Devious Murder

by George Bellairs

  Devious Murder

  GEORGE BELLAIRS

  Contents

  Chapter 1. The Body in the Rain

  Chapter 2. The Watching Man

  Chapter 3. Security Guard

  Chapter 4. Burglar Alarms

  Chapter 5. An Inspector Vanishes

  Chapter 6. Hassock’s Luck

  Chapter 7. The Cellars at Mountjoy

  Chapter 8. The Best Cracksman in the World

  Chapter 9. The Bedroom

  Chapter 10. Littlejohn is Angry

  Chapter 11. Who Killed Charles Blunt?

  Chapter 12. Murder in the Rain

  A Note on the Author

  This is a work of fiction, the characters are entirely

  imaginary, and no reference made or intended to

  any person, alive or dead

  Chapter 1

  The Body in the Rain

  Every evening when they were at home, at eleven o’clock exactly, the Littlejohns’ bob-tail sheepdog rose slowly to her feet, shook herself, went to the outer door of the flat and sat waiting to go for her final walk of the day. This night, however, she showed no inclination to move. It was late October and a gale was shaking the building and lashing the rain against the windows. Nevertheless, the routine had to be gone through. Littlejohn put down his book, rose and called her.

  ‘Let’s get it over, Meg …’

  Mrs. Littlejohn arrived with two raincoats. One for Littlejohn; the other for the dog. The dog accepted the coat with resignation. Both she and Littlejohn objected to it. It was a large sheet of mackintosh with tapes which secured it to the dog’s back. She obviously regarded it as unbecoming to her dignity, but, like Littlejohn, tolerated it out of affection for the mistress. They set out together, glad that they wouldn’t be noticed in the dark.

  As a rule, their itinerary took them to the Old Gatehouse on Hampstead Heath and back, but tonight they decided to curtail it. The neighbourhood was deserted, the street lamps threw down circles of white light on the glassy roads; most of the houses were in darkness. Bed seemed the best place on a night like this. The wind blew the rain almost horizontal and plastered it on their coats. Now and then, the dog would pause to shake herself, as though trying somehow to get rid of her burden of mackintosh.

  Finally, they decided they’d had enough and turned about. It was then that the dog whined and left Littlejohn’s heels which she had been hugging for shelter from the weather and, turning in at the gateway of a large house, stood rigid, waiting for the man to join her. In the darkness Littlejohn could make out a black bundle in front of the closed gates. He took out his pocket torch and shone it.

  The trees of the garden and the entrance created a little patch of calm round the gateway. On the gravel was the body of a dead man. It was not extended to full length, but huddled with one arm outstretched as though he had held off his assailant before he died. His head was bare and in the light of the torch it was obvious that it had been fractured by several heavy blows.

  At the end of the road a telephone kiosk was shining like a lighthouse. There were no lights in the house behind, so Littlejohn hurried to the public telephone and rang up the divisional police station. Then he returned to wait for assistance and meanwhile, without disturbing anything, took a closer look at the dead man’s face. He frowned. He knew the man, but couldn’t immediately call his name to mind. Their paths had crossed years ago. He switched off his torch and stood quietly in the dark, trying to remember. Then it came. The man was Charles Blunt. A professional thief, a man who liked everything to be de-luxe. They called him Gentleman Charles.

  With the recognition of Charles the memories of him came back to Littlejohn with a rush. He had been a country lad who, after a spell in the army, had made a comfortable living for himself in petty larceny. Always a neat worker, he had managed to avoid the police for quite a while until someone made an anonymous telephone call and put them on his track. Littlejohn, then a Detective Inspector, had found him living in a small top-floor flat in Stockwell. A search of the place had brought to light a strange assortment of loot, hidden after a fashion among the rafters of the house and accessible by a trapdoor in the ceiling of Charles’s room. Cigarettes, small radios in their original polythene coverings, ladies’ underwear including a parcel of brassieres, unopened boxes of biscuits and chocolate.…

  Charles had been a lone worker. The police never found out how or where he disposed of his stuff. Fences and dealers had never heard of him. Littlejohn had arrested him and he had served a twelve months’ exemplary sentence. After his release he had started all over again and was run to earth and given two years. After that Charles never saw the inside of a prison again. He was seen moving harmlessly about London now and then, and seemed to be earning an honest living. And yet.… Experienced officers like Littlejohn felt instinctively that he was up to something.

  Occasionally a particularly neat piece of work in the jewellery world reminded them of Gentleman Charles. He had always been tidy and meticulously careful in his recorded jobs. If he had committed any of the crimes which brought his name to mind he had left no traces. Inquiries proved that Charles had a good front for anything irregular in which he might be involved. He was a whisky salesman for a reputable firm of merchants and earned a good income from them.

  Littlejohn again shone his torch on the face of the man lying there. Charles Blunt had not changed much considering the years which had passed since last the Chief Superintendent had seen him. Dark, almost black hair, plenty of it, carefully brushed and now tinged with grey over the ears, and a refined well-cut face. A dark suit of good cloth, soaked through by the rain. The outstretched hand was clean and well-kept and the finger-nails were well-manicured. There was a gold signet ring on his left little finger. It was likely that Charles had met his death somewhere else and had been brought and deposited there out of the way.

  Littlejohn remembered Charles’s father, ‘the old man’ of whom Blunt had been very fond and whom he had brought to London from Tamworth and installed in a room in Camberwell after his mother died. ‘Dad’ seemed to be Charles’s only relative and Littlejohn had called on him once or twice when he was seeking information about the son’s whereabouts. He had always liked the old man. He wondered if he was still alive.

  The heavy rain continued. Littlejohn and the patient dog sitting beside him were like a couple of drowned rats. A police car and an ambulance arrived. Four figures appeared – a divisional inspector; a young constable who held back as though afraid that the sight of the corpse might make him vomit; another detective constable who kept blowing through his mouth as though swimming in the rain; and a police doctor, who was sulky at being called out on such a night. Someone had assembled the official party very efficiently. The first instalment had hardly appeared before a second van arrived with technicians.

  The Inspector shone his torch aggressively in Littlejohn’s face and then recoiled and switched it off.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t know it was you. How did you come to be here?’

  ‘Pure chance. We were out for our last walk and the dog found the body. Carry on though. I’ll soon be on my way.’

  The Inspector was an officer named Hassock. Bad-luck Hassock his colleagues called him. Always blaming his luck for his shortcomings. Now he would have something else to grumble about; a Scotland Yard high-up, instead of one of his own men, had found the body and would be breathing down his neck and thwarting his chances of promotion. Just his luck!

  The doctor was in a hurry to get home and to bed again. Beneath his raincoat he was wearing a pair of old flannel trousers and a high-necked sweater. He coughed noisily to remind the Inspector that he was there.

  ‘Well, doctor?’

  ‘It’s not well at a
ll. It’s a damned bad thing being called out on a messy job like this in this weather. He died of fracture of the skull, probably multiple. Didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Could he have been knocked down by a car and moved from the road. Hit and run?’

  ‘Of course not. This looks like the usual blunt instrument. He must have bled a lot, but there’s no sign of blood around here.…’

  ‘The rain washed it away …?’

  ‘There’d still be signs of diluted blood about.’

  ‘How long has he been dead?’

  ‘What a question on a night like this! Rigor hasn’t set in yet, but the wind and rain would make a cursory opinion difficult. We’d better have him moved to the medico-legal lab; I can’t do any more. I’m expecting a confinement before morning, so I’ll be on my way.’

  They saw him off. The Inspector turned to Littlejohn.

  ‘As soon as the technical chaps have finished we’ll have the body moved. It’s nobody I know and it looks as though he’s a stranger in these parts. We might have difficulty in identifying him …’

  ‘I know him. He was in circulation before your time, Hassock. His name’s Charles Blunt – he always insisted on being called Charles not Charlie. He has a police record for larceny.’

  There was an eloquent pause. Littlejohn was sure that Hassock’s expression was a grim one, although he couldn’t see it in the dark.

  ‘Could I trouble you for a statement, sir?’

  ‘Not just at present. This is hardly the place and I’m too wet through to come with you to the station. I’ll do it at the Yard first thing tomorrow morning and let you have it. I’ll give you all the help I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir …’

  The photographers and their mates were dripping wet too, dragging their apparatus about and illuminating the neighbourhood with their flashes. Others were searching the spot with large hand-lamps and swearing under their breath as large drops of rain from the overhanging trees fell down their necks.

  Hassock had sent one of the constables to investigate the house behind. He returned saying it was locked up and seemed deserted. One of the technicians shone his lamp upwards and pointed to a sign hanging over the front wall. For Sale. Apply Antrobus and Co., 15b Baker Street, London, W.I.

  Littlejohn left them busy and still grumbling, hunting for clues, although they must probably have been washed away. A police car on patrol made a fleeting visit and a drunk, soaked to the skin but happy, turned up and worried the group with his lush talk and inquiries until they told him to go away, which he immediately did, raising his hat and wishing them a polite good night.

  In the houses around lights were appearing in upper windows. The noise created by the arrival of the police and their fortissimo shouts against the wind seemed to have roused the district. The telephone in the police car was warming up, too, as angry householders reported to the police station that something was happening in the road. So far, none of them had decided to face the weather outside and Littlejohn was happy to get away before they did. Mrs. Littlejohn was so glad to see the pair of them back again that she forgot to complain about their long absence and bedraggled appearance.

  Next morning Littlejohn dictated his report on the previous night’s incidents. As he did so, memories of Charles Blunt came back to his mind. He felt an interest in this strange, lonely, elegant burglar and wondered why and how he had met his violent and undignified death. He wanted to know more about Charles and what had happened in the years between. He recollected his father as well. A little, mild, chubby man, ‘dad’ had been a french polisher and his hands had been covered with the brown stains of his trade. Littlejohn took up the phone and asked for Inspector Hassock.

  ‘About Charles Blunt, Hassock.… I’m sending the promised report over by messenger right away. I had a lot to do with him years ago and I’m intrigued by his death, and what happened to him since I last saw him. I’ve made a formal report, but I have some background about Blunt which might seem trivial in an official file. I’d like to be posted about progress, and as I knew his father, and liked him, years ago I’ll seek him out if he’s still alive and break the news of Charles’s death to him. If therefore, you hear of my being involved in any part of your investigation you’ll not take it amiss. I’ll keep you in touch if I discover anything useful in the case.…’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Hassock seemed to be brooding on his bad luck again for some reason. He was jealous and suspicious and wondered what lay behind Littlejohn’s offer of help. He was sure there was a fly in the ointment somewhere.

  ‘Very good, sir. We’ll appreciate your help. The path lab report is in. Blunt had been dead less than an hour when we found him. Do you want to see the body and the contents of his pockets?’

  ‘Yes. Just to refresh my memory about what Blunt looked like. I’ll call at the lab this morning.’

  ‘Shall I join you there?’

  ‘Thanks for the offer. But you’re busy, I know. I’ll go alone.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Littlejohn rang down for a car and called at the central pathological laboratory. A technician named Riley had been on the Blunt job. He and Littlejohn were good friends. Dr. Riley was a first-class expert and lectured on forensic medicine at the university. He also played a good deal of snooker at which he had defeated Littlejohn once or twice at the police handicaps.

  ‘Want to see the body, Tom?’

  Riley telephoned to the appropriate department and they went down to the catacombs together.

  Cleaned up and in a proper light, Charles Blunt didn’t look his age. There was a repose on his face quite foreign to the violent way in which he had met his death. Littlejohn and Riley stood chatting about Blunt and his affairs like two old friends of the dead man composing a complimentary obituary.

  ‘He must have been killed not long before you found him. Between ten and eleven o’clock. Death must have come suddenly,’ said Riley. ‘There are no signs of a struggle. He’d been given a violent blow which cracked his skull and did considerable brain damage. Whoever did it was determined about it. He hit him twice again after the fatal one. It must surely have been done in a fit of rage. He probably wasn’t killed where they found him. But we can’t be sure in view of the pouring rain. We’ll let you have a full report after we’ve gone thoroughly over his clothes and had a look at his innards.…’

  The contents of Charles’s pockets were there for examination. A gold cigarette case and lighter, an elegant key-ring on a silver chain, and a gold cigar-cutter. They were in keeping with his nickname of Gentleman Charles. Small change, a penknife, an expensive fountain pen and pencil, a comb and a packet of indigestion tablets.… Then a note case containing £255 in notes and nothing else. In his usual secretive way Charles had not carried correspondence or any evidence of his identity about with him. Not even a driving licence.

  ‘Did you know him, Fred?’

  ‘No. Hassock said you’d identified him and gave us his name. He’s on the records for petty larceny, but doesn’t seem to have come our way for many years. I wonder what he was doing meanwhile.…’

  ‘Probably other jobs for which he was never laid by the heels. He was a careful, methodical man and it’s my guess he confined himself in late years to one big job at a time, performed it carefully, and then lived opulently on the proceeds. I’m going to take a semi-official interest in this case and find out about Charles’s way of life in recent years.’

  ‘Hassock seems a bit peeved at your being mixed up in the case. He probably thinks it’s just another of his bad-luck turns your discovering the body. To hear him talk, his luck’s always that way. Just plain bad. It’s got in the way of his promotion, he says. It’s an obsession. What’s your next move?’

  ‘I don’t know whether or not Charles ever married. When I knew him in the early days he was living with his father to whom he was devoted. I’m going to find out if ‘dad’, as Charles called him, is still alive. If so,
he must be well past 80.…’

  Littlejohn found the building where Charles’s father once lived in Camberwell had been demolished and a new estate built in its place. The neighbourhood was so altered that it was difficult to know where to start making inquiries about Alfred Blunt. There was a bright new pub at one corner of the property, the Duke of York, which had replaced the old one of the same name. Littlejohn entered and ordered a pint of beer.

  The landlord of the Duke of York had been the licensee of the former public house, now demolished, and he looked it. He was like an old piece of furniture transferred to a brand new house and seeming uncomfortable for the change. He was an old hand at the game, however.

  ‘You from the police?’ he asked as he drew the beer. He must have had a clear conscience, however, for when Littlejohn agreed he remained unperturbed and not in the least curious.

  ‘I’m trying to find Alfred Blunt, who used to have rooms in a tenement in Mafeking Street. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Yes. Everybody round here remembers Alf. A decent old boy. French polisher.…’

  The landlord, who was smoking a cigarette, indulged in a fit of hacking coughing without removing it, and gave Littlejohn the rest of the information in between spasms of panting and hawking.

  ‘Where did he go when they pulled down his lodgings?’

  ‘Afton Lodge.’

  Littlejohn raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Afton Lodge … Old Folk’s Home.…’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  The landlord succeeded in turning off his cough and explained. He even drew a map of the district on the marble counter with his forefinger dipped in a slop of beer.

  ‘Was he one of your customers?’

  ‘Yes. He still comes in now and then when he draws his pension. He’s over 80, but still active and cheerful. What’s Alf been up to? Nothing agin the law, I know that for sure.’

  ‘Nothing wrong, as you say. We just want some information from him.’