Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "We'd like to see the manager, Mr. Mylecraine. . . ."

  The chief cashier gave Knell a stony look. In the male-voice choir where they sang together, it was 'Bill' and 'Reg'. His new job had evidently turned Knell's head already !

  "Very well, Mister Knell."

  Mylecraine slapped a passbook on the top of the partition, and the head and eager eyes of a junior clerk popped up like a dummy on the Aunt Sallies of the fairground. His hair had been over-anointed with oil which shone on his forehead and ears as well.

  "Tell Mr. Kerruish the police want him."

  "Very good, sir. . . ."

  There was a mild commotion on the public side.

  "Mr. Kerruish!" They said it in amazement to one another. They could only, in their ignorance, think that the manager must somehow be involved in the murder of the Deemster. Churchwarden, Justice of the Peace, Member of the House of Keys, Treasurer of half the charities and institutions of the Island . . .! Some of them looked ready to withdraw all their money and cause a run on the bank and then, turning their eyes from Knell to Littlejohn, they changed their minds. The man would never look so cheerful if he'd come to arrest anybody !

  "Don't do that in front of a crowd, Knell. You might start a run or a riot. Always give them your card," Littlejohn advised the sergeant later.

  "I haven't got any cards. . . ."

  Mr. Kerruish emerged from a door at the end of the banking hall and hastily ushered the policemen into his room. He was a small man with a bald head and a fringe of light hair round it. His kind eyes sparkled behind gold-framed spectacles and he wore a close-clipped beard. He was clad in good, dark Manx tweed and his head emerged from a wing collar held by a sober tie threaded through a gold ring.

  "Well, sergeant, and what can I do for you?"

  Knell, rather overwhelmed by his duties, introduced Littlejohn.

  "Sit down, both of you. . . ." Mr. Kerruish flipped open his gold hunter watch suspended from a large gold chain strong enough to hold a dog, and then snapped it shut again.

  "I've just ten minutes before the board meeting. . . ."

  He was at everybody's beck and call, chasing here and there as fast as his short legs would carry him, respected, universally imposed upon, good natured, everybody's friend. . . .

  "The late Deemster and his wife banked here, I gather, sir?"

  "Yes. . . . A shocking blow. I confess a number of us wept openly when the news was broken. . . ."

  He took out a folded white handkerchief, shook it out, and trumpeted in it, as if to show he was ready to weep again if provoked.

  "There was some trouble a few weeks ago about some spurious banknotes, I'm told."

  "Yes. . . . Mrs. Quantrell paid-in a forged note which was returned. It was handed to the police over here, and I believe they lent it back to the Deemster, who was interested. He also borrowed three other forged one pound notes on other banks and one on this bank. They'd all been handed to the police, who said he might take them. . . ."

  "Why? Was he interested in trying to bring the counterfeiters to justice?"

  "He was interested in detection in an amateur way. . . . The police were naturally glad to have the help of such an eminent authority on crime."

  "Have you had many forged notes in the town of late?"

  "About a hundred pounds' worth spread over the various banks, have appeared over the last month. As soon as the first one appeared at the Home Counties Bank, the manager there passed word round. We all started to watch our notes carefully and the result was we found quite a few were spurious. . . ."

  "They were obviously bad, were they?"

  "Yes. The paper wasn't right, although the plates must have been done by an expert. It's rather easy to tell if the paper is wrong. One gets used to the feel of it. . . ."

  Mr. Kerruish rang the bell on his desk and Mr. Mylecraine arrived at once.

  "Mr. Mylecraine. . . . Please bring us a new genuine pound note of our own, and one of the fake ones you hold. . . ."

  The cashier soon returned with a magnifying glass as well.

  "Feel that, Mr. Littlejohn. . . . That's the real article. . . ."

  Mr. Kerruish passed over a pound note.

  "Now this. . . . That's one of the fakes. . . ."

  Littlejohn rubbed them both between his finger and thumb. "The dud one feels more like rag than your own. Probably there's more size in the paper. . . ."

  "Exactly. . . . And notice, when I put the notes up to the light. . . . The watermarks are almost alike, but they've missed the spurs from the heels of the Three Legs of Man. . . . See . . .?"

  Knell handled them a bit timidly, like an apprentice who hasn't yet got used to the job. Mr. Mylecraine smiled a superior smile at him.

  "All part of the job, Mister Knell."

  "Was it the same with the other banks, too?"

  "More or less . . . yes. Of course, one or two might have slipped back in circulation before we were properly on our guard. In which case, we'll doubtless be seeing them home to roost."

  Mr. Mylecraine departed to look after his customers and Mr. Kerruish showed signs of wanting to get to his board.

  "Just another question or two, sir," said Littlejohn taking up his hat.

  "How do you account for the fact that so few notes have been circulated, and that most of them have been detected?"

  "The Deemster had a theory which he gave us when the local bankers met the police, who, at his request, asked His Honour to be present. Deemster Quantrell's idea was that whoever made the faked notes had been working against time to get them in circulation during the full holiday season. There would be thousands of strangers on the Island, money would pass from hand to hand more rapidly without coming back to the banks, and, finally, among the crowds, there were greater facilities for passing-off the bad notes. . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "For some reason, there was delay. The holiday season was over before they got down to making the notes and putting them into circulation. Perhaps they hadn't got the right paper, perhaps the plate was delayed. . . . Who knows? But they were too late. Their chance for this year had gone. The Deemster thought that next year, at high season, they might try to flood the Island with false notes again. The thought of it is a nightmare. I believe the police have no idea where to look. Of course, they might be making them on the mainland. During the winter, unless an arrest is made, the banks will need to have new plates and entirely new notes issued. That, of course, is strictly confidential. The new notes will suddenly appear, the old ones will be minutely examined, but even then . . . I shudder to think of it !"

  Mr. Kerruish raised his hands and eyes to heaven as though praying to be spared such a calamity in the last year of his office, for he was due to retire in twelve months.

  Knell looked distressed at the very thought of Mr. Kerruish's misery. The banker had taught him at Sunday School when he was a boy.

  "We'll do our best, sir," he burst out, and then blushed.

  "That's right." Littlejohn clapped him on the shoulder.

  "Do you think the Deemster might have had some idea of who was at the bottom of this forgery racket, Mr. Kerruish?"

  The banker looked startled.

  "I've no idea. . . . Oh ! You don't mean he was murdered because . . . because . . ."

  "It may be so. . . . We'll have to find out."

  "Oh, dear. Most disconcerting. . . . Most . . ."

  A buzzer at the manager's elbow rattled twice.

  "Yes? Oh, dear. . . . Coming. . . ."

  He gathered his papers in trembling hands.

  "The board! The board! There'll be reference to the Deemster's untimely end. . . . May I say you hope to make an early arrest, Inspector?"

  "Yes. . . ."

  "I'm so glad. Well. . . . Good-bye, and call again if I can help. . . . Good-bye. . . . good-bye. . . ."

  He let them out by a private door to the street.

  Knell looked crestfallen.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I must be a b
it slow. You said about making an early arrest. . . . I'm only a beginner, and I don't know how it's done, yet. Will you . . .? "

  Littlejohn affectionately took Knell's arm.

  "I said we hoped, and we do hope, don't we?"

  "And you haven't got your eye on the guilty party yet, sir?"

  "I've not the faintest idea. But if Mr. Kerruish spreads that news among his board of prominent men, they'll tell their wives over dinner later, and the tale will be all over the Island to-morrow."

  "Somebody will be disappointed when. . . ."

  "Somebody will be rattled, as well. One way of making progress is to get the guilty party to make a false move. There's more chance of that if he gets rattled. We'll see. And now, for Mr. Irons. Where's Duke Street, Knell?"

  Knell piloted them across the street and down a narrow shopping thoroughfare. Between a tobacconist's and a fruit shop which advertised Manx kippers for export by post, stood a large double-fronted shop, with a mixture of good and bad jewellery and old silver in one window and porcelain and antique furniture in the other. There was little attempt at order. It looked as though the owner, having bought his stuff, dumped it in a vacant spot indoors and trusted the buyers to do the rest. A. IRONS, JEWELLERY AND ANTIQUES. They entered.

  The shop was empty and they had to make their way through a mass of old tables, regency chairs, commodes and a Sheraton cabinet or two. Every available space, on furniture or elsewhere, was cluttered with china, tea-services, figures in Dresden and cheaper makes, gallipot lids, framed miniatures, lustre jugs, and, on the top of an old oak beer-table, a whole orchestra of monkeys in Dresden ware. There were cabinets of old silver, too, and flat counter cases, filled higgledy-piggledy with brooches, bracelets, ear-rings, signets, dressrings, all kinds of knick-knacks which tempt holidaymakers with money in their pockets and appetites like a lot of jackdaws after anything that glitters.

  There was nobody guarding all the wealth of the shop. From a room in the rear, however, came the sounds of music on the radio. Elgar's Enigma Variations. . . .

  Knell stamped hard on the floor with his regulation boots. The music ceased suddenly and shuffling footsteps approached. Alexander Irons stood in the doorway. He was small and very fat. So fat that he had the look of leaning backwards. His legs were so swollen that he had to walk with them wide apart to prevent their rubbing together as he moved. He was either bald or his hair was clipped right down to the skin, his eyes were black like shoe buttons set in blue whites, his nose snub and broad, his lips fleshy with the bottom one hanging, his large ears lost in the flesh of his chaps, his three chins falling in tiers to his thick neck. He was in his shirt sleeves and wore an old cap. He seemed to have all worldly experience, sorrow and joy in his heavy, sad eyes. He was not fifty, but looked over seventy.

  "Good morning, gentlemen. Fine day. Sorry I wasn't in the shop. I was listenin' to Enigma Variations. They remind me of men I know. I like to think of myself as Nimrod. . . . Heavy, slow, distinguished. . . ."

  He laughed a throaty, wheezy laugh and his jowls shivered like jellies.

  He's got a nerve, thought Littlejohn, and grew anxious to get it over and the Jew from Scotland out of his sight. Nimrod indeed ! Irons spoke Scotch with a lisp. First impressions of him were always the worst. In the trade, his reputation was high. His name on the bills was a certificate of authenticity to buyers of antiques.

  "I'm glad the season's finished. It's getting cold and raw here. Two weeks and I'm off to Nice. . . ."

  He knew Knell and he recognized the official in Littlejohn. Irons was waiting and killing time until they told him what they wanted.

  "Morning, Mr. Irons. . . ."

  "Good morning, Mister Knell. . . ."

  "This is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. He's over on the Deemster Quantrell case."

  "Glad to meet you, Inspector. Scotland Yard ! This is an honour to the Island. . . . An honour indeed. And the poor Deemster . . . a good man. . . ."

  He fixed his sad heavy-lidded eyes on Littlejohn.

  "Did the Deemster call on you not long ago about a forged banknote you paid out to his wife for some furniture you bought from her, Mr. Irons?"

  Mr. Irons sat down on an old oak bench with 1672 carved in a panel on the back.

  "I'm no expert on banknotes, Inspector. Good ones or bad ones, they're all the same to me, sir. It's only the bank that finds 'em out. I said I'd pay back to Mrs. Quantrell when I got the bad one returned. And I will pay back when it comes. I can't do more than that, can I?"

  "That's not just the point, Mr. Irons. I want to find out where you got the note from. Any ideas on the subject?"

  The antique dealer shrugged his shoulders and raised the palms of his fat hands, their fingers spread like sausages.

  "I've had a very busy season, Inspector. . . . Very busy. . . . Money comes and money goes. I've no idea. The Deemster called to ask the same question. I told him the same thing."

  "This happened weeks ago. Haven't you given any more thought to it since Deemster Quantrell raised the point?"

  "I have, my dear sir, I have. . . . I've given a lot of time and thought. I can only say, in a general way, that a visitor paid me. . . . I can't do more. . . ."

  "Please look up the date when you bought the furniture from Mrs. Quantrell."

  With a sigh, the dealer rose and consulted a ledger which he kept in the drawer of a mahogany claw-legged table. He gave the date late in August.

  "Did you sell much that week. Look in your book. . . ."

  "It might not be here. . . ."

  He started to run his finger down the pages. Littlejohn guessed that Income Tax might be the cause of certain omissions.

  "It was a new note. . . ."

  "I know. The Deemster showed me."

  "Well. . . . Any ideas, sir?"

  "I did no deals that week. It must have been over the counter. . . . I was busy. . . . I don't remember any more details. . . ."

  Littlejohn looked at the man. There was sweat on his upper lip.

  "Very well, Mr. Irons. We'll leave it at that for the time being. If you should chance to think of anything, let us know at the police-station, will you? It's rather important. Whoever passed that note on you is probably connected with the murder of the Deemster. . . ."

  Irons' breath caught in a hiss and he made a choking noise.

  "What is it, Mr. Irons?"

  "Nothing, nothing. I didn't say anything. . . . I'll think it over again. . . . Good day, gentlemen. . . ."

  He slowly shambled back to his quarters.

  "You'd better put a man on watching old Irons, Knell. He's not told us all he knows. And get a record kept of the calls he makes. Work fast. . . . As likely as not, he'll contact someone. . . . I'll get along and see Alcardi on the promenade about his friend, Lamprey. Meet me there, please, after you've fixed things. . . ."

  The promenade was thronged with visitors still wearing summer clothes, delighted by the unexpected hot sun in September. The tide was at the ebb and children and dogs were playing on the wet sands. Out at sea, a destroyer was lying at anchor and a small motor launch put off from her and made for the harbour. Flowers still bloomed in the formal gardens of the promenade and a show of dahlias was at its best. Charabanc touts were busy trying to collect passengers for an evening tour. The siren of the departing afternoon boat sounded and echoed over the town and was cast back by the hills beyond. The water of the vast lovely bay between Douglas Head and Onchan was like green glass. A small tramcar, like a large toast-rack and pulled by a well-fed horse, trundled slowly past. . . .

  Littlejohn lit his pipe and made for the arcade of shops in which Alcardi rented a small pitch. The bracing air and the jaunty style of passers-by made him feel in holiday mood himself. He felt like taking off his coat and throwing it over his arm like many others, but remembered he had on his braces. A hungry-looking youth in shabby flannels, seedy sports jacket and down-at-heel shoes, took his photograph and handed him a ticket. Catch-U Studios. Sna
ps finished same day before seven. . . .

  As he neared Alcardi's address, a little dark man, plump and going to seed physically, hurried from the arcade and made off in an old car parked on the promenade. The shop was closed when the Inspector reached it. In the letting next door, a woman told Littlejohn that Alcardi had just left.

  "He must have passed you. . . . His car was parked just opposite. . . ."

  The occupant of The Chocolate Box had little to do. It was nearing month-end and everybody had spent their sweet-ration coupons. She was middle-aged and plump with heavily powdered cheeks and dabs of rouge here and there. Peroxided hair and a lot of rings on her fingers and bangles on her wrists.

  "Does he spend much time in the shop?"

  The woman's prominent hungry eyes examined Littlejohn from head to foot. She couldn't quite make him out. Finally, she decided he was a Corporation official after the rent.

  "I don't know how he makes a living. He's hardly ever in. About two hours a day. . . . And look at the stuff he tries to sell!"

  The small window was filled with holiday souvenirs, mainly of a bogus, arty-crafty kind. Homespun scarves, brooches made of gilt wire with the Legs of Man twisted in them, egg and tea spoons with the coat of arms of Douglas on their handles, plaques decorated with plaster fruit and country scenes in poor quality relief. A lot of cheap-jack, catch-penny stuff. Lying in the bottom of the window, two or three framed etchings of island scenes. These were decidedly better. . . . Clean in line, well drawn, clearly processed. The work of someone who knew what he was doing. They were signed Alcardi.

  The woman in the sweet shop obviously didn't like her neighbour.

  "I don't know how he manages. Of course, these foreigners can live on next to nothin'. I wouldn't be surprised, though, if he didn't vanish on the midnight boat one of these days, owing a lot of money. I've known plenty like that. . . ."

  "He's Italian?"