Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  Hunt, half a madman, was reciting it with gestures and pompous little postures, just like a cheap melodramatic actor.

  "Be as brief as possible, if you please."

  Hunt didn't seem to hear. He was like one in a trance.

  "It was all like a fantastic story. Lysander had discovered from some neighbour of Finloe's that his brother had been indulging in an adulterous affair with a local barmaid whilst his wife was alive. He feared that Finloe had left all his considerable wealth to the hussy and was determined she shouldn't have it. He wanted to be certain. If he made known his brother's death, the law would take its course and the estate might go to the barmaid. He wanted to get the Will and make sure."

  "When did he call here?"

  "The night his brother died. He came by road in a hired car. He had left his brother's dead body in the house."

  "Well?"

  "He had looked through his brother's papers and found that the Will was at the bank. He wanted to write for it in Finloe's handwriting, but was no use whatever at forgery."

  "That was where you came in?"

  "Frankly, yes. I had been a friend of the Oates family ever since we were children. I had a natural aptitude for forgery, though, believe me, I never used it illicitly. . . . "

  "Until Lysander asked you."

  "Until Lysander asked me."

  Hunt seemed to be enjoying himself.

  "He asked me to copy Finloe's hand and tell the bank to send the Will to Finloe's home by post. I remonstrated with Lysander. We argued. He told me of the harlot in the village inn, how she would inherit what now was morally Lysander's birthright. . . . Ten thousand pounds !"

  "What did he offer you as your share?"

  "What do you mean, sir? I was not to be bought against my conscience! Eventually, I agreed. I wrote to the bank, the Will was sent to my friend at his brother's house, and he found that, as he suspected, the barmaid had inherited the lot. . . . "

  "Finloe Oates must have been mad !"

  "So Lysander said when he returned here the next night. And then he told me the awful scheme he had initiated. He had thrown his brother's body in a pond behind the house and was going to impersonate him, live in the house as his brother until he had realised his assets, and then go abroad and retire in peace. He didn't seem the least upset. His brother had died a natural death, he said, and was past caring where he was buried. In any case, he hated him and didn't mind disposing of the body. Once in possession of the money, he proposed to hide his trail, living a little while in a house he knew—the one he painted and gave me—and then off to the south of France via Ireland. . . ."

  Hunt was still pacing about excitedly. He paused now and then for effect, picking up one of the many little Dresden figures which ornamented the room, putting it down again, blowing dust from the mantelpiece and helping himself to drinks from the brandy bottle without asking Littlejohn to join him.

  Superintendent Slatter thrust in his head.

  "Finished yet?"

  "No, sir. But you needn't wait. I'll see you later at the police station. There's a constable about, is there?"

  "Yes. He's sitting by the kitchen fire. . . . "

  Hunt was eager to be getting on with the tale in which he was the hero, the clever one. He was out to clear himself in his way and avoid a night or more in a cell.

  ". . . All that prevented Lysander from succeeding fully was that he couldn't do more than forge his brother's name. He'd have to write letters of instruction to the bank. To use a typewriter, he told me, would have aroused suspicion, because his brother never even possessed a machine. He wanted me to do the writing for him. He said it wouldn't be forgery. He'd take the responsibility of forging the name, if I'd write the letters. As he needed them, he'd send me draft copies of the letters, which I would re-write in Finloe's hand, from specimens provided, and return at once. We did that and continued to do so till Lysander had acquired all the money which was, by rights, his own."

  "How much of it did you get?"

  "There you go again! You are a cynic, Inspector. I did it all because I thought Lysander was right and I wanted to help him. He was a truly decent fellow, a lifelong friend."

  "How much?"

  Hunt sighed. He turned his back and started to wind a little French clock on the mantelpiece.

  "Five hundred pounds," he said over his shoulder. "But . . . but Lysander insisted. I didn't refuse. I'm penniless except for my salary, Inspector. I spend all I get on my sister and her comforts. . . ."

  He rested his elbow on the marble mantel, and gripped his brow melodramatically between his fingers.

  "That is all, Inspector. I've made a clean breast of all I know and all I've done. The crime was committed . . . the forgery, I mean, by the late Lysander. I only wrote the letters; he signed them."

  "Did you see him again after his second visit, sir?"

  "No. The rest was done by mail. With the last letter he sent, he told me he was through and was immediately putting into operation his plan to leave the country. I knew then he'd gone to the Isle of Man and I'd never see him again. I little thought he would die."

  "Murder is the word, Mr. Hunt."

  Hunt turned savagely on the Inspector.

  "Well, what of it? I didn't do it."

  "You say you haven't been away from home this year?"

  "That is true. I haven't been to the Isle of Man, if that's what you're hinting at. You can't catch me there."

  "You're forgetting the three days I spent with Mrs. Swailes, aren't you, Theo? The time you went away and didn't say where you were going, except that it was on business. . . . "

  The voice came from behind the door and was followed by Miss Hunt, clad in a long white nightgown and house-coat. She had grown calm, deadly calm, and spoke in a wheedling, malevolent voice.

  "Where've you come from, Constance? Get back to bed at once. I order you. The doctor said . . . "

  "Don't get cross, Theo. You know it upsets me. I came down to find you. Nurse is talking with the constable in the kitchen and I was all by myself. I stopped behind the open door to listen and you seem to have forgotten that you were away for three days at the end of April. I can never forget that. You left me, Theo, you left me . . . "

  She began to cry and grow wild again.

  "Nurse ! Nurse ! What do you mean by leaving my sister? You know it's not safe to leave her! She might do herself harm in her present depressed state. Get along and put her to bed. And stay with her. . . ."

  The constable, his ears red, came rushing out with the nurse. She was pretty and he'd just been starting to enjoy himself. The girl tossed her head.

  "If I can't relax a little when the patient's asleep . . ."

  "You can't. . . . What do I pay you for . . . ?"

  The nurse and her constabulary admirer started to usher and persuade Miss Constance up the stairs again.

  "Is it true what your sister said?" asked Littlejohn as they returned to the drawing-room.

  "Inspector! Inspector!"

  It was Constance in hysterics, calling for him.

  "He was away with that Susan Fairclough. He thinks I don't know. Ask him. Ask him about that Fairclough woman. . . . "

  She started to scream and they had to get her in her room by force. Hunt did not attempt to help them. He was beside himself with rage at this latest outburst.

  "Don't heed my sister. She's beside herself sometimes. She imagines things."

  But the last shot had got home. Hunt was anxious to pass it off.

  "Who is Susan Fairclough?"

  "A friend of ours."

  "Your sister didn't seem very friendly disposed. Who is she?"

  "Wife of one of my colleagues at school. I am friendly with her husband. Constance is terribly jealous of all my friends."

  "You were away on the days Miss Hunt stated . . . the end of April . . . the time Lysander Oates was killed?"

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I want an answer. I warn you, I can confirm t
his by inquiries at the school. You went away?"

  Hunt turned his head hither and thither. He was trying to find a way out and none presented itself.

  "Yes. I forgot. I was away. . . ."

  "Where?"

  "I'm not disposed to say."

  "Very well. Get your hat and coat. You are under arrest. . . . "

  "But I've told you, I didn't kill Oates. Why should I?"

  "Where were you?"

  Hunt had reached breaking point. He started to shout and bawl.

  "I went to the Isle of Man! Now are you satisfied? I went to the Isle of Man! I couldn't get Oates out of my mind. I wondered if he were in danger. He had so much money with him. A fortune. . . . I went."

  "By 'plane?"

  "No. I got the morning boat. Stayed overnight in Liverpool."

  "Were you away three days?"

  "Yes; damn you! How much more?"

  "How did you spend the three days?"

  "Coming and going. I was only on the island one day. I stayed a night in Liverpool coming, and one going."

  "Where?"

  "The Crescent Hotel."

  "You went to Oates's cottage?"

  "Yes. It was deserted. I never saw him. There was nobody about. I didn't see him. You've got to believe me!"

  "Did anyone see you?"

  "You can check at the hotels."

  "Was anyone with you when you went to the cottage?"

  Hunt thrust his face close to Littlejohn's. He had the eyes of a madman.

  "Meaning what?"

  Littlejohn had his answer without any more questions.

  "Mrs. Fairclough was with you, wasn't she?"

  "Don't you dare mention that sweet woman! The association of Susan with the police is distasteful to me in the extreme. . . . "

  "All the same, Hunt, you'll hang unless she gives you an alibi."

  "I'll what?"

  "Hang."

  "But I'll deny it all. They can't prove I killed him if I didn't. . . ."

  "Did you take Susan Fairclough?"

  "Yes. Yes. I did. But I won't have her brought in it. Her husband is cruel to her. A boor ! A hog ! Yes, a hog wallowing in a sty! She is the sweetest woman on earth, the comfort of my darkness, the . . ."

  "That will do. Calm yourself, sir. I shall have to see her."

  "If you go near that sweet woman, I'll kill myself. I will. I swear it. I've nothing to live for anyhow. Constance has got worse and worse. I'm tied to her hand and foot. Daren't leave her. She goes mad if I'm away an hour longer than usual. Susan and I love each other. I'm getting Constance in a home and we're going away together. I'll make up to her what that swine Fairclough . . ."

  "Was she with you all the time you were in the Isle of Man?"

  "Yes. It was our first trip together. It was beautiful. Spiritual. . . . Nothing sordid . . . nothing of the flesh. Just the love of kindred souls. . . ."

  "She will be able to give you an alibi then. . . ."

  "What! And bring that swine Fairclough in as the outraged husband! Not likely! I'll hang first."

  "I'm afraid you have no choice, Mr. Hunt. You are coming with me to the police station where you will remain in custody on a forgery charge. The bank have called in the police on the case and you are self-condemned."

  "You swine! You've trapped me. I'll deny it all."

  "Come along, sir. The constable will go with you and you can put a few things in a bag. . . . "

  "I won't go."

  "It would ill become the dignity of an educated man like yourself to be forcibly taken there. Come along now. Be reasonable, Mr. Hunt."

  "Very well. But you shall pay for this. I do not suffer fools gladly, let me tell you."

  Then began the business of getting Hunt away and making arrangements for his sister. Constance was removed to a home that very night. She thought she was going on a holiday and took kindly to it. She remained there for the brief remainder of her life and, strange to say, never asked for her brother again.

  As Littlejohn left the silent Hunt house much later and for the last time, the telephone bell rang. It was the police. They'd traced the mysterious call from Oates.

  ". . . It wasn't put in at the island at all, sir. It came from a call-box at Speke Airport, Liverpool, and was timed two-fifteen. . . . "

  "That looks like a point for Hunt," said Littlejohn to himself. Someone had incriminated him by the doctored letter in his own writing. They had decoyed him to the island, and at the same time got him to write to Oates at Snuff the Wind.

  Had it been Oates on his way to the Isle of Man? Or had it been his murderer, trying to implicate Hunt? Two-fifteen. . . . That was about the time the Northolt 'plane would touch down at Speke on its way to the island. Someone on that 'plane had sent the message.

  12

  MRS. FAIRCLOUGH

  THE Faircloughs lived in a large semi-detached house near Dalbay Hall and took in some of the boys as boarders. On his way there, Littlejohn wondered what kind of a woman he was going to find. He had tried to dismiss from his mind visions of young and flighty masters' wives, or women past their prime desperately clutching at a last chance of romance with the fantastic Hunt. But he couldn't stop himself from playing the mental game of find-the-lady. It was past the hour of school and he had already rung up Mrs. Fairclough to make sure that no complications would arise from the presence of a jealous, complacent, or even unsuspecting husband.

  A young maid opened the door. She wasn't at all prepossessing. A pitiable girl with a chlorotic complexion, chronic catarrh, close-cropped hair, like an inmate of some penal institution or other, and a large smear of blacklead across one cheek.

  "Whad nabe shall I say?"

  "Inspector Littlejohn. . . ."

  "Oh. . . ."

  It hadn't registered but that didn't matter, for Mrs.

  Fairclough had evidently been listening for his arrival and now appeared in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Littlejohn's flights of fancy had not been far wrong !

  Susan Fairclough was well past forty and there was grey in her dark hair. She still bore considerable traces of the good looks she must once have possessed. She was small and probably, in her heyday, had been slim and energetic. Now, her figure had thickened, the flesh around her chin and throat had started to sag, she depended on careful make-up for her complexion, and her former charm had turned to studied coyness. She wore a long blue house-coat and had obviously groomed herself for the interview.

  Littlejohn was at a loss to understand the reasons for an intrigue between this woman and Hunt. He seemed too fastidious and she too vain to suit one another. Surely, no mad surge of passion, no reckless determination to squeeze the last few drops of excitement from life whilst the going was good had impelled these two middle-aged people, responsible and set in their ways, to commit the folly of running away together, risking their own security and the happiness of those dependent on them and then, strangest of all, running back to resume the life they had left behind in Bishop's Walton !

  "Come in, please."

  She said it without removing the cigarette. The voice was dry and affected and the hand with which she closed the door was white and podgy with red-painted nails. The maid disappeared into the kitchen and you could hear her banging about with a brush and dustpan. Mrs. Fairclough led the way into a small morning-room where a fire glowed dimly in the hearth and a Siamese cat lounged voluptuously in an armchair beside it. This place was known as the Den. The boy boarders were allowed in most parts of the house, but this room was sacred to Fairclough and his wife. It bore signs of strange, exotic taste. The easy chairs, the curtains and the divan were upholstered in folk-weave of red, blue and gold. The carpet was expensive Chinese. The only other ornaments were three pictures on the walls and three large cases of books.

  "Sit down, Inspector. . . . You are looking at the pictures?"

  She was right. Littlejohn was trying, in his way, to discover what they were all about. One was composed of pieces of coloured paper st
uck in geometrical patterns one on top of the other. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting of what might have been anything from a garden in spring to a canal winding its way through fields the colour of verdigris. It looked as if the artist had squeezed his colours, willy nilly, from the tubes and rubbed them in the canvas with his thumbnail. The remaining water-colour showed two elongated neuter figures, with shapely legs, but whose bodies were made up of vertical and horizontal lines with no substance.

  "My husband is a collector. There are hundreds of poundsworth in value in those three works. . . . The dealers say they will be worth twice that in a few years."

  "Will they, now? I'm afraid I don't know much about modern pictures, Mrs. Fairclough."

  "It's an acquired taste, I must admit. They grow on one. I would miss them now if they went. Cigarette?"

  She lit another from the stub of the old one.

  "You said you wanted to see me alone. . . . I can't think why, but I'll help if I can."

  She knew very well what it was all about. There was fear in her large, fine eyes; the pupils were shifty and she couldn't keep her hands still.

  "This is going to be rather embarrassing, Mrs. Fairclough, but if you'll be frank with me, I'll make the affair as little trouble to you as I can."

  She stiffened and tapped the ash from her cigarette nervously, and waited.

  "I think I ought to tell you right away that your friend Mr. Hunt has been arrested."

  She tried to brazen it out. She giggled as though the idea of Hunt in gaol was comic.

  "On suspicion of murder. . . . "

  She switched to anger. She dug her nails in the palms of her hands and stimulated rage.

  "What has that to do with me? Why mix me up in it and take the trouble to call here whilst my husband is out? You ought to have conducted this interview with him here. He would have known what to do about it."

  "I'm sure he would, Mrs. Fairclough, but it would have been very unpleasant for you. Mr. Hunt claims an alibi. He states that he was with you in Liverpool and the Isle of Man at the time of the crime and that you can swear that he didn't leave you for long enough to murder anyone."