Madsen had gone, stumbling over the threshold in his eagerness. Gently stood staring at the greasy bottle. Felling, scowling, eased from foot to foot. They could hear Madsen cross the yard and go up his stairs: the slam of his door. Then only the noises of the sparrows scratching down through the tight air. Felling said: ‘It won’t have prints, sir – too much oil on it to take them.’ Gently nodded. He held up the bottle between himself and the light. He unscrewed the cap, sniffed, screwed the cap back on. Felling watched. He kept scowling. There was sweat on both their foreheads. ‘So,’ Gently said, ‘what do you make of it, Felling?’ Felling shifted, inclined his head. ‘I think they were running a racket sir, between them. And that’s why Madsen burned the papers.’ ‘You saw something suspicious when you looked at them?’ ‘. . . No, sir. I can’t say that I did. Only I didn’t look at them very carefully, I didn’t know that it mattered, then.’ ‘What sort of a racket?’ Gently asked.
What do You think about Gently Where The Roads Go?
