"He did nothing of the kind. His murderer came on him from behind and beat his head in just as he did poor Fishlock's. That done, he carried him to an old mine and flung him down it. There we found the body. And that is not all. . . ."
Littlejohn paused to light a cigarette. He offered his case to Cromwell and Hazlett. The sergeant followed suit, but Hazlett waved it aside impatiently. He looked annoyed.
"Well? All these pauses for dramatic effect have no influence on me. I'm a lawyer and am used to this kind of thing."
"That is not all. The money was taken, but in the fireplace were the remains of a note, written by Hunt to Lysander. Part of it was burned; the other could be read to mean that Lysander had appealed to Hunt to join him in the island and render help of some kind. And Hunt had gone there. Our experts, however, state that it seemed to have been burned with a measure of artifice. There were signs of snuffing to ensure that portions were destroyed and others remained for us to read."
"Surmise. Lysander might have fingered it. I would regard it as another nail in Hunt's coffin, had he not already qualified for such a receptacle at the hands of the jealous Fairclough. . . ."
Pleased with his macabre joke, Mr. Hazlett took a pinch of snuff from a silver box engraved like a cockleshell.
"But here comes another point, sir. I interviewed Hunt. In fact, I was rarely off his doorstep until we arrested him for forgery. . . . Hunt told me he received the request to join his friend, one might say confederate, in the island, but the line was so bad that Lysander, or whoever it was, told him to write and say when he could come. Hunt, however, was disappointing. He declined instead of obliging, and thus arrived a letter which instead of being on the face of it, a death warrant, had to be doctored to make it so."
"It made no difference, Inspector. I'm surprised you were taken in by Hunt's tale. Can't you see, he was just excusing himself, making up a story to cover. He had a good brain, you know."
"Yes, but he was too ladylike and fastidious to knock a man's skull to pulp on one hand, and follow another into a hospital and plan to poison him, even robbing his shop to get my colleague's card. All this is not true to type."
"There you are wrong. Hunt had plenty of guts. Did you know he was the most desperate of our little group when we were all together—Hunt and the Oateses and Marion, who later married Finloe . . . ?"
"I know all that. Or rather, I'd understand it. If you taunted him, maybe he would do desperate things on the spur of the moment. But all this is planned in cold blood. Hunt was too much of a coward. He couldn't plan anything. He couldn't even plan the disposal of his sister in an asylum. They had to take her; then he agreed. He couldn't plan a real love affair, with a woman he fell in love with. He arranged a sordid little week-end and then ran home because he couldn't face it."
"All the same, I think he did it."
"We discovered that the telephone message, said to have come from Lysander, was put in from Speke Airport, Liverpool, not from the Isle of Man. . . . "
"There you are! Lysander telephoned on his way to the 'plane for Isle of Man. He told Hunt where he was going and Hunt was quick to follow."
That was a good one in Hazlett's favour! He was putting up a good show. His quick brain seized on the points and swiftly turned them to his own advantage. Cromwell smiled to himself. Littlejohn was only playing with his quarry, he thought. Soon . . .
"Let us take the point of view of 'X'. . . ."
"You are indefatigable! And, by the way, I haven't all day, Inspector, though this is very interesting. It's turned eleven now; I must go in a few minutes. I've to be at court before twelve."
"Let's think of it as 'X' would have done it, sir. He has found out where Lysander is hiding. He makes for the place. To his subtle mind comes a chance to put an end to the chase which, to say the least of it, is becoming a nuisance to him. He simply wishes to collect Lysander's fortune and use it for his own purposes. He must find someone on whom he can pin the crimes and sacrifice for his own peace. He knows Hunt's part in the game. He either came across letters at Shenandoah, whilst he was there, revealing Hunt's share in the forgery, or else he knew Hunt's former fidelity to Lysander and took a chance. He telephoned Hunt from Liverpool and, by pretending to be speaking from the Isle of Man and by saying the line was bad, he induced Hunt to write this letter. Meanwhile he had killed and disposed of Oates. He waited for Hunt's letter—the death warrant. 'X' must have been furious when it arrived, for it was a refusal. On examination, however, it was found to be adaptable to burning and mangling and could thus be made into the type of letter 'X' wanted. He arranged it accordingly."
"A wonderful feat of official imagination, if I may say so. I still back my own view. Hunt did it."
It was like the passing bell. Hunt did it! Hunt did it! Littlejohn felt like playing all his cards and hoping for the best. But it would not do, yet.
"I said, he arranged it accordingly. When we arrived and found Oates dead, we also found the letter incriminating Hunt."
"Quite right, too. It was the genuine article. Why persist in defending Hunt?"
"I'm anxious to be just, sir."
"I admire your impartiality. Snuff?"
"No thank you, sir. 'X' had now, as he thought, completely caught Hunt in the toils. The police would examine the letter and find that it not only connected Hunt with the crime at Snuff the Wind . . . "
"I beg your pardon. . . . "
"The mine was known as Snuff the Wind. Rather queer, don't you think?"
"H'm. Go on. . . . Hurry!"
Hazlett was fascinated. You would have thought that now he scented trouble. The wild ride which would end in his doom was in progress and he was panting to get to the finish for better or worse.
"Hunt's connection with the forgeries would be manifest. He would be proved beyond doubt to be the partner in crime of Lysander. Thieves fall out and . . . well . . . Hunt scoops the pool. 'X' had thought it all out."
"I think you might drop this 'X' tomfoolery, you know. Hunt is dead; his extensive guilt is clear. . . . "
"But what did he do with the money?"
"I told you. Or didn't I? He said when he came here the other night, he'd lodged it in a safe deposit."
"Where? And where is the key? A key to such a treasure would probably have been in his pocket. From what we hear from Bishop's Walton, it wasn't. I asked them by 'phone for details of the contents of his pockets and desk. I thought there might have been letters. But there was nothing particular."
"That is a job for the police. Find the safe deposit. It's hardly likely he would treat so lightly money which had cost him so much to acquire."
"There are one or two more interesting features of the case, too, if you care to hear them, sir."
"Of course. You are a very capable officer, Littlejohn, if I may say so. When I heard you were on the case, I looked you up and inquired about you from friends at the courts; they said you were a very formidable proposition. Now I know what they meant."
"I appreciate your interest, sir. But why trouble to inquire about me so extensively? Surely, I wasn't so important. Now I could understand an antagonist trying to measure me up, but . . . "
Hazlett gave Littlejohn a straight, evil glance from his deep-set green eyes in their leaden sockets. Both men knew that battle was joined. It was one or the other of them for it!
"The other points I mentioned. . . . Our friend 'X', having got all the ready cash, looked round for the leavings . . . any odds and ends remaining. He found the house, Finloe Oates's bungalow, Shenandoah. Lysander hadn't dared try his hand at liquidating that. His brother had asked for the deeds before his death, but Lysander, knowing it usually involved a personal settlement, shied off. Not so 'X'. He'd dare anything. He sold the place for quite a fair sum. He wasn't actually present at the settlement, but he introduced himself to a quiet firm of solicitors in the City and they saw it through for him. 'X', however, attended in person for the part at the solicitors'. . . ."
"So, his identity is known?"
"Hardly, sir. He wore a cheap suit and cap and dark glasses. He signed his name, or rather that of Oates with a quill pen in such a thick and confused scrawl that handwriting experts would find it no use in identifying him or his writing."
"You know 'X' as the man in the cheap suit, cap, and dark glasses, and that is all. What of his build . . . his ways, his walk . . . ?"
"Unluckily, those who saw him weren't very good at observing. We're quite in the dark about it."
"Did he tally with Hunt?"
"I dare say he did. He wasn't tall. Medium built, they say. It could have been Hunt."
"But Hunt was found in such a get-up. He wore dark glasses, cap and a light suit."
"Hunt was in the habit of wearing light suits, I admit. I can't imagine him in a cap, but he may have put his scruples on one side. What was he doing, however, prowling about in dark glasses on the night he was killed?"
"Probably he had designs on Fairclough or somebody. Hunt seems to have fancied tinted glasses when he was operating."
"We also heard of 'X'—shall we still call the man in the dark glasses—we also heard of 'X' picking up information about Finloe Oates and Lysander and about Florrie Judson in Netherby. He was also seen as the parson in Pimlico hospital. Yes. He reversed his collar but kept on his glasses. On that occasion, too, he showed his hair. Rather unruly, but controlled by pomade of some kind. A very enterprising customer our 'X'. . . . "
"You are most annoying, Inspector. You persist in calling Hunt 'X' when all the time, every scrap of evidence points to Hunt as the criminal. . . . "
"I don't call Hunt 'X' at all, sir, because he wasn't 'X'. They were two different persons. They were seen together, 'X' and Hunt, and I can assure you it was no optical illusion, but two bodies, unaware of each other's presence within a few yards of one another."
"What do you mean?"
For the first time, Hazlett looked angry. It was slowly dawning on him that Littlejohn was playing a game against him. He rose and leaned across the table and thrust his face close to Littlejohn's.
"What do you mean?"
"Unfortunately for Mr. 'X', a character of whom he was quite unaware joined the drama. There was 'X,' everything nicely planned, the money was his, and Hunt apparently securely nailed, when suddenly Mr. Hubert Stroud, ex-policeman, now private inquiry agent, enters. Luckily, 'X' was unaware of his operations. Stroud was the invisible man. Had 'X' known of Hubert Stroud's existence, he would have murdered him as coolly as he murdered Lysander Oates, Gamaliel and Theodore Hunt. Stroud was employed by the jealous Fairclough, who wasn't jealous at all."
"Don't speak in riddles, Inspector."
"I'll try to be plainer then. Fairclough wasn't jealous of his wife. Instead of murdering Hunt, he felt more like kissing him. 'X' didn't know that part of the drama. Fairclough was in love with another woman and his wife's little escapade with Hunt suited him down to the ground. He set a detective, Stroud, on Hunt's trail. Stroud followed Hunt to the Isle of Man, where he took Mrs. Fairclough with him for the outing. Stroud saw them go to Snuff the Wind. Mrs. Fairclough, under pressure, testified that she never left Hunt whilst they were on the island. She gave Hunt an alibi. So did Stroud. He followed the pair to the mine and saw them leave. He also saw 'X' sitting there with a pair of binoculars watching them. 'X' must have had his second fit of cursing when Hunt turned up at the mine with a woman. All the same, it was better than his not turning up at all. In court, the testimony of Mrs. Fairclough might not have counted for much. A sordid little love affair with the wife of a fellow master. The jury wouldn't have relished that, nor would they have thought much of the testimony of an unfaithful wife. . . . But it was Stroud who really spoiled it all. He saw 'X' ! True, it was the same man in the same cap and dark glasses, unidentifiable, but 'X' for all that. We were able to check that 'X' had hired a car in Douglas, daren't show his English driving licence and hence couldn't drive himself after all. He got over it by giving the paid driver the slip at Foxdale. A man of endless resource is our Mr. 'X'."
"You amaze me, Inspector! All this wealth of detailed investigation! What a pity you were unable to establish the identity of this 'X', as you call him. By the way, if what you say is true, Hunt had a lucky break. Pity Fairclough killed him. He'd only have stood trial for forgery and then, on his release, the money would have . . . "
"Fairclough didn't kill him; Hunt didn't get the money; 'X' killed Hunt in an effort to silence him and to pin the murders on him. One person knows the identity of 'X', has seen him without his dark glasses and cap, and is coming to the Yard to-morrow to help us identify our man. . . . "
There was a silence as though Hazlett were half afraid to speak. Then he asked, after waiting expectantly for Littlejohn to mention the name . . .
"And who might that be? Certainly a triumph for you, Inspector, after all your exemplary work."
"Our friend is a clergyman, the Rev. Caesar Kinrade, Vicar of Grenaby in the Isle of Man. He saw X without his glasses on the 'plane to the island. X was on his way to murder Lysander Oates, was air-sick and his sun spectacles slipped off. . . ."
19
CATASTROPHE AT GRENABY
THE "shadow" deputed to keep an eye on Hazlett posted himself in a dark doorway in Gedge Court opposite the offices of Mathieson & Co., and prepared for a long wait.
"Don't let him out of your sight," Littlejohn had said and Sergeant Holmes understood what that meant. He was known as "Sherlock" among his colleagues and greatly resented it. He could never live up to it! He had, whilst Littlejohn was talking inside with Hazlett, found out by careful inquiries that there was only one entrance and exit to the lawyer's chambers and, as Hazlett was obviously unaware of the trap the police had baited for him, the job of trailing him would be an easy one.
Hazlett, left alone, however, did some quick thinking. To his keen mind the whole scheme sounded suspicious. He knew that the Rev. Caesar Kinrade had seen him on the 'plane and he knew, as well, that if he didn't somehow stop the parson from talking, he would, to say the least of it, prove a dangerous witness for the Crown. But Littlejohn had obviously been trailing his coat when he talked about the identity of "X" being established by this one, very vulnerable person. He had been tempting Hazlett to try to eliminate the Rev. Caesar and thus, once and for all, incriminate himself. Henceforth, his every movement would be watched and if he stirred a step in the direction of Grenaby, he would be in the toils. Hazlett cautiously looked round the window-frame. "Sherlock" Holmes was just visible, a dark shade in the porch opposite. Hazlett grunted to himself, opened his big safe, and took out two brown paper parcels. Instead of going out by the only orthodox way, he went upstairs, let himself out on the roof through a skylight and, crouching on the tiles, made his way to a wooden bridge, a relic of firewatching days, which led across an alley to the next block of offices. Here, with the help of a similar trapdoor, he descended to the street on the other side of the building.
"How was I to know there was a bridge across?" said the very chagrined Holmes over the telephone to Scotland Yard two hours later. "I checked it all before you left and was sure. Else I'd have called for another man. . . ." He had caught Mr. Teale on his way to lunch and asked him if Hazlett was still busy.
"He's gone out. . . . Must have gone more than an hour ago. When I went up to his room, I found a note saying he'd gone home and would be back about two. He was lunching with a friend. . . . "
Mr. Hazlett lived in Chelsea and Littlejohn sent a man to his house right away. Meanwhile, there was no time to waste. He had hoped that Holmes would have kept the lawyer in sight, and, on the slightest sign of a move in the direction of the Isle of Man, he would have followed to be in at the finale and at the same time see that no evil befell the Rev. Caesar Kinrade.
"Charter a 'plane for the island, immediately," he said. "There's not a minute to waste." As a precaution, he rang up the parsonage at Grenaby. The housekeeper answered. She sounded flabbergasted.
>
"Are you back in England already, Mr. Littlejohn?"
"Why? I've never been away since I left you. . . ."
"But you telephoned Mr. Kinrade and asked him to walk down and meet you. . . . You'd just crossed and were on your way . . . "
Littlejohn had no time to listen to any more. He ran to the waiting car and told the driver to go like hell for the airport. . . .
Wilmott Hazlett left a note to say he was going home. This he did and stayed there five minutes; just long enough to gather tweed suit, a cap and a fresh pair of dark glasses. Previously he told his housekeeper, quite calmly, that he was going to dine in the West End, at his club to be exact, and then he took his car and made for the club in question. Ostentatiously, he there ordered a careful lunch for two o'clock and said he was going for a nap in the library. The reading-room was empty and Hazlett there took an opportunity of changing his trousers and jacket, stowing them in his bag, assuming his cap and glasses, and sneaking out to his waiting car whilst the coast was clear. Thence he drove madly to the airport.
Hazlett had but a dim idea of establishing an alibi. He didn't take any trouble to test it link by link. His mind was too occupied. He was seized with the obsession, the aching lust to kill Parson Kinrade, just as he had killed others before who had tried to spoil his plan. He'd have killed Littlejohn if he'd had half a chance. In fact, his visit to Scotland Yard had been made with that idea. . . . He'd had a hunting knife in his pocket. But Littlejohn had been in company with that psalm-singing assistant of his; or at least, he looked like a psalm-singer. . . .
On second thoughts, an alibi was all nonsense. What did he want with an alibi? What had he to remain in England for, at all? A ruined business, a few distant relatives, no friends, no admirers, nothing. . . . Eire was only half an hour from the Isle of Man. In the parcels in his bag reposed nearly twelve thousand pounds. . . . Some had gone to satisfy urgent demands in his practice; the rest was intact. He knew a splendid hide-out in the Irish bogs, a little house near a quiet little town. There he might lie low till all had died down and then . . . well . . . maybe South America. It had always fascinated him. Meanwhile, if it hadn't been for a silly old dotard of a parson, all this wouldn't have happened. The blood sang in Hazlett's ears as he thought of it and a red mist swam across the road over which he was hurling to the airport.
Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 21
