Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  Mrs. Kewley returned wearing a shapeless felt hat and a worn sealskin coat given to her by a tenant many years ago and cherished as her best. Her poor swollen ankles showed below it trussed in shapeless but bright old boots. She was drawing a pair of woollen gloves over her hardworking hands.

  "I was just thinkin' what you said. He went on holidays with a friend sometimes. I think 'is name was 'Unt . . . a schoolmaster, he was, somewhere in the north. A bachelor, I do believe, and fussy in 'is ways. The only other I can think of is Mr. Gamaliel, who keeps the book store round the corner in Risk Street. They used to play chess together. Sometimes, Mr. Gamaliel came round 'ere, but most times Mr. Oates went to him. 'Is shop's in a basement on the right, jest round the corner."

  "Has he been lately? I mean, did he go right up to leaving here?"

  "I wouldn't know, sir. He might 'ave called on his way 'ome late. Hadn't we better be goin', sir? The taxi's just drawn up."

  The telephone rang and Mrs. Kewley rushed out to deal with it.

  She was annoyed when she returned.

  "The baby's come, an' me not there! It's a little girl, born half an hour after the pains come on. I never heard the likes. . . . They say it looks like me. That's a comfort, an' no mistake. All me son's children—all boys, too—took after the late Kewley. . . ."

  She started to draw off her gloves and remove her hat.

  "Aren't you going? I'm sure Lizzie would want to see you."

  "Do you think so? Well, she's 'ad it at home. Always 'ave 'em at 'ome, I told 'er when she married Charlie. In these big 'ospitals they've so many babies about, you never know when you're gettin' your own back. Do you, sir?"

  No use going into the pros and cons, so Littlejohn took both the bags and helped her down the front steps to the taxi. He paid the driver. . . .

  "I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir. I never . . ."

  "Good-bye, then, grandma, and good luck to you. . . ."

  And with that, Mrs. Kewley was whipped from sight along the Buckingham Palace Road.

  Littlejohn walked back to the Yard and handed his case to the fingerprint department. Then he filled his pipe and sat down to read the report just to hand by special messenger from the Rodley police.

  It was all there. The forged bank documents; the strange behaviour of Finloe Oates after his wife's death; the murder of Fishlock. . . . Montacute's theory that the most recent occupant of the bungalow hadn't been Finloe Oates at all, but somebody else.

  "Whoever it was, seems to have worn gloves all the time and we were unable to discover his identity that way . . . "

  Littlejohn took out another ready-filled pipe and lit it. Both brothers had behaved alike. Carrying on queerly at home; then off abroad. But Finloe had been at home all day and Lysander all night. Suppose Lysander had been filling the role of both . . . or Finloe for that matter. . . .

  There was another enclosure in the covering envelope; a photograph of a set of fingerprints.

  Montacute had hastily scribbled a note in his own hand.

  Later.

  Dragging operations in the pond behind the house resulted in discovery of body of Finloe Oates. Almost unrecognisable, but identified by false teeth by dentist of deceased and by silver plate in left leg from old fracture operation.

  Enclosed fingerprints taken from a spade used by someone to dig up body of dead dog in back garden of Finloe Oates's house. May be of use. Murderer of Fishlock may have been unable to dispose of his body in same way as Oates's because neighbouring farmer had after approx. date of Finloe's death and disposal, loosed a savage dog to keep off intruders at night. "Query: Was intruder murderer of OATES disposing of corpse?"

  J. D. Montacute.

  Cromwell entered smiling. He'd just won thirty-five bob in a sweepstake and believed his luck had turned.

  "Fingerprints just gave me that for you, sir."

  It was a picture of the prints from Nellie Forty's letter after the superfluous ones had been eliminated. Littlejohn took out a jeweller's glass, screwed it in his eye and compared Montacute's photograph with those just to hand.

  "H'm. Lysander dug up the dog's body," he said to himself.

  Cromwell's face fell.

  "What?"

  "Looks as if Lysander dug up the dog, killed Finloe, and then vanished. Tell you later. Just have those two sets officially checked, will you, and then come back? We've got a whale of a case. Double murder, impersonation, disappearance, forgery, embezzlement. . . . The whole shooting-match. . . . "

  He asked for the Rodley police.

  "Yes, they're Lysander Oates's prints. It looks as if you're right, Montacute. . . . I got a set from a letter in his old rooms. . . . No, we haven't laid him by the heels; he's vanished. I'd better come to Rodley to dovetail both ends."

  Montacute couldn't hide his excitement. He started a long tale. As far as his end went, it all seemed sewed-up and in order.

  " . . . We've even found out why Lysander stayed at the bungalow impersonating his brother. Finloe was sixty two months ago. He'd a three thousand endowment policy matured on his birthday. We found a circular among the accumulated letters . . . from the Pentagon Insurance people asking if he wanted to buy an annuity with the proceeds. We got the Pentagon people and it all came out. Lysander stayed on to collect. By gad, he took a big risk, too. The local insurance agent is new, and, as is usual, went to deliver the cheque in person. Lysander received the £3,000 posing as Finloe. Dark glasses; said his eyes were bad. You couldn't blame the insurance man. After all, he received him at the house and signed the receipt in a tolerable imitation of Finloe's hand. He must have paid the cheque in at his own bank. If we get Lysander, we're in the clear. . . . I'll be seeing you, then. . . ."

  "If we get Lysander. . . . If . . . Don't be silly!" muttered Littlejohn.

  The trails were cold and Lysander Oates had gone, with ten thousand pounds of his brother Finloe's money.

  4

  THE SHADY DEALER

  MR. MORTIMER GAMALIEL kept a bookshop in a basement in Risk Street, Pimlico, and, judging from the records about him at Scotland Yard, he lived a sordid, hand-to-mouth existence. There had been a number of county court actions gazetted against him for debt and the reason he had attracted the police arose from the sale of a spurious modern master, which an innocent bookworm had bought for a Cézanne and which the experts had at once declared a fake. Somehow Gamaliel had wriggled out of a criminal charge after refunding the money.

  Instead of tumbledown poverty, however, Cromwell found the painters decorating the outside of the bookshop. The railings which assured that you walked properly down the steps to the shop instead of falling in it, were receiving a bright coat of black paint with gilt on the wrought-iron spearheads.

  "Things bucking up a bit?" said Cromwell to the painter.

  The man poised his brush and turned a sad emaciated face to the sergeant. His cheeks were spotted with the black he was using and he looked to be starting with German measles. His walrus moustache turned up at the corner with pleasure. He was glad of a change from work.

  "Yuss. This chap's suddenly come into money by the looks of it. One day in the county court and nearly chucked out of his shop for not payin' the rent. Next, he's poshing the place up. Not that it didn't need it."

  "Backed a winner?"

  "Don't ask me. I made sure of my money before I started this job. Paid a fiver down and the rest as work progresses. I've not started inside yet. What the 'ell we'll do with all them books while I'm at it, Lord alone knows. . . . "

  "Do you know Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?"

  It was on the window. "Mortimer Gamaliel, Books," in frayed black letters.

  "Mr. Gamaliel . . . ? Yes; I know 'im. I live round the back. He's a bit of a mystery. . . ."

  From the window below street level a face was watching them. The painter tried to look as if he didn't know Cromwell and went on with his daubing.

  "That's 'im lookin' at us," he said from under his moustache.

  The f
ace gave the sergeant quite a turn. It reminded you of a mask, a miniature of those strange carnival getups that parade in Nice in their season. A round, livid face; a snub nose; large mouth; and peering, protruding watery eyes. To crown the lot, a thatch of red hair which might have been a wig. Cromwell hurried down the stone steps and into the shop. The odours of old books, damp paper, foul air and greasy cooking met him at the door.

  The place itself consisted of a maze of passages formed by shelves on which were packed, so that you couldn't put a penny between them, thousands of books of all shapes and sizes. A large fire burned in an old-fashioned iron grate at the far end of the cellar. Even then, it wasn't too warm below ground level and the stone floor added no comfort to it, either.

  It was evidently a place where you came and browsed without any obligation to buy. There were two or three other strange occupants with their noses deep in old volumes. A man in a heavy overcoat, threadbare, down-at-heel, enjoying a free read and making nervous gestures with his free hand in his scraggy beard; a girl, apparently a student, eagerly searching among some medical books, bobbing her head up and down like a drinking hen as she read the titles; and a man, who looked like a bookie, for some queer reason interesting himself in a volume from a set of Calvin's "Institutes".

  The surrounding walls were whitewashed and badly needed another coat. Hanging on these at eye level was a string of pictures, some modern and incomprehensible; others, big and little oils in palette-knife and brush work. Mr. Gamaliel still appeared to be dealing in his fake pictures.

  "Seeking anything in particular?"

  Mr. Gamaliel had spotted the newcomer and seen him talking with the painter. His poached eyes ran up and down Cromwell, trying to size him up. Fortunately the sergeant looked like a student of theology and the bookseller had a large stock of works on the subject which nobody ever bought. He purchased such volumes by weight as a rule, making sure, at least, of their salvage value.

  Cromwell didn't beat about the bush.

  "I'm from the police. . . . "

  Mr. Gamaliel's livid cheeks grew more purple.

  "No need to question the painter, then. What do you want?"

  "You were a friend of Mr. Lysander Oates, I believe."

  The bookseller looked relieved. His colour improved and his loose, thick-lipped mouth opened in an oily smile. It wasn't a pleasant sight. The cat spotting the mouse! The lips parted and the top one curled back revealing a row of uneven stained teeth. He took out a packet of cigarettes, offered one to Cromwell and lit one himself when the sergeant declined. The man in the beard started to cough.

  "Come over in the corner. . . . "

  There were two chairs, a shabby saddleback and a wooden armchair beside the fire. A teapot stood on the hob and the remains of a meal littered a plain table nearby.

  "Sit down. . . . "

  Cromwell could see a crude bedroom through a door ajar on one side of the cellar. Mr. Gamaliel seemed to lead a troglodyte existence under Risk Street.

  "Where is Mr. Oates, do you know?"

  Mortimer Gamaliel emptied the smoke from his mouth in a vicious puff.

  "I haven't the least idea. I've not seen him for weeks."

  "You were friends, I believe?"

  "We played chess together. What is all this about?"

  The bookseller's voice was deep and wheezy as though it came from a long way down with great difficulty. He kept coughing loosely as the smoke caught him.

  "Mr. Oates has disappeared. We're anxious to find him. I might say there seems to be foul play connected with the affair."

  "Well, I've nothing to do with it. We were a couple of rather lonely bachelors living on our own. He came here sometimes for books and we struck up an acquaintance. Then we started playing chess. . . . "

  "When did you last see him?"

  "Almost three months ago. He suddenly stopped coming. We were half-way through a game, too, and I thought it strange."

  Mr. Gamaliel's eyes were never still. Looking round the shop, unpleasantly watching the girl at the medical section, staring straight at Cromwell trying to fathom his thoughts. The sergeant got the queer feeling that the eyes might be made of glass. They took everything in, but he turned his head instead of rolling them in their sockets, almost like a ventriloquist's dummy.

  "So, you don't know what happened to him?"

  "Why should I? I wasn't his keeper."

  "Did you know anything about him other than he played chess?"

  "Not much. He was a commercial artist. . . ."

  "Anything else? Were any of those done by him?"

  Cromwell turned and waved a hand in the direction of the picture gallery on the walls. As he cast his eyes back on Gamaliel, he found he'd caught the bookseller on a sore spot. The colour of the cheeks had changed almost to black by the light of the fire. The podgy hands with their stumpy fingers and flabby palms were gripping the arms of the chair convulsively.

  "Certainly not! Those are worth more than anything Oates ever did."

  "I'm sorry. Do you collect pictures . . . ?"

  Mr. Gamaliel's glazed eyes fixed themselves on Cromwell's, still trying to fathom what he was getting at.

  "No, I don't. I frequently buy collections of books from large houses and I'm interested also in pictures, if they're any good. I get them when I buy the books and deal in them a little. Are you satisfied?"

  He relaxed again and the heavy cheeks which had grown round and inflated with rage sank and hung like little bags from his jawbones.

  The old man at the shelves took out a flat tin box, extracted a fag-end, lit it and started to cough in paroxysms which shook the shop. Mr. Gamaliel looked annoyed.

  "Haven't you found what you wanted, Mr. Cuppleditch? You'd better leave it now and come back. . . ."

  The man in the beard looked up with hungry eyes.

  "Certainly, Mr. Gamaliel, certainly. No offence, I'm sure. . . ." And with that he bolted, his old coat billowing behind him.

  The painter presented himself and asked for some hot water for his mid-morning tea.

  "What again!! Take some from the kettle. . . ."

  Something had rattled Mr. Gamaliel. Something to do with the pictures. He was definitely uncomfortable. But the walrus of a painter was quite unperturbed. He poured some of the boiling liquid in his can into which he had previously emptied a screw of paper containing his tea and sugar.

  "Any milk, sir?"

  "No. . . . It's not come yet."

  As if knowing what the conversation was about, a large tomcat emerged from under some shelves and flung itself on Mr. Gamaliel's lap. He stroked its sleek back fur fondly. He had a weakness for cats.

  The painter was disposed to chat.

  "By the way, that picture . . . "

  He pointed at a beautiful street scene with his can.

  "That . . . what you may call it? . . . that Yew-tree-lo . . . You know the one? I dessay I could get you a sale for that. I know a bloke who collects . . . "

  "Nobody said it was an Utrillo. It might be a copy, but it's not a genuine . . ."

  "But you said . . ."

  "I didn't say anything. . . . And now take your tea and drink it outside. I'm busy and it's private. . . ."

  "Oh, all right. Keep your shirt on. Only tryin' to 'elp. You did say it was a Yew-tree-lo . . ."

  He shrugged his shoulders and shuffled off with his

  "Stupid fool!"

  Gamaliel was furious again. The girl had found the book and wanted to buy it. The bookseller could hardly be civil for temper and took the money without a word of thanks.

  "That one of Oates's efforts?"

  Cromwell said it half in a joke, but Mr. Gamaliel didn't think it funny. He rose and towered over Cromwell.

  "Look here. I've had quite enough of this. Leave my pictures out of it. That's not what you came for, is it? Or, am I wrong? Are you snooping . . . ?"

  So, that was it! It looked as if Oates had been in the fake masterpiece racket. No wonder Gamaliel l
ooked uncomfortable and jumpy. Perhaps he knew more of Lysander's disappearance than he pretended.

  "I'm not concerned with the pictures, but if Oates was connected with them, they interest me. I'm after Lysander Oates, and that's all for the present. Have you any idea where he might be?"

  "I've told you. I don't know a thing."

  "Did you notice anything peculiar about him before he left?"

  "How peculiar . . . ? What do you mean?"

  "Did he seem preoccupied? Had his habits changed? Did he talk about anything? Did he seem short or flush with money? That sort of thing. . . ."

  Mr. Gamaliel's dead eyes gave no flicker of response. "I didn't notice anything about his behaviour. He mentioned his sister-in-law having died. Seemed fond of her and a bit upset. . . . His habits were the same. I tell you, I only saw him one or two evenings a week. We went to the theatre once or twice and had dinner out. He didn't seem very different from before. He always had enough money for his needs. I didn't notice him throwing it about any more than usual. . . . I can't say much about his talk. He wasn't one for talking a lot. . . . Sociable, but not a big talker. . . ."

  To Cromwell, it felt like being in prison; in another world. Not another soul in sight; the distant steps of passers-by in the street, very far away; not a sound except the fire falling now and then, the cat purring and Gamaliel's voice, deep and bubbling bronchially. . . . And those dead eyes and the malevolent look of the bookseller. His wits felt dim, too. The airless atmosphere of the cellar, the stuffy, hot tobacco-impregnated air, damp, musty books. . . . Cromwell felt like falling asleep. And then Mr. Gamaliel would . . . He shook himself.

  "Did Lysander Oates ever lend you money, Mr. Gamaliel . . . ?"

  The fat man looked as if he couldn't believe his ears. He levered himself to his feet again and stood rocking with rage on his heels.

  "Really, sir! My private affairs have nothing to do with you! I protest . . . I shall complain. . . . "

  "All right, all right. Don't have a fit, sir. I was only . . ."

  "You were only insinuating that I had something to do with Mr. Lysander Oates's disappearance. Let me tell you, sir, I had not! Why should I want him out of the way? As for money . . . well . . . he borrowed from me some time ago and just before he went he paid what he owed. Almost a hundred pounds. I am using it now to have my premises improved. Now, are you satisfied?"