Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "Yes, but Jeremy wouldn't. . ."

  "I must ask him, to be sure of it. Could I see him alone?"

  "Of course, but I can't think he would do such a thing. . . ."

  "Who else, madam? The servants? They are old and faithful retainers, judging from the Deemster's remarks in his Will. . . . I know it is rather a grave accusation about your nephew, but I fear we must settle it at once. . . ."

  Even the Archdeacon cast a look of reproach at Littlejohn as the three of them left the room. Lamprey was not long in appearing. He had been drinking and his face was flushed.

  "You want me?" he said insolently.

  In reply, Littlejohn took him by the collar and shook him. It was an unusual sort of behaviour for the Inspector, but he was sure of his man this time. Lamprey's response was hysterical. He bent in rage and bit Littlejohn's thumb on his lapel. The Inspector released him and slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Then he raised his other hand and did the same on the other cheek.

  "Now, you little swine!"

  Littlejohn hit him in cold blood, thinking of the contribution Lamprey had made in the wrecking of the very home which had given him shelter and of the very man and his wife who had treated him almost like their own son.

  Lamprey felt his burning cheeks with the palms of his hands as though trying to find out if they were still in their places. He recoiled a step and, like a small boy after a hiding, pointed a sagging finger at Littlejohn and snivelled.

  "I'll make you pay for this. You wait till I tell the local police. It's not allowed, beating witnesses or torturing to make them talk. . . . I'm going to tell the Deemster and Tremouille. . . ."

  He made for the door, but Littlejohn was there first. He seized Lamprey by the scruff of the neck, carried him across the room and flung him in a chair.

  "Let me alone. . . ."

  "What do you think the Deemster and the courts will have to say to you? The man who provided the murderer with the key to enter his own uncle's private room and kill him. . . ."

  Lamprey's jaw fell and his eyes opened like small round saucers. The goat-nostrils dilated. There was guilt written all over him.

  "You took them from his dressing-table, made impressions of them, and supplied whoever ordered you to do it with the means to kill Deemster Quantrell. . . . Don't deny it. I know all about it."

  "You can't prove it. You're trying to trick me."

  "I can prove it just as easily as if I'd been present when you did it. Now tell me who gave you the orders and tell me fast. Otherwise I'll arrest you as an accessory to your uncle's murder."

  Lamprey put his head in his hands and started to weep. Loud, noisy bellowing, like a child trying to get its own way and mighty sorry for itself.

  "I couldn't help myself. I had to do it. But I didn't know they wanted them for that. They said they wanted them to get papers from his desk here and in the court."

  "Who are they?"

  "It was Alcardi. He told me he had orders to make keys of the private chambers at the Castle and of my uncle's desk. I was to get them. I said I wouldn't and then . . ."

  "Then?"

  "Promise you'll not use it against me. It has nothing to do with my uncle's affairs. It was my own business."

  "I'll promise nothing and you'd better tell me if you don't want to spend the night and many others in jail."

  "I met Alcardi through buying painting materials. I ran up a bill I couldn't pay. He told me how to make some cash. He'd got some counterfeit banknotes. If I'd pass off twenty of them, I could have ten. . . . I fell for it. When they wanted the keys, he said we were in it together and if I didn't, I was for it. . . ."

  "How much did they give you for the keys?"

  Lamprey looked amazed at the knowledge.

  "Twenty-five. . . . Real notes. . . ."

  He whispered it. Like Judas.

  "What happened?"

  "He left them one night in his dressing-room. I made impressions. It was a big bunch of keys and I'd to make about eight impressions to be sure to get the right ones. . . ."

  He sounded affronted at his uncle for carrying so many!

  Littlejohn stood with his back to Lamprey, looking through the window as he listened to the sorry tale of treachery. A charabanc passed full of hilarious holidaymakers. They were wearing paper caps and waving rattles and flags. On the cap of one laughing woman you could see KISS ME in large letters. . . .

  "Go on. What did Alcardi say he wanted them for?"

  "My uncle had got some proof about the fake banknotes and they wanted to search his desks and papers. They said if I didn't produce the keys, I'd be in for it with the rest if my uncle caught up with them."

  "Who else besides Alcardi was in this?"

  "I don't know. I got my contacts through Alcardi. He made the keys. He was good at it. I never knew who ran the racket really."

  "Who gave Alcardi his orders?"

  "Irons, the antique man. I hear you've got him. He had it coming to him. He was a swine."

  "I wouldn't call the pan black if I were you, Lamprey. How did Irons get his orders?"

  "Alcardi said it was over the 'phone. Nobody knew who ran the show."

  "Indeed! It must have been the invisible man! You all tell the same tale, but one or another of you is going to tell me . . . and quickly. Have you anything more to say?"

  "No. . . ."

  "When I first called to see your aunt and you were eavesdropping outside the door there, did you telephone anybody from here before I brought you in again?"

  "I don't get you. . . ."

  "Don't tell me that. Who did you telephone, and who told you to go outside ostentatiously, and make a show of telephoning Alcardi, just to get us to trace the call and put us on his track?"

  Lamprey looked as if he couldn't believe his ears.

  "Who told you I did it? . . . It was Irons! I might have known. Very well. He's told on me. I'll tell on him. I was told to keep Irons informed about what went on if you came. I did tell him and he told me to contact Alcardi from the callbox and say it looked as if the cops were on to the forged banknote racket. . . ."

  "I thought so. Very well. Is that all? What else are you involved in?"

  "Nothing. I swear it. What are you going to do?"

  "It's what you're going to do. Do you, or do I tell your aunt all this . . . and in front of the rest of them . . .?"

  Lamprey almost fell on his knees.

  "Not that! I couldn't stand it. All of them to know . . .! Don't make me do it. . . ."

  He started to bellow again in an infantile way.

  Littlejohn took him roughly by the arm and towed him into the next room.

  "What are you doing, Littlejohn? What have you done to him?"

  Tremouille moved swiftly to the door to meet them.

  "Lamprey wishes to tell his aunt that it was he who supplied the keys to the desk and the private chambers in the castle. . . ."

  The whole sorry tale came out. Even to where, in the absence of his aunt on the business of her husband's burial, someone unknown, with the help of the duplicate keys, had entered Ballagarry, rifled the desk and stolen the papers.

  They were all dumbfounded.

  "What am I going to do . . .?"

  Lamprey wept again, thinking of himself turned out of doors and flung into the world on his own. Littlejohn provided the answer.

  "You're coming with me to jail for the time being on a charge of uttering forged banknotes and you will not be allowed bail, because I shall also have you held for complicity in the murder of Deemster Quantrell. I think, if you ask him, Deemster Milrey will tell you I'm within my rights. . . ."

  "You can't do that. I suffer from asthma and my kidneys are diseased. It would kill me. . . ."

  "You'll receive any medical attention you need in jail. Get your things and come along."

  There seemed nothing anyone could say about it and Lamprey, with his bad chest and kidney trouble, was taken and lodged in the town lock-up unti
l further notice.

  12

  MR. IRONS EATS HIS SUPPER

  LITTLEJOHN and Knell had arranged to meet in Douglas after the funeral, but the sergeant had his morning's work to do and he set about it with a will.

  Find all you can about the Jonee Ghorrym, Littlejohn had said. There was plenty. Enough to make Knell's eyes open wide and fill him with a frenzy to tell it all to his chief. He couldn't write fast enough in his little book as he perused the register of shipping and then the register of companies.

  She hadn't been named the Jonee Ghorrym to start with. When she was launched at Birkenhead in 1920, her name had been the Glen Auldyn. A Ramsey company had owned her then and Knell, taking down the original list of shareholders, found later he had to cross them all off, because they'd parted with her long ago. The first master had been Ebeneezer Teare. Knell wondered if he were any relation of Millie. . . .

  Then, the company had gone into liquidation in 1938. The ship had changed hands and name. The Jonee Ghorrym had been bought by the Jonee Ghorrym Company Ltd., with a capital of £30,000. Her tonnage was 400, her length 140 feet, breadth 23, speed 10. Knell took it all down religiously. Then, the shareholders. There had been quite a few changes, but the one which Knell marked with little pencil crosses seemed significant.

  300 shares of £100 each, fully paid. And in 1944, Martin Quantrell had owned 30 of them. Then the list for 1945 showed inter alia, 20 shares in the name of Lawrence J. Parker; 40 owned by S. Harborne-Smith; 30 by Martin Quantrell; 10 by H. J. Tremouille; 5 by J. H. Kewley; and the rest divided among ten others. Dividend, 11¼%.

  In 1946, the Deemster's name disappeared and instead, that of J. Lamprey appeared! Dividend 10%, bonus 7%. Things were looking up!

  The 1951 return showed a shuffle in shares. All the odds and ends of holdings vanished and instead the list read:

  Harborne-Smith . . . . . . .80

  Parker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .80

  Tremouille . . . . . . . . . . . .80

  Kewley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30

  Lamprey . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30

  The Ramsey Duck's Nest gang held the lot between them, with the exception of Lamprey, whose holding hadn't increased. The dividend was the same.

  Knell scratched his head. He was in deep waters and wanted someone to help him out. And he thought of the very man. Walter Teare, Millie's brother, Knell's brother-in-law elect! Walter was a chartered accountant who did a lot of shipping work. He happened to be in when Knell arrived at his office in Athol Street, Douglas.

  "Mr. Teare in?"

  The little girl in the outer office eyed Knell up and down. She was drinking a cup of tea and drained it before she took action.

  "Who shall I say?"

  "Sergeant Knell. . ."

  He almost said 'of Scotland Yard' and just stopped in time.

  Walter Teare was a brisk young man with a large dark handlebar moustache, a survival of his fighter days in the R.A.F. He was six feet two and broad with it. He slapped Knell on the back just to show he was welcome to the family and to the office.

  "Come in, Reg. Cup of tea? You're just in time. . . ."

  "I'm just on a job for Scotland Yard. . . ."

  "Yes. Millie told me. Congratulations, old man. Though I says it as shouldn't, Millie's one in a thousand. My loss is your gain, old chap. Guess I'll have to get married myself when Millie goes. Got to have somebody to cook my morning rasher, eh? Well? What can I do for you? Get weaving, Reggie. . . ."

  Knell managed to get a word in and then started in full spate. He didn't stop talking until absence of entries in his book dried him up.

  "Strictly confidential, Walter."

  "Sure, sure. Now let's get this straight. What are you after, Reggie? Finance or facts?"

  Knell didn't quite know.

  "What does all the chopping and changing mean, Walter?"

  Mr. Teare looked over Knell's spidery writing, scribbled things on a pad, browsed over them, consulted books of reference from a book-case. . . . He massaged his large moustache and then went and stood and looked through the windew for a long time. Suddenly he turned and spoke gravely, giving Knell a bit of a shock.

  "Lamprey was obviously a nominee for the Deemster. I know Lamprey. He's a little slug, who hasn't got a bean. Always on the cadge. Inference; Quantrell was made Deemster in 1946. It's not the thing for a Deemster to hold interests in companies he might be called upon to rule for or against in court. Quantrell disposed of his holding. Lamprey took them over, but I suppose His Honour kept a hold over Lamprey. . . . Sort of a beneficial interest. We've no way of knowing, short of going through the Deemster's papers. . . . Of course, he may have given them to Lamprey in trust, or something. . . . In 1951, the three Ramsey shareholders held control and Kewley, that's the captain of the boat, was cut in more heavily. . . ."

  Walter Teare sat down again, closely examined the data, stroked his moustache and thumped the table.

  "Captain Kewley. . . . Now he's not a native Manxman at all. I believe his forebears were Manx but he came from Liverpool, married a Manx girl, and settled here. Kewley got five shares when he took over the Jonee Ghorrym in 1945. Perhaps they had to do that to tempt him. . . ."

  "Why?"

  "Because she might be termed an unlucky ship. Ben Teare was washed from his own bridge and drowned in 1945. . . . I remember it well enough. The year I came back home from the R.A.F. He was no relation, but anything happening to a Teare. . . . Well. . . . You know how it is, Reggie? When Ben Teare was lost, we felt it was one of us, just like you'll do after you join the family. . . . Get me?"

  Knell said he did. He wrote it down the better to explain it to Littlejohn when he reported later.

  Duck's Nest lot own all shares, except 30, held by Lamprey.

  Captain washed overboard in storm, 1945. Kewley took command.

  "Wait a minute. Let's see. . . ."

  Teare was telephoning to another pal who was in the know.

  "Say, Sandy. . . . Any changes in the holdings in the Jonee Ghorrym Company lately. . . . I'll hang on. . . . No, I'm not buying. Just curious. . . ."

  There was a pause.

  "Yes. . . . That's right, Sandy. . . . Who bought. . .? Smith? Spell it. Harborne-Smith. . . . Right. . . . I'll stand you a drink when I see you. . . . By the way, don't forget the thirtieth. . . . Bring Tiny along. . . . Gercher. . . . S'long. . . .

  "The Deemster . . . or Lamprey, sold out six months ago. Chap called Harborne-Smith, same as in your book, bought 'em."

  "How much for?"

  "Search me! Private company, private deal. . . ."

  "How could I get to know, Walter?"

  "Ask the Deemster's bank. He might have got a cheque, or something. . . ."

  "They wouldn't tell, would they?"

  "That's your headache, Reggie. . . ."

  The sight of Littlejohn arriving with Lamprey for the lock-up, drove his own eager affairs from Knell's mind until the prisoner had been charged, found a lodging, and his lawyer sent for. Then, Knell told his tale, breathlessly, mixing the deductions of his brother-in-law to-be in with the information, and tapping his notebook with his pencil like a professional accountant.

  "Good! Excellent, Knell! Now for the bank."

  "But they won't tell you. . . ."

  "They'll tell Mrs. Quantrell. . . ."

  First, Mrs. Quantrell; then the bank.

  "Yes," came the energetic voice of Mr. Kerruish. "Yes. . . . Mrs. Quantrell says we can divulge the item. Hold on. . . ."

  A cheque had been paid in in March. . . .£15,000 . . . payable to Jeremy Lamprey, endorsed over to Mr. Quantrell. . . . Later the full sum invested in War Loan. . . . Cheque drawn by S. Harborne-Smith. . . ."

  "Thank you, sir. . . ."

  Littlejohn whistled.

  "Knell. The thirty £100 shares, worth originally say £3,000, changed hands for £15,000. . . . More than five times their nominal value. . . . Bought by Harborne-Smith. Well, well. . . . No wonder the
Deemster said he'd provided for his wife! That would go a long way towards it. Let's have another word with Lamprey. . . ."

  Lamprey was in his cell, sitting miserably on the solitary chair. They'd tried to make him comfortable. There was even a cushion on the hard seat. He gave Littlejohn a nasty look.

  "I'll make you pay for this after I've seen my lawyer. You'll see. This will just about kill me. My asthma isn't so good and I can't even bear to think what my inflamed kidneys will be like after a night in that bed if I don't get out on bail. . . ."

  "You held some shares in the Jonee Ghorrym Company until March this year. . . ."

  "What if I did? You can't hold that against me. I've a right to do what I like with my own money, haven't I? And who are you to start nosing in my finances . . .?"

  He made a quick note in a little diary he took from his pocket. He seemed to be piling up an indictment against Littlejohn.

  "But it wasn't your money. It belonged to the Deemster."

  "That's just where you're wrong! It did not. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

  "It wasn't your own."

  "You can't make me talk about my private affairs. . . ."

  "It wasn't your own. When you sold out, Deemster Quantrell got the money and invested it. . . ."

  "You seem to know all about it. Why ask me . . .?"

  He sniffed, his goat-like nostrils twitching. Littlejohn took hold of the lapels of Lamprey's coat, gently this time, but it was enough.

  "Here. . . . Leave me alone. . . . You can't rough-house me. . . . I'll tell my lawyer. . . ."

  "Whose nominee were you for the shares? The Deemster obviously couldn't be a shareholder after his judicial appointment. Were you his nominee . . .?"

  "Let me go. He gave them to my aunt and I was her nominee. Now are you satisfied?"

  "How was the sale transaction brought about?"

  "I got an offer. . . ."

  "You did. A good one, wasn't it?"

  "All coasters are raking-in the money now."

  "Not to that extent. Harborne-Smith made you the offer?"

  "Yes. I knew the other shareholders. I asked for bids."

  "And got £500 for a £100 share. . . ."

  "What of it? They're worth it. . . ."