah,’ Leach said. ‘I didn’t know about them.’
    ‘Save it,’ Gently said. He turned to the old man, who stood pop-eyed. ‘What do you know about it?’ he asked. ‘Where did you get the money for these?’
    The old man swallowed, shook his head. ‘I was asked to come in and get them,’ he said. ‘A young man gave me ten shillings to collect them. He said there was someone here who he didn’t want to see.’
    ‘Where were you taking them?’ Gently rapped.
    The old man winced. ‘Just over in the car park. I was out for my airing when this young man accosted me. He’s waiting there by his motorcycle for me to bring them back.’
    Gently hesitated, picked up the box. ‘Take me to him,’ he said. He looked at the navvy. ‘See these people don’t leave,’ he ordered him. ‘They’re to stay right where they are, not to move from this room. If they try, put your head out and bawl for the police and assistance.’
    He pushed the pensioner through the door, took hisarm across the street. The park by now was pretty solid with cars and several people were moving amongst them.
    ‘How was he dressed?’ Gently muttered.
    ‘He was dressed for motorcycling,’ said the pensioner. ‘If we keep this side of the cars he shouldn’t see us till we’re nearly up to him.’
    They kept to that side of the cars, the pensioner trotting along jerkily. When they were three-quarters of the way across he pulled hard on Gently’s arm.
    ‘He’s over there,’ he whispered, ‘by that fire-hydrant place.’
    ‘Keep with me,’ Gently said. He disengaged his arm.
    But just then a motor roared on the other side of the hydrant station. Gently belted through the cars, hurled himself round the small building. He caught only a glimpse of a powerful bike cornering sharply into a back street, its black-leathered rider lying it close, its registration plate invisible. The pensioner came stuttering after Gently.
    ‘That’s him!’ he exclaimed, ‘That’s him!’
    Gently stood clutching his box. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s him.’
     
    He returned to the milk bar where the navvy remained dutifully guarding the entrance. Leach was sitting on one of the bar-stools, the blonde was snivelling into a handkerchief. Leach’s eyes glittered when he saw Gently come back with the pensioner only, but he didn’t say anything, kept his face sullenly averted. Gently confronted him.
    ‘Who was he?’ he asked.
    ‘How should I know?’ Leach said. ‘I don’t know nothing about this caper. I’m being used, that’s what it is.’
    ‘You,’ Gently said to the blonde. ‘Who were you expecting to pick that box up?’
    ‘She don’t know nothing,’ Leach put in quickly. ‘She wouldn’t be such a bloody fool as to know anything .’
    ‘That’s right,’ the blonde sobbed, ‘I don’t know nothing. I serve behind the bar, that’s all I