"Yes. He was interned here in the war and stayed on. I suppose he thought it was an easy living. It's not good enough, lettin' all these foreigners come over fleecing visitors with their rubbish. Not that I see much bein' bought, I must say. . . ."
"A bar of chocolate turkish delight. . . ."
The woman regarded the small importunate child impatiently and her lips curled at the profferred ten-shilling note.
"Well, I never! Who gave you all that to spend?"
Littlejohn thanked her and withdrew. Her bangles jingled as she counted out the change. . . .
On the promenade again, Littlejohn collided with Knell, almost running in search of him and full of news and zest.
"Irons rang-up Alcardi. . . . They didn't know at the exchange what he said to him, because I hadn't had time to warn them, but that's what it was. . . ."
He could hardly speak through hurry and excitement.
"Hullo, Reggie. . . ."
A passer-by greeted the sergeant familiarly.
"Huhu. . . ." He hadn't time to reply.
"Irons scared him out, Knell. He left in his car just as I was in sight. That direction. . . ."
Littlejohn pointed to the left.
"Onchan. Any good following, sir?"
"I don't think so. Better warn the port and airport police all over the Island to keep an eye open for him. He may try to bolt. Detain him."
Knell couldn't get in a 'phone box fast enough; then he had to come out again because he had no change for the call. Eventually, he poured out his tale to headquarters. He was enjoying himself, like a sea-lion performing in a circus; vigorous, enthusiastic, full of zest, and pleased to do anything he was told.
"We'd better call on Mr. Irons again, now. . . ."
The antique dealer was also shutting-up shop, but, unlike Alcardi, he had a lot of valuables to stow away. They found him palsiedly shovelling rings, watches, trinkets in a large safe, niggledy-piggledy.
"I'm not so well. . . . I think I'll go right away to the South of France. The season's finished. . . ."
He thought some explanation was due. His sad eyes ran over the features of Littlejohn and Knell alternately, trying to fathom why they were back.
"Why did you telephone Alcardi after we left you, Mr. Irons?"
Littlejohn removed his pipe and spoke in friendly tones, as if he might just be asking what part of the Riviera Irons was going to.
"Me? I never. . . ."
"Come, come. The police know you did."
Irons tried to bluff it out. His voice rose and he cast up spray in his excitement.
"The line was tapped! That's illegal. I'll . . ."
"You'll answer my question. Well . . .?"
Irons looked round as if seeking a place to bolt to, and then shrugged his shoulders.
"Alcardi owes me money. Two hundred pounds. I want my money. I'm closing down and going to Nice. I want my affairs straight."
He smiled, hoping that would suffice.
"Very likely. But you also got at least a part of your debt paid by a dud note, didn't you? Why didn't you tell us the truth, Mr. Irons?"
"I swear I didn't . . ."
"Very well. You'd better come along with us to the police-station. You'll be charged with passing counterfeit notes."
Irons went right to pieces. It was evident he'd been under considerable strain for some time. Now, he sat down heavily and tugged at his collar.
"Well . . .?"
Irons licked his lips.
"I did know. I admit it. Now are you satisfied?"
"No. Why didn't you tell us at once, instead of lying and then warning Alcardi. He's bolted as a result, and I hold you responsible. What did you tell him?"
A man and a girl were making for the shop door, evidently interested in something in the window. Littlejohn shot the bolt to keep them out. They made faces at him through the glass.
"Don't be hard on me, sir. My health's bad. My heart . . . I get all of a tucker. I didn't tell you, because . . . well . . ."
He burst forth like a torrent, weeping, waving his thick arms like windmills round his head. He sniffed back his tears.
"If a man owes you two hundred pounds and you get him put in jail, just for a phoney five pounds, where's your other one ninety-five coming from while he's doing time? I'm a poor man, sirs, and my health's bad. I gotta get to a warmer climate for the winter, or I'll die. I was only thinking of my other money."
"But why, having lied and got rid of us, did you ring up Alcardi right away?"
"I told him I wanted money, right now."
"How came he to owe you all that?"
"Furniture for his shop . . . a few souvenirs to sell. . . ." He made gestures in the air.
"Is that all?"
Irons raised his eyes, still floating in tears, to Littlejohn's face.
"What else could it be?"
"Are you mixed up with this shady money racket?"
That raised another storm. Irons swore by all his gods, his father, his mother, his more remote ancestors, his own honour, by all the holy books he knew. . . .
"That will do. If you've lied a second time, I'll soon know. Did you tell Alcardi the police were after him, or on the track of the false notes?"
"I just mentioned it in passing."
"You told him unless he paid what he owed you in good hard cash, you'd split on him, you mean. . . ."
"I never. I said I knew him dishonest and wanted my money."
"So he bolted."
"With my money!"
"Whatever he bolted for or with, you sprang the trap, Mr. Irons. We'll see you later."
"I can go to Nice, now?"
He looked ready to start packing and be gone at the word.
"No. You're not to leave the Island until we say you can. My colleague here will make arrangements for you to be stopped at the ports if you try to get away. If you do try, you'll be charged as an accessory. . . ."
"But I haven't done nothing. I'll die if I stay here in the cold. . . ."
"You'll have to die, then, Mr. Irons."
"And it isn't cold!" Knell, eager to support Littlejohn, yelled it at Irons enthusiastically.
"Don't try to leave the Isle of Man, or you'll spend your holidays in jail."
They left him, dazedly stowing the porcelain monkeys' orchestra in a box. He was closing down, ready for the word Go.
Littlejohn and Knell made for the police-station. There was no recorded trace of any outward calls from Alcardi's shop. He'd been too cunning for that and must have bolted as soon as Irons warned him. They sent out an all-stations call to search for the Italian and then Knell drove Littlejohn back to Grenaby, where, in the quiet of the vicarage, he wanted to do some thinking, set his day's work in order, and chat with his host.
The Archdeacon was waiting for Littlejohn on the bridge and gossiping with his parishioners in the early evening sunshine. He waved at Littlejohn with eager joy.
"Back again! There's been a man after you, Inspector. About an hour ago. He drove up in an old car and was very put-out when I said you weren't home. I'd say he was a bit terrified. . . ."
"Did he give any name, sir?"
"No; but I know him. Met him when I used to visit the camp in Douglas. An artist fellow, interned here. What's his name . . .? Italian. Let's see. Alberti? No. . . . Alcardi; that's it. Alcardi. . . ."
6
JIMMY SQUAREFOOT
"I WOULDN'T go off in pursuit of the Italian, if I were you," said the Archdeacon. "He'll come back. . . ."
The Rev. Caesar Kinrade seemed prophetically sure of Alcardi's return and Littlejohn, hungry, eager after a tiring day for the vicar's cosy study and his genial company, and assured that the Italian could not get off the Island, was inclined to agree.
"It might be like hunting for a needle in a haystack, too," added the parson. "He went off in the region of the Round Table. Now that's a spot for a wild-goose chase. Roads, old and new, all over the place. A wilderness where anyone might hide for
weeks on end. Leave it till morning and then start fresh. Maggie Keggin's been cooking all the afternoon for your supper and grumbling, too, because you didn't say when you'd be back. Far better wait till to-morrow. . . ."
"Aye. Far better wait. . . ."
The endorsement came from a tall, wiry old man of uncertain age, with a heavy ragged moustache, a cloth cap with a wrinkled face beneath it, and deep-set grey eyes. He was in his shirt sleeves and wore a celluloid collar without a tie. A bright brass stud shone under his prominent Adam's apple. His name was Joe Henn.
Mr. Henn had retired to the Isle of Man twenty years ago from somewhere in Lancashire. He was more Manx than a Manxman and tried to make out to strangers that he was a native. He lived in a large tumbledown old house on the far side of the bridge.
"I'm sorry I didn't meet you when you was over before. . . ."
Mr. Henn leaned his elbows on the top of the police car, so that Knell dared not start for fear of dragging him under the wheels, or projecting him flat on his face in the road.
"Heard about it all . . . pity I missed it. Man killed himself, didn't he? Proper bad lot, I believe. Well, well. Ain't offen we 'ave violence in these parts. Would say that Grenaby's a very peaceable spot. Peaceable as regards the yooman population, if you get what I mean. There's disturbances from the unseen world, at times, as the parson 'ere'll confirm. . . ."
Mr. Kinrade shook his head, but said nothing. He wasn't going to be drawn into an argument and besides, he was anxious to be getting to his study for a report on Littlejohn's day.
"We'll have to be going. . . ."
Mr. Henn dug his thin elbows more firmly than ever through the open window of the car.
"Of course, there's been a bit of excitement now and then. A woman once tried to drownd herself in the river. A visitor, she was . . . a come-over. But there was only a foot of water runnin' at the time, so all she got was a bad cold. And two tinkers once had a fight on the bridge there and one stabbed the other in the arm with a potato knife. For the rest, it's a peaceful place, yoomanly speakin', that is."
Archdeacon Kinrade climbed in the back seat of the car to show he was ready for off, but Mr. Henn declined to take the hint.
"By night, of course, it's a bit different. Things 'appen down 'ere. Three streams meet just by the bridge. The Silverburn, the Awin Reash, and a bit of a river from Ballalonna. Wherever you get waters meetin', you get queer goin's-on. There's bin a yewge cat, a black 'un, with terrible big eyes haunted the field behind my 'ouse for as long as people remember and . . ."
Knell started the engine. It looked as if he was going to risk disaster to Mr. Joe Henn, who, however, ignored the hint.
"I'd like you to come an' see my garden, Inspector. I'll show you where the cat comes. An' besides, I've just built myself a wood hut, a summer-'ouse there, too. Come an' 'ave a look at me 'ut. . . ."
"Is that the postman?" said Knell.
Mr. Henn turned inquisitively.
"Plenty of time, 'ere. Wot is it we say in Manx. . .? Traa dy Liooar. . . . Time enough. . . . Come and 'ave a look at me summer-'ouse. . . ."
Whereat he removed his elbows from the car, the better to look for the imaginary postman. Knell and his passengers had reached the vicarage turning before Mr. Henn realized what had happened. He stood in the road, a gaunt scarecrow, pointing after them, like a wizard reciting a curse. . . .
Knell left his party. He was anxious to press his advantage with Millie Teare. If the case went well, he hoped to be asking the vicar of St. Mark's, where Millie lived, to put up the banns for them before Christmas. On the way back, he took his hands from the wheel momentarily to rub them together in glee. He decided to risk going to St. Mark's in the police-car. After all, an extra hour wouldn't matter and a bit of swanking might improve his suit. He might even take Millie to the pictures in it. . . .
The old housekeeper made them a substantial meal and after it, the parson and Littlejohn drew up to the log fire and talked. Here in the last light of day, in the cosy study, the fire dimly lighting the Hoggatt picture over the mantelpiece and shining on the well-polished furniture, it was difficult to believe there was a murderer at large and that Alcardi, scared and perhaps in fear for his life, was wandering somewhere on the central wasteland of the Island. Littlejohn and the vicar talked of the day's events. Mr. Kinrade was able to add little to the knowledge Littlejohn had gleaned. They dozed before the fire over some very nice port the vicar had unearthed and, after the Inspector had again telephoned to his wife in the Fens, they ate crackers and drank coffee and then retired early. . . .
Littlejohn turned over in bed, which, with the feather mattress, was like a feat of swimming. The windows were wide open and the curtains of the four-poster rustled around his head. Had he really been asleep? he wondered. He ought to have known better than to drink three cups of Mrs. Keggin's excellent coffee last thing at night. It was always the same with coffee when he was keyed-up on a case. . . .
He struck a match and looked at his watch. Two o'clock. He must have slept . . . and something must have wakened him. He listened. Absolute silence in the house. Outside, the trees rustled and, in the distance, he thought he could hear the water rushing, squeezing its way under Grenaby Bridge.
Littlejohn revolved the events of the day in his mind. In the dark and stimulated by overdoses of strong coffee, he saw the characters exaggerated.
Lamprey. He reminded you of a goat. He even sniffed about like one. The twitching nostrils and the receding sweep of forehead, whence you might imagine a pair of horns sprouting. What was Lamprey up to? No good, you could bet. His shifty, alcoholic eyes; the mean, greedy look. Like a goat . . . ready to devour all he came across.
And Irons, the rhinoceros. . . . A great hulk of primitive beastliness. Where did he come in? Were he and Alcardi and Lamprey in league and had the mysterious Alcardi taken fright suddenly and decided to turn King's Evidence? Why had he sought out Littlejohn, if not for that? A coward, or perhaps a rogue with a streak of decency, who didn't mind with his skill, engraving a banknote plate or two, but who drew the line when it came to murder.
Who was the ringleader of the trio. . .? Or were they mere pawns in a game played by someone bigger?
Littlejohn turned from side to side.
He must have slept again, for when next he stirred, he was aware of dawn faintly showing through the windows and the grandfather clock in the hall striking four. He didn't feel very good. The port. . . . The coffee. . . .
Suddenly, his senses were broad awake. Someone was moving on the landing outside his door. Footsteps softly climbing the stairs, then past his room, and he heard another door softly creak and close. It must have been Mrs. Keggin, as the vicar's room was on the other side of Littlejohn's. . . .
Then there was a commotion in the outbuildings at the side of the house. Someone sounded to be beating something. Or maybe it was a pony kicking its stall. He must ask the Archdeacon to-morrow if he still kept a pony and trap. . . . Then, a crack, like a whip, or like a stick breaking. Or a revolver shot. . . .
Oh, come, come, said Littlejohn to himself. This is Grenaby, not Soho. . . . His mind was playing tricks. All the same, he got out of bed and looked through the window.
The first signs of day were showing over the rising ground behind the vicarage; a bright blush of diffused sunshine from over the sea beyond, and a keen draught of clean air, with the tang of seaweed and salt from as far away as the coast. The forlorn garden and the coach-house and stables were visible from where the Inspector was standing with his hands on the sill. They looked derelict and untenanted. He passed his hand through his hair. This wouldn't do. . . . He couldn't be jumping out of bed all night and every night at every little sound. Things happened like that in the night in old places such as this, deep in the country. That scarecrow, Joe Henn, had said that at Grenaby things happened in the night. . . . Large cats. . . . Come an' 'ave a look at me 'ut. . . . Littlejohn smiled, yawned and climbed back in bed. A cock crowed. . . . So
mewhere in the distance in the garden a blackbird uttered a wild cry of alarm. . . .
There was a scent of coffee again . . . the roasting of fresh beans, when he awoke. It reminded him of his boyhood. The old home often used to smell of coffee and it was his job to grind it at the mill when his mother had finished roasting it. He looked at his watch. Nearly seven o'clock. His wife would already be up and ready for off to Rugby by now. Last night, she had told him over the telephone that the furniture had arrived in the Fen, the beds were up for the family, and to-morrow she was going to Rugby to gather together the Canon's quiverful of children from up and down the parish they were leaving, where kindly folk had put them up for the night, in parties of one or two. She would take them all, like a circus, to their new home, where their again enceinte mother was already having hysterics at the size of the new vicarage. Dear Letty! He must write to her to-day, murder or no murder !
The noises in the night. . . . He couldn't get them out of his mind. He knew he was expected to stay in bed until breakfast came to him, but he didn't feel like waiting. He slipped on his shirt and trousers, splashed water over his face and neck from the ewer, brushed his hair and put on his silk dressing-gown, with "T.L." embroidered on the pocket, which his wife had bought him last Christmas, with a scarf to match, which he knotted round his throat.
Maggie Keggin was in the large old kitchen, sitting before a crackling newly-lit fire, a coffee-mill between her knees, turning the handle. She glanced up with a start as he entered. She looked to have been weeping. . . .
"Good morning, Mrs. Keggin. . . . How are you?"
"Middlin'."
She had lost her brightness, and her lips were tight and turned down bitterly and stubbornly at the corners. Perhaps she objected to Littlejohn's appearance in the kitchen. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
"I've got a bit of a cold. . . ."
She gave him a sidelong glance to see if he believed her.
"Sleep well, sir?"
She was expecting something.
"Did you hear anybody up in the house in the night, Mrs. Keggin? I hope nobody was ill. . . ."
"Why should they be? I'm sorry you haven't slept proper. Was your bed not comfortable?"
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 7
