"That's an easy one, sir," said Knell. "This was once a part of next door, but they've divided it in two. The water's in the sweet shop and they're just divided by a sort of plasterboard partition. I remember seeing them on the job in Spring. . . ."
He rapped the partition with his knuckles just to show that it was flimsy. Somebody started to knock back from the other side. . . .
In one corner, a pile of rubbish, mainly old paper and cardboard. Nearby, a small enamel bin which had once been white but now was rusty round the edges. A pedal raised the badly-fitting lid when you pressed it. Littlejohn tried it with his foot and the lid rose to reveal the receptacle cram-jam full of refuse, mainly paper, cigarette packets, bits of string and scraps of food which might have been the leavings of a packet of sandwiches after somebody's lunch. It was so full that the lid wouldn't shut. On top of the lot lay a dried-up crust of bread and, framed in it, a dead mouse.
Littlejohn eyed the dead animal. It was cold and stiff and looked as though death had come upon it in the middle of a meal.
"Better have the contents turned over and the mouse and the food examined by the analyst . . . just in case. . . ." he said to Knell. Knell passed on the orders. The constable who carried the bin gingerly to the car outside looked aggrieved.
"Wot next?" he said to the driver, who made clicking noises against his teeth with his tongue.
Littlejohn stood gazing at the telephone, with Knell by his side, waiting for some weighty deduction. The young detective's face had grown long again. He had expected Littlejohn to start on this mine of Alcardi information with a magnifying glass. Knell was a bit at a loss about the whole business. He kept looking in his diary, the title of which, in letters of gold, caught Littlejohn's eye and made him smile to himself. Policeman's Annual Diary and Guide. At the front, it contained notes about what to do; a little vade-mecum of law and procedure. Knell kept taking a surreptitious peep at it. . . .
"A business of this kind doesn't need a telephone," Littlejohn was saying. "It must have been installed for some other purpose. Perhaps Alcardi got instructions over it. . . . I wonder why he suddenly took fright and bolted after Irons rang him up. . . ."
They locked the place and entered the little police car. The woman in the chocolate shop was peeping through the window watching their movements. Littlejohn took the wheel because Knell still looked groggy; his nerves seemed bad and he squinted a bit when he got excited. They started on the road over which Knell had chased Alcardi the previous night. It was new to Littlejohn, who followed his companion's instructions. Over Onchan Head, Groudle, and along the coast through Laxey to Ramsey.
The sun was shining over Ramsey Bay as they neared the town. In the wide sweep of sunlit blue sea from Maughold Head to the Point of Ayre at the northernmost tip of the Island, boats were anchored, people were strolling along the promenade, and two little steamers were manoeuvring to enter the port.
"Nice, isn't it?" said Knell. "When I was a kid we used to come here on Sunday School trips in wagonettes, and as we topped the hill and Ramsey came in sight, we used to sing a song. . . ."
"Ramsey Town, shining by the sea?" chuckled Littlejohn, remembering Mrs. Keggin's teapot. Knell seemed completely taken aback, as though the Inspector had unfairly stolen his thunder. He grew quiet, remembering this was a murder, not a picnic.
Ramsey reminded Littlejohn of a French seaport. Tall white houses with stretches of whitened gable, lacking only the advertisements for aperitifs to complete the illusion. At a sign from Knell, he turned the car along the small promenade, past a long iron pier, and a pretty little church with balconies facing the sea on its towers. On the right lay the harbour with a swing-bridge, and a long quayside with the river and a lot of pubs, chandlers' and warehouses facing the water. To continue the French atmosphere, railway lines ran the length of the quay.
The tide was in and the smaller boats in the port were rolling in the breeze, which swept along the riverside, whipping up the rubbish.
In the basin, tied-up to a bollard, was a small coaster with a black funnel with a white line about a foot from the top. There was no one on deck. The wind caught the thin wisp of smoke rising from the funnel and teased it about. Jonee Ghorrym, Ramsey, in white letters on her stern. She must have been carrying coal from the mainland, for her hatches were off and three sailors were sweeping up the coal dust which blackened her hold.
Suddenly, a small, fat man in shabby naval uniform and an officer's cap tilted over one eye, appeared on the bridge. He leaned over the rail and eyed the men at work, smoking a short pipe. Then he turned his eyes in the direction of the police car, looked hard, and scowled. His face was livid, with a coating of tan, as though constant battling against the elements had strained his heart, and too little exercise on his little bridge had made him too weighty and ponderous for his height. All the same, there was a massive strength about his stocky frame; his blue eyes, set in wrinkles in a round fat face, were shrewd and even menacing. He looked a bad sort with whom to try conclusions.
"That's the Jonee Ghorrym . . . and that's Captain Kewley on the bridge there. She's a coaster. Belongs to a company, I hear, and I think the directors are local men. . . ."
Knell reeled it off like a guide book.
Almost opposite the boat stood a tall, three-storied, narrow house, the fresh paint of which made the surrounding property look cheap and shabby. The adjacent buildings loomed over the trim little place, rising in tiers behind it, with appendages and outbuildings sprouting from them, projecting bay windows built on girders, and chimney stacks looking ready to crash down on the roof below at the next puff of wind. This was The Duck's Nest.
A window on each side of the open door, a dark corridor lit by a lantern wired for electric light, and beyond, a staircase. Above the blue door, a sign showing a crude nest with a cruder duck sitting in it. Duck's Nest Restaurant (Chez Jules). Licensed. Choice Food and Wines. Omelettes. Fruits de mer, Poulet Grillé". It might have been Brittany or the Riviera, judging from the menu in the glass case screwed on the wall.
"How do they make it pay in a place like this . . .?"
The building next door was empty. FOR SALE. Apply Burbot and Pallister, 45a, Parliament Street. . . .
"It seems to do well in the summer. They get a lot of select visitors here. I suppose now they can't go and spend to their hearts' content in France, they come here and pretend they're there. . . ."
Knell had it all off, as though he'd given much thought to it, like an estate agent valuing the place for a mortgage.
There was hardly anybody moving on the quay, except workmen, warehousemen and clerks, going about their daily business.
"Let's go inside. . . ."
It still reminded Littlejohn of the coast of Brittany. The place was obviously a disguised pub, but after the fashion of a French café-restaurant, even to the cards on the walls PERNOD. DUBONNET. BYRRH. COURVOISIER. VICHY-CELESTINS. Over the fireplace of the bar, a large, framed portrait of a magnificent seated old lady. Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin 1777-1866. Knell looked a bit scared as though expecting a gang of cut-throat apaches to surround him at any moment . . . or perhaps les girls of the establishment!
Instead, nobody bothered.
There were four men in the room, three sitting at a table under the window, a fourth, wearing a raincoat in spite of the weather, stood with them, apparently waiting for an answer to some question or other asked before Littlejohn entered. They all turned in the direction of the newcomers.
The man in the raincoat wore a battered soft hat. He was small and puffy, with a round baby face and blue eyes, a pink complexion, and skin of fine texture, sometimes associated with diabetes or other organic weakness. His hair was sandy. He spotted Littlejohn before the rest, and his eyes travelled to Knell and then back to the Inspector.
His face lit up and he bustled across with outstretched hand.
"Inspector Littlejohn? My name's Colquitt . . . Manx Clarion. How is the case getting along?"
; A man with plenty of cheek. He wrung Littlejohn's hand before the Inspector had offered it.
"How do, Knell?" No handshake for Knell.
Colquitt put an arm round Littlejohn's shoulder and led him to the table by the window.
"Three friends of mine. This is the Scotland Yard man I told you about. On the Quantrell murder case. . . ."
The large, red-faced, heavy man, with his dark hair clipped right to his scalp, was obviously the big-wig of the party. The rest waited for him to speak. He wore tweeds and the rolls of flesh of his pink neck folded over the back of his blue soft collar. He had a glass of beer and a fishing hat on the table in front of him.
"This is Dr. Smith. . . ."
"Harborne-Smith. . . ."
The doctor said it without annoyance, just as a man might straighten his tie to put things in order. His voice was thin and high-pitched for one so huge.
"Harborne-Smith. . . . Beg pardon, doctor. A retired colonial who's settled down with us here. . . ."
The doctor brushed it all aside with a wave of the hand, which he then offered to Littlejohn. It was a stiff, muscle-bound grip, more like that of a workman than a physician.
"What brings you to Ramsey . . .?"
He seemed to say it out of politeness rather than curiosity, and didn't wait for an answer.
"This is Parker. . . . Builds houses. . . . Jerusalem in Manxland's green and pleasant land. . . . Eh?"
The man in the check suit and suede shoes smiled a sickly smile. He was lolling at the table, with his legs crossed and his arm dangling over the back of the chair. He wore a tweed cap to match his suit.
"Delighted, Inspector. . . . How do you like the Isle of Man?" He didn't seem interested in the answer, either, but offered a hand like a fish. A dead fish, cold and lifeless. He was tall and strongly built, too, with lined irregular features and an earthy complexion. His large nose was askew from a badly set break.
The third man introduced himself.
"Tremouille's the name. How are you?"
The journalist took over again.
"Tremouille's a lawyer, aren't you Henry? Manx, in spite of his name. Let's see, wasn't your ancestor a sea captain taken prisoner in the Napoleonic wars, Henry, who stayed on here . . .? They all come and stay on, Inspector. If you stop here much longer, you'll feel it getting hold of you, and you'll find it hard to go. You'll see. . . ."
The rest ignored the gas-bag. It was evident they'd been disturbed.
"We come here to fix up Parker's building finance. . . ."
The doctor was trying to explain their presence there at that time of the day. What could be more likely than a builder, his financial backer, and a lawyer to fix things up?
Tremouille was dressed in business clothes; black jacket, grey striped trousers, and starched collar with a dove grey tie. He had a round pink face, too, with grey eyes, and a straight sharp nose. His head seemed too large for his body and his thin hair was so plastered to his skull with dressing, that you couldn't make out whether it was grey or fair.
"What'll you have to drink?"
They were all having beer, so Littlejohn ordered the same for himself and Knell. The sergeant, who evidently knew the lawyer and the reporter, was a bit shy. It also said something about not drinking on duty in the Hints for Beginners section of his Policeman's Diary.
"Amy. . . ."
The doctor shouted in thin oboe tones.
They were all smoking; the doctor a short pipe, the rest cigarettes. The air in the room was like a fog. Spirals of smoke clung round the electric lights and seemed to strike the window and recoil like springs.
"Amy . . .! Where the hell's that girl?"
Amy entered without haste. In fact, you would have said she was being deliberately slow. Her eyes were red and swollen. She might have been having a little weep somewhere. The three men at the table glanced hard at her. She seemed crushed into apathy. Tall, dark, with a long anaemic face and a flat chest, she wasn't the type men look at twice. And yet . . . some might have done. There was a strange attraction about the large eyes with their heavy lids and unhealthy, almost smoky settings. The type the French call les yeux fatales. Some might have found a morbid fascination in looking at her and wondering what she was thinking. She wore a black dress and a white apron and lace cap. She came and stood by the table without speaking. Littlejohn and Knell drew up chairs and formed a second row at the table which was too small to hold six. Littlejohn watched the long pale hands of the girl clench and unclench as she stood waiting.
"Where've you been, Amy?"
The doctor slipped his hand round her haunches. She angrily shook him off and he first looked surprised and then smiled to himself. Evidently a bit of a lady killer. . . .
"Same again, Amy. . . . Six. . . ."
The girl turned without a word and her eyes sought those of Littlejohn and held them for an intense moment. Then she left the room.
"What's bitten Amy?"
The reporter looked quite surprised.
"Her boy must have walked out on her. . . ."
Parker didn't seem inclined to be sociable. It was evident that the police had interrupted their business and he was anxious to see the last of them.
"Are you any nearer finding out who's doing all the killings?"
Tremouille's voice was dry and cultured. He smiled politely as he asked the question, baring his even, white teeth. He lit a cigarette from the stub of the last one.
"No, sir. Not a bit nearer."
Littlejohn was filling his pipe, so Knell did the same.
"What brings you to Ramsey?"
You could feel that the four men had become suddenly interested in the answer. They seemed to grow tense without showing it.
"The latest victim, an Italian called Alcardi, had connections here. In fact, he came here the night he died. . . . We thought we'd have a look round. . . ."
The doctor turned his prominent eyes on Littlejohn and looked at him in silence for a minute, expecting a fuller explanation. Littlejohn seemed interested in lighting the tobacco evenly.
"We heard about Alcardi. A pity. Quite an epidemic of killings. Have you any leads here?"
"No. This place. . . . And the boat opposite. . . . Alcardi called at them both on his last night and got short shrift. He seemed to be trying to get help or to contact somebody and must have been unlucky. Who owns this place?"
The doctor shuffled in his seat.
"Where's that beer? What's the matter with that girl . . .? You were asking about this place. It's a company. The manager-cum-chef started it and some of us put money in it. It does well in the season; and out of season, quite a lot of people from all over the Island come. The food's A.I. Morin's a damn' good cook."
"Is that the Jules on the sign outside?"
"Yes. It sounds French. I don't quite know where he comes from. He might be French . . . or Greek. . . . He came after the war."
"Where is he? I'd like a word with him."
"We'll tell Amy to bring him when she comes back."
"No. I want a private talk with him. . . ."
They all looked hard at Littlejohn, as though, having accepted their hospitality, he was being a bit ungracious keeping them in the dark about Jules.
Amy was back with a tray of beers. She stared hard at Littlejohn again when she thought the rest weren't looking.
"The Inspector wants a word with Jules. Where is he?"
"In the kitchen, getting ready for dinner. . . ."
She spoke in a dull, flat voice.
"I'd like to see him. . . ."
The doctor didn't give her a chance. He went to the door and shouted down the passage.
"Jules! You're wanted. . . ."
Then he sat at the table again.
"Good health, Inspector. . . . Good health, Knell. . . . It is Knell, isn't it? I saw it in the paper that you were helping. . . ."
"Yes, sir. Good health, gentlemen. . . ."
Jules was there before they heard him. He wore a wh
ite chef's cap and jacket and had a tea-cloth tied round his waist. Medium build, slim, long legged, with a long, very narrow face and high cheek bones. His black hair was shaggy and hung over his collar, and side whiskers reached to the middle of his ears. Sallow complexion with dark, red-rimmed eyes. There was a scar down his left cheek, which might have been due to a razor slash.
"You wanted to see me?"
He spoke with a trace of an accent, but there was self-conscious slang in his speech. He was anxious to speak fluently and over-did it.
"This is Inspector Littlejohn from Scotland Yard. . . . You know where that is, Jules?"
The doctor was being a bit patronizing.
"Of course, I know. It's the London cops isn't it? I once worked in London. Howdy, Inspector. . . ."
"Hullo, Jules. Have you a private office? I'd like a word or two with you."
Jules bared his yellow teeth and shrugged.
"A little word on the side, eh? Come with me, then. . . ."
The dining-room, next door, was empty. About a dozen tables laid, with bright cutlery, glass, and napkins folded like mitres. There was a good carpet on the floor, the tables for four, and the chairs were in light oak. The lighting was a bit overdone. . . . Globes suspended from the ceiling with a green band dividing them in two.
"We can talk here. . . ."
"Do you know a man called Alcardi . . .? An Italian . . .?"
Jules rubbed his hands on his tea-cloth, took a cigarette from a battered packet in his hip pocket, lit it vulgarly, and blew out a spray of smoke.
"Alcardi? Yes, I know Alcardi. . . . Or did. He's dead now . . .? O.K?"
"Yes. Did he call here last night after midnight?"
The chef's eyes began to flicker. He would have liked to deny it, but he didn't know how much the Inspector knew.
"Yes. He called. He wanted a bed for the night. I told him we were full up. . . ."
"You take in boarders?"
"We have three rooms. They were full. I told Alcardi nothing doing, eh?"
"Did he ask for anyone?"
"Eh? Ask for anyone? No. Just a room. He argued. I chucked him out. That's all."
It seemed to tally with Knell's story, but there was something fishy about Jules's tale. He wasn't telling it all.
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 10
