Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "Hullo, Charlie," he said to P.C. Maglashen, who winced at the familiarity in front of the famous stranger from "over". He told Teddy exactly what to do. Ropes, torches, gum-boots, and a couple of reliable men.

  "H'is someborry tumbled down the mine?"

  "Maybe; maybe not. Now, Teddy, sharp's the word."

  And Teddy and his contraption made a noisy getaway. They were back in record time. All the paraphernalia, and a couple of stocky laconic farm-hands ready for anything. P.C. Maglashen insisted on doing the job himself. He stripped off his tunic, put on his gumboots, slid the rope under his armpits, and they lowered him. The light of his torch indicated his downward progress. He hadn't been far wrong in his estimate of the descent. They heard him shout from below and started slowly to haul up again. The air was tense as they pulled the rope. Somewhere behind a curlew called and you could hear, far away, a bittern booming an eerie accompaniment.

  Instead of P.C. Maglashen, there came to the light of day the twisted body of Lysander Oates. The back of his skull had been smashed in.

  10

  NO MORE TEARS FOR FINLOE

  WHEN Cromwell called on Montacute at Rodley, he found the Inspector half frantic from a surfeit of bankers and executors. Mr. de Lacy had completely turned the tables on him. He either called or rang up for news every half-hour.

  "Anything fresh about the Oates case?"

  It appeared that the manager of the Executor and Trustee department of Silvesters' Bank in London had turned out from his files an old letter from Finloe Oates saying he wished to make the bank his executor and would soon be signing a new Will. The Trustee Manager, therefore, called upon Mr. de Lacy in person. He was like a jovial undertaker until he heard the Will of Finloe Oates had gone; given up and vanished on the strength of a forged letter !

  "Not that there would be much in it for you, Butterfield," remarked Mr. de Lacy, on whose mind recent events had preyed so much that he now tended to treat it all with levity and titters. "What next?" he would mutter to himself and laugh loudly. His wife was trying to persuade him to see the doctor.

  "Not that there'll be much for you. All the estate has been pinched except the house and I wouldn't be surprised if somebody didn't move into that on a forged conveyance. . . ."

  Mr. Butterfield took a firm grip of his umbrella, just in case Mr. de Lacy went off his head completely, put on his bowler hat, and hurried off to the station in a state of great perturbation. There, he took the wrong train in his confusion and later found himself at Dover instead of Charing Cross.

  The same thing was happening at the Home Counties Bank, Pimlico. After Mr. Macgreggor's report, the whole case was considered and it was decided that, for the present, no action should be taken against the manager. But as a corollary, it was found that the Executor of Lysander Oates was the Home Counties Bank! And Lysander had vanished. Maybe, he was dead; in which case the Executor would start to function. The Rodley Police and Scotland Yard therefore began to receive telephone calls from Threadneedle Street.

  "Any news of Lysander Oates?"

  "I'm fed up to the back teeth with it all," Montacute told Cromwell. "And now, here's a fellow called Hazlett buzzing round, from a London firm of solicitors. He says he drew both Wills and he believes he can help as soon as he has authority to do so. He was here this morning. Little clever-Dick of a chap, trying to push me round. I sent him off and said I'd write."

  "Inspector Littlejohn's gone to the Isle of Man to-day in search of Lysander. Perhaps there'll be news tomorrow. . . . "

  "Isle of Man? Whatever for? Seems a waste of time to me."

  "Don't you get fresh about the chief! He's forgotten more about police work than you'll ever know."

  "Don't get shirty! I'm a bit nervy, that's all. . . ."

  Thereupon the 'phone rang again.

  "Is that you, Montacute? De Lacy, here. Any news yet about . . . ?"

  Cromwell went out to Netherby on the branch line. He found the one man in charge of the station busy with a lot of calves tied up in sacks to their necks. They kept mooing and it was getting on his nerves.

  "If there's one thing cuts me to the quick, it's calves cryin'," he told Cromwell. "Reminds me of the days when the kids was young. Grown-up and married now, thank God. Five of 'em, and every one between the age of birth and two, a howler—all night and every night. . . . Got a ticket?"

  "Yes; here it is. I want to talk to you about tickets. The local police tell me you saw the late Mr. Oates leaving here early one morning. You thought he was off on a trip. Was that so?"

  "Yes, it was. They seem to think I'm a born liar because I made a mistake. It looked like 'im, and he limped like 'im."

  "But you didn't see his face?"

  "No, I didn't. He were hurryin' for the train which was drawin' in at the time. That's Oates, sure enough, I sez to myself and I wondered what he were doin' so early in the mornin'. Didn't take no ticket. I sez to myself, he must 'ave booked through an agency. In any case, they'll ketch 'im at the other end if he's not booked. And with that I forgets it, see? First train at five in the mornin', it was, and me not so lively at that un'oly hour. . . ."

  He was a little man with sad eyes and a walrus moustache. He had a long neck which he operated like a concertina, extending it when emphasising a point.

  "Will that be all? 'Cos I see a chap comin' fer these calves, and I'll 'ave to help him load 'em. . . ."

  The calves were all mooing in concert now, which demented the poor porter until he didn't know which way to turn.

  "It's no use. . . . I'll have to get a move to a h'industrial arena where they's no livestock to carry on. . . ."

  Cromwell gave him a shilling, which he spat upon and placed in the pocket of his corduroys. The sergeant made a note of it in his diary. It would go on his expenses sheet as "Sundries", and the cashier would play merry hell before he paid it. So what!

  He met P.C. Mee parading the main street of the village. He usually aired himself about this time, bullying the little boys as the school turned out for lunch.

  "Hey, you! Don't cross the road till I say you can. You'll get run-over. . . . "

  "Hi. . . . If you ring another door-bell, I'll 'aul you in . . ."

  "Good morning, constable. I'm from Scotland Yard on the Oates case. . . . "

  "Yes, I know," said Johnny Know-all.

  "I'm interested in a note on the records. . . . You said you saw Finloe Oates leaving by the first train one morning. . . . Is that so?"

  Mee breathed hard. Why couldn't they let it drop? He'd admitted it might be wrong, but they kept on at him.

  "It wasn't properly daylight. Matter o' fact, I was mistaken. I admit it, though it's rarely the case. I'm generally right in my reports. Anybody'll tell you that. But this chap didn't come face on to me. I see him side-view. He limped and wore a slouch hat, just like Mr. Oates. . . ."

  "About his build, too?"

  "Yes. . . . Hey, you! Get off that wall. You'll break your neck. Don't let me 'ave to tell yer again. . . . "

  "What date would that be?"

  "May 4th. . . . I told headquarters that already."

  "I can't make it out at all. . . . "

  "It's as plain as the nose on yer face, if you ask me," said Johnny Know-all confidently. "Lysander killed Finloe, or else Finloe died on 'is hands. He stayed long enough to gather in all Finloe's money an' then bolted. It was Lysander I saw. Like as two peas, they would be at that time in the mornin' . . . half-light, so to speak."

  "That may be. . . ."

  "And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to be off. Inquest on Finloe this afternoon at two-thirty sharp and I'm one of the principal witnesses. . . ."

  They bade each other a rather stiff good-bye and Mee, after holding up a horse and cart and a tractor with relish to let two children cross the road, went in the police house for his dinner.

  Cromwell decided he'd better stay in the village for lunch and attend the inquest which was to be held in the village hall, greatly to the
consternation of the members of the Women's Institute, who had booked it for a bring-and-buy sale. Mr. Sebastian Dommett, the county coroner, had made it plain, however, that the ends of justice were not to be defeated by rummages of any kind and the women weren't to start until he'd finished.

  They provided a lunch of sorts for Cromwell at the Naked Man. It consisted of nondescript soup from a tin; hot corned beef and carrots; and stewed plums and custard. Unused to providing regular meals of this kind, it seemed they had rifled the larder of all its old tins and served them up in a succession of messes. Cromwell didn't know what to do with the corned beef which was atrocious, so, when the waitress's back was turned and the room empty, he lifted a large dusty aspidistra from its pot on the window ledge, soil and all, and dumped the whole soggy mass in the bottom. Then he replaced the plant. When the girl returned, he sardonically praised the dish and she left wild-eyed at his speed and prowess, to get the next course.

  "Would you like some more?" she whispered over her shoulder as she left, but there was no reply.

  Florrie Judson brought his tankard of ale.

  "The inquest's to-day. I'm not mixed up in it," she said, bending over him to impart the secret. Sensuality oozed from her, and she smelled of cheap face-powder and perspiring armpits. This was what Finloe Oates had preferred to Marion, the girl all the boys were crazy about years ago!

  " . . Mr. Oates's lawyer's been here asking questions, though. It seems he knows the money should come to me, but as the Will's been lost, there's likely to be trouble. He asked if anybody knew, and I told him the police had asked me. . . ."

  "A man called Hazlett?"

  "Yes. He's not long been gone. He's here for the inquest."

  "Did he ask many questions?"

  "No. I told him about me and Finloe. He'd have to prove we was friendly, wouldn't he, so that he could prove Finloe might have left me the money . . . ?"

  She'd been thinking it over and greed and conceit had driven out affection. No more tears for Finloe; just a rapacious struggle to get her dues.

  At precisely half-past two, Mr. Sebastian Dommett arrived with his retinue. Two tubby little clerks accompanied him wherever he went. It was said they constituted a bodyguard against the threats of a past malefactor to swing for Sebastian, who had deprived him of a considerable fund of treasure trove.

  Mr. Dommett cast a Mephistophelian look around the court-room. He was cadaverous and his waxed moustache bristled with aggressive zeal. The small place was full. Many of the audience consisted of members of the Women's Institute, acting as scouts. They signalled from time to time to members looking through the windows from outside. In the small garden which surrounded the Hall—a war memorial really—were piled the bring-and-buy goods which were to be sold as soon as Mr. Dommett had finished with the space. The scouts within tick-tacked to those outside and Mr. Dommett caught the eye of one of them in the very act of indicating that proceedings were under way. He glared and held forth against unseemly behaviour in his court.

  "I have powers to commit you for contempt if it continues."

  P.C. Mee gave evidence. He wasn't a great success. Mr. Dommett's daughter had married a village constable against his wishes and a man in blue was to him like a red rag to a bull. He reproached Mee for not keeping a proper eye on the bungalow when it was apparently uninhabited.

  "You might have prevented this awful crime if you'd been a little more alert."

  Mr. Dommett thereupon flicked a long, bony index at Mee to indicate that would be all.

  Dr. Hough, the police surgeon, then gave evidence. Mr. Dommett at once notified him that he himself was not a physiologist, and he would be obliged for an opinion in the simplest terms.

  Dr. Hough therefore summed-up very clearly.

  "The body was fully dressed and had been weighted in every pocket. Two months' submersion in a stagnant old tanpit had reduced it to a sorry condition. All the same, the organs were moderately well-preserved. The deceased had been suffering from cardiac degeneration for some years and was likely to die at any time from overstrain or sudden shock. Such a shock must have happened and killed him. Apart from the manner of disposal of the body, death was due to natural causes; heart failure."

  "Can you estimate the time of death?"

  "I would say the body had been in the water six weeks or two months. That is merely surmise based on its condition, and on precedents in medical records. The police, I gather, found in the pocket a rate-notice posted from the rating offices in the middle of March. I concur in the inference given by that."

  "Very well. . . . Natural causes. Call Ezra Jones."

  Jones was the postman who had met Mr. Killgrass in the garden on the fatal afternoon which had started all this.

  Jones was wearing his best official uniform, which was a size too large for him. The sleeves fell over his knuckles and the trousers hung in corrugated folds over his boots. He had his hat on.

  "Take off your hat when you take the oath, and keep it off!"

  Mr. Jones, his jaws rotating round the perpetual quid of tobacco, prised off the offending article and stood with a livid ring crowning his brow where it had sat. He swore to tell the truth with great difficulty for his chew of tobacco impeded the flow of speech.

  "I cannot allow you to chew tobacco in giving evidence. Please remove it. . . . "

  Mr. Jones looked round for somewhere to spit. He reminded you of a dog seeking a special tree.

  "No, no, no. Take it outside and remove it. Then return."

  Mr. Jones rushed to the open door, spat the quid on the grass, greatly to the discomfiture of the bring-and-buy contingent, and returned a new man.

  He had little to say that was relevant, but it took him a long time to sort it out. Anxious female faces appeared at the windows and eyed him malevolently.

  "Your name is Ezra Jones. You are postman in Netherby. . . ."

  Mr. Jones looked amazed. As if he hadn't known that for more than thirty years!

  "No wonder taxation's that heavy," he told his cronies at the Naked Man later that afternoon. He had imagined fame awaiting later, as a result of his evidence. Instead, all he had told was that the house seemed occupied at the date guessed by the doctor.

  At this point, Inspector Montacute had whispered to one of Mr. Dommett's attendant little men, who, in turn, had whispered it to his boss. That was police business; all they wanted was the cause of death, permission to bury, and an adjournment.

  Mr. Dommett was annoyed, but he didn't show it. He gave a verdict accordingly, with the ineffective help of a small jury, whom he had impounded and prevented from doing a good day's work. After which, just to show the Women's Institute where they got off, he did a lot of writing on papers before him. Then he packed—up and went home. As he and his army were leaving the hall by one door, the bring-and-buy caravan with its bulky merchandise was entering by the other. . . .

  One thing the inquest had brought: Mrs. Titley, from the bungalow over the way from Finloe Oates's. She'd been away from home, staying with her daughter at Bexhill since before Finloe's death had been announced. The news of the inquest had hurried her back, greatly to the relief of her son-in-law. She missed nothing. Always peeping round the window curtains, she was able to state that on the date in question, she had seen Fish-lock take the key from its usual hiding-place, enter the house and . . . Well, she had begun to wonder if she had lost her skill at spying! He hadn't, to her knowledge, come out again in daylight. She wondered if he'd given her the slip. Confirmation of her continued prowess by the news that Fishlock had died inside and been hidden away, far from casting her down, seemed to invigorate her.

  "I see that Flo Judson qrowlin' around, too. The 'uzzy! No better than she should be. Strange goings-on there were at that 'ouse after pore Mrs. Finloe passed over. Nearly as soon as she was laid to rest, there was Finloe caperin' around like a young lad. Paintin' the outside and mowin' and weedin' all hours of the day. . . . Then, sudden, it stopped, and he shut 'imself up like an
'ermit. I couldn't make 'ead or tail of 'is goings-on. A time or two, I saw 'im prowlin' round just after dusk, as I was goin' to bed. The place seemed deserted at night. He must 'ave gone to bed when it got dark."

  "Are you sure it was Finloe Oates, Mrs. Titley?"

  "Who else could it be?"

  She was a scraggy, peevish-faced woman, with the inquisitive features of a tapir. Her mouth opened and closed like a trap, and her thin, pointed nose grew red with the enthusiasm of turning over a lot of gossip, especially as it had a semi-official blessing.

  "It might have been someone like him prowling around after dark."

  "It might, as you say. I never went out to see him close to."

  "Did you know Finloe's brother, Lysander?"

  "Yes. He came over to Mrs. Finloe's interment. Didn't stay long then, but I saw him here later. He come one afternoon. I saw him go in, but I never saw him go out. Now that's another funny thing! My windows overlook the front. You'd think they'd another way out behind."

  She said it with great indignation, as though resenting any attempt to avoid her close supervision.

  "My guess is that Finloe went queer, threw himself in the water, and died of shock. They said he died natural, didn't they? Well . . . ?"

  "Yes; that may be a theory. . . ."

  They didn't tell her, though, of all the jiggery-pokery with Finloe's estate. She knew enough already. She hurried home, eager to make up for lost time in surveillance of Shenandoah.

  Montacute pondered for a time on the various points raised.

  "That seems to settle it. Lysander took Finloe's place till he'd sold the shares and collected Finloe's money. The one thing I can't understand is, him digging up the dog. I was a bit puzzled at the time I was told about it and I did a bit of digging there myself just to make sure Finloe hadn't been put there instead of the animal. I got Lysander's prints from the spade, too, so he did unearth the body. What he did with it, I can't for the life of me think. Perhaps it's in the tanpit as well."

  Cromwell's mind flew back to one of Littlejohn's old cases.