Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "That's it! On the boat crossing, at the Castle that day. . . . He was there about his business. Was he ever spotted?"

  "Not once. In fact, there were letters to the paper saying it was a swindle and there wasn't any Charlie Wagg. But they soon put it right, because the reporter spoke to the very man who wrote the letter to the Clarion, and printed some of the things the man had said and done."

  "Then Charlie Wagg poisons Irons' coffee. Very silly of him. Or perhaps it wasn't. We'll have to see. We traced Charlie to his boarding house and found he'd left by the first 'plane this morning. Which means that, having discovered Irons was murdered by a man like Charlie, Colquitt had to make Charlie leave the Island and never come back. I wonder if Colquitt's gone for good. . . ."

  "I don't think so, sir. You see, nobody knows what Charlie Wagg looks like, not even his own editor. Everybody has to guess. Colquitt, or whoever Wagg is, doesn't dress up at the office. He does it in private. So, nobody knows him. That's up to the vigilant public. You're right. Charlie has left the Island. He won't come back. But Colquitt will, and on the next boat. That's clever of you, sir."

  "No. Just routine, Knell. Let's call at Douglas police-station first. . . ."

  As they ran down Prospect Hill, the siren of the incoming boat echoed over the town.

  "We'll have to look sharp, sir. She's near the Head."

  The constable who'd brought in Irons' supper was on duty and very fed-up, too. He hadn't slept properly since the dealer's death. He held himself responsible for it.

  "I don't know what I was doing, letting somebody dope the drink like I did. It wasn't as if. . . ."

  "You can't blame yourself, Constable. How were you to know . . .?"

  "You think so, Inspector? It's good of you to say so. I can't get it off my mind. . . ."

  "You can help me, perhaps. . . ."

  "Anything, sir. Anything. . . ."

  The bobby had a cheerful open face of the Manx variety, but there were bags under his eyes from worry and sleeplessness. He smiled sadly at Littlejohn and looked ready to cry.

  "What happened to make you go out for all Irons' meals?"

  "It was his partner who upset him. He came after Irons was brought here and . . ."

  "Excuse me. . . . How long after?"

  The constable scratched his chin.

  "As far as I remember, about an hour or so. . . . He came and Irons was having a cup of tea, which we'd made for him."

  "Very decent of you."

  "We always try to make them comfortable and treat 'em humane, like. After all, they're innocent till they're proved guilty."

  Having delivered himself of this masterly piece of judicial wisdom, the bobby paused and pondered on the majesty of the Law.

  "I didn't know Irons had a partner."

  "Neither did I, but it seems he had, and this one said could he speak to Irons about carrying on the business while Irons was detained. One of our men was there at the interview. All the visitor seemed to do was to upset Irons about his food. I wasn't with them, but after his pal had gone, Irons said the prison food wasn't good enough for him and wanted some sending for to the cook-shop round the corner. It's a fish-and-chip shop and Irons seemed to know the bill of fare. He said he wanted steak puddings for his tea and at supper they'd better get him fish and chips and some coffee instead of police tea, which I think's very nice, but which Irons said was like washin'-up water. . . ."

  "So it looked as if his partner told Irons where to send for food and what he could get?"

  "That's right. . . . Why. . . . You mean to say it was all planned beforehand and his partner upset him about the food and persuaded him to have it sent for so that he could hang round and poison it as soon as he got a chance . . .?" Then the bobby paused for breath!

  "It looks very much like it. Irons knew too much and they had to get him out of the way before he grew dangerous. His partner, as he called himself, must have come to find out if Irons had told the police anything and, discovering he hadn't said anything up to the time, he felt he couldn't trust Irons, or else Irons grew threatening, so he fixed a plan to poison him. He obviously couldn't murder Irons in front of the police. Who was the constable at the interview?"

  "Constable Shimmin, sir. He's off duty, but he won't be in bed. You'll like as not, find him at his mother-in-law's in Walpole Avenue. His wife's in the maternity home having her second, and he's living at her parents' place till she comes home. . . ."

  "I know it," said Knell, the omniscient where island affairs went.

  They made for the pier, stopping at Walpole Avenue nearby, on the way.

  P.C. Shimmin was in his shirt sleeves reading the daily paper. He was bashful in the presence of C.I.D. men and hastened to clothe himself properly by putting on an old police tunic without buttons, which gave him a derelict look. He, too, was large, red and round, and he, too, had pouches under his eyes from watching and worrying about his wife's condition.

  "Yes, sir. It's a boy. A fine bouncin' one, by all accounts. She had an easy time, too, they say. . . ."

  He sounded as if it were he who had gone through it all and that his missus had somehow avoided her dues.

  "Yes, I remember the man who called. Foreign, I think. Hungarian, by the sound of him. Medium built, carried an overcoat, although it wasn't what you'd call overcoat weather. But these foreigners have rum ways, haven't they?"

  "Had he a scar on his face?"

  "Yes, sir. A long cut right down his left cheek. Might have been done with a sword or something. Carried on shocking about the police food, though I've always said we do them too well in jail. But he upset Irons and nothing would do but that we should send out for his vittles. Steak puddings and fish and chips! Ours was sausage and mash. What more could he want? Just pure cussedness! If I wasn't on the side of the law, I'd say, sir, it served him right getting poisoned."

  "Excuse me. . . . Is the paper in here?"

  A heavy man with a huge moustache and in his shirt sleeves and carpet slippers, shuffled in, took it all in with a nosey-parker look, fiddled with the papers, and then, as the conversation had ceased, took himself off.

  "Wish the missus was back," groaned Shimmin. "That's my father-in-law. They're in everythin'. Can't mind their own business. What were we sayin', sir?"

  There was a sound of many feet descending the stairs. Voices raised, quarrelling among themselves as to where they should go between then and teatime. Boarders on the move. . . .

  "I want to hear the minstrels on the Head, mummy. . . . Why can't we hear the minstrels . . .?"

  "We can't be everywhere at the same time. Yer dad wants to go for a walk on the prom and a drink. Now, stop it, or I'll give yer a good hidin'. . . ."

  P.C. Shimmin raised his baggy eyes to heaven.

  "I wish we were 'ome again. . . ."

  "I think that's all, Shimmin, thanks. We'd better be off. We want to see the boat in. By the way, what made you think the visitor was Hungarian?"

  "He said the police food was like 'ogwash. . . . Isn't 'ogwash an Hungarian food or drink, or something made from milk, sir?"

  Knell tittered.

  "Hogwash, Jimmie?" He chuckled. It was the first time Littlejohn had heard him do it! "Hog Wash, see? Pig food. . . . Right?"

  "O.K. Sorry. . . ."

  Outside, it was still going on.

  "I want to go to the minstrels on the Head. . . ." With howls, now!

  They left P.C. Shimmin to his troubles. Knell began to brood on the thought that he might suffer similar paternity himself one day and his mirth left him.

  18

  THE LAST OF CHARLIE WAGG

  THEY parked the car and hurried towards the pier. The Mona was just entering the harbour and the signal gun went off at Fort Anne to greet her, sending echoes round the bay.

  Knots of people had gathered to meet incoming friends and porters lined the quayside as the ship slowly drew alongside and gently came to rest. The captain rang down 'Finished with Engines', the gangways came o
ut, the porters scuttered aboard to claim their clients.

  Passengers began to shuffle down the gangways, there was shouting and greeting, and those who had merely strolled along the quay to watch the boat dock, began to melt away.

  Colquitt was one of the last to leave the Mona. He seemed to be enjoying himself, talking with the officers, hailing friends and acquaintances, like a man on a day's outing and intent on having a good time.

  "Had a good crossing?"

  People kept asking the newcomers the same thing, though the answer was obvious. It had been perfect. The last off was a party of ambulance men with a stretcher on which an old man was lying. He had fallen and cut his eye on the way. They were taking him to hospital for a check-up. Gulls wheeled round and cried for food and a chef in a white coat flung scraps through an open porthole. The ship's cat ran daintily down the gangway and went for a walk along the pavement of the pier. . . . Strangers pointed her out as she frisked along, for she was pure Manx and had no tail.

  "Are you Charlie Wagg?"

  Colquitt had spotted the two detectives as he came down the gangway. As Littlejohn addressed him, he halted, smiled a sickly smile, and then tried to bluff it off. It was too late.

  "Hello, Inspector. Meeting somebody?"

  Littlejohn repeated his greeting without a smile.

  "Charlie Wagg? We want five pounds, please."

  "Look here, Inspector, is this a joke, because I don't get you. . .?"

  "Yes, you do, Mr. Colquitt. We want you to come quietly with us to the police-station. . . ."

  Colquitt was scared now. He started to perspire.

  "You left by the early 'plane and were in nice time for the morning boat, sir. You left Charlie Wagg on the other side out of harm's way, did you?"

  "Don't make a scene here, Inspector. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. People are watching us."

  He was right. The idlers on the pier all knew Littlejohn and Knell by now, and knew what they were investigating. They drew nearer in eager curiosity.

  "Come to the car, then, and we'll drive to the police-station."

  "What's all this about? I want my lawyer, if you're starting to be awkward. . . ."

  "Tremouille? I'm afraid he won't be free to help you. We're holding him at Ramsey. You see the whole game's up, Colquitt. Better come along quietly."

  All the bounce went out of Colquitt. He walked in a daze between the two officers and climbed in the car without another word.

  "I don't understand what you're getting at," he said on the way. "But you'd better be careful. The press here is powerful. I can make it hot for you if you don't play fair by me."

  "No fear of that. We just want to ask you a few questions. If you can satisfy us, then it will be all right, I promise you."

  "But I haven't done anything wrong. . . ."

  They took him into one of the rooms at the police-station and he sat down and started to mop his face and head with a handkerchief.

  "You can't mix me up in the Deemster's murder, Inspector. I've got an alibi. . . ."

  "Yes. You were on the Mona with me, weren't you, when I crossed? You could hardly have murdered Deemster Quantrell then. But where were you at the time Irons was poisoned? They say a man answering to the description of your Charlie Wagg role was in the restaurant when Iron's jug of coffee was poisoned and he was near enough to put in the arsenic. . . ."

  "I was in Ramsey. You remember. I was with you at The Duck's Nest."

  "No, you weren't. You'd left me long before Irons was killed. You could easily have got to Douglas in the time. You'd better think fast and explain if you don't want charging with murder. . . ."

  "You can't do that. I warn you. . . ."

  Littlejohn lit his pipe.

  "Well? What scared you so much that you ran away to make Charlie Wagg disappear for ever? You were afraid Charlie would be accused of murder, weren't you?"

  "I didn't do it. You can't pin it on me."

  "That's what Morin tried to do, isn't it? He borrowed your Charlie Wagg disguise. Why didn't you come to the police and say you'd lent it and that Morin had killed Irons at the time he was Charlie Wagg instead of you? That would have put us right on the track. Instead of which, you bolt and give us endless trouble."

  "How was I to know he'd done it? You'd have said it was me."

  "You were afraid of Morin. Why? Was it that you'd an idea he was at the bottom of the murders and you hadn't told the police? Were you afraid you'd be charged as an accessory? Or were you in the smuggling racket and scared of it coming out?"

  Colquitt was as white as chalk. He looked ready to faint.

  "Can I have a drink. I'm not so well. . . ."

  They gave him some water.

  "Well?"

  "Morin said he wanted to borrow my outfit."

  "How did he know you were Charlie Wagg? I thought nobody knew. Not even your own editor."

  "I went to Ramsey one day. He spotted me. Said he could tell me by my ears. . . ."

  Knell and Littlejohn exchanged glances.

  "It's right. Morin was in the French underground in the war. He knew all the dodges. If I say any more, you'll have to promise me police protection. Morin's a killer. He won't stop at murder. It comes easy to him. He accounted for no end of Germans in the war. He just doesn't care. . . ."

  Colquitt was desperate and whining now. He sank in a chair and flung his arms out in despair.

  "We'll look after you. In fact, we're going to keep you here in jail till we've rounded up the lot of the Duck's Nest gang. What about Morin and Charlie Wagg?"

  "When he heard Irons had been arrested he went to see him in jail. You'd moved Irons to Douglas, but Morin followed and saw him some way. What went on, I don't know, but Morin turned up at The Duck's Nest, where I was hanging round covering Parker's party, and said he wanted my Wagg clothes. I asked him why, and he said I'd better ask no questions. He was a killer. I lent them to him."

  "How did you know he was a killer?"

  "He used to talk about how he did in the war. He'd stop at nothing. The lot of us were a bit scared of him. He just used to go berserk and there was no doing any good with him. I had an idea that he was involved in the Castletown murders, though I'd no proof. When he asked for my clothes, I lent them to him. I drove him to Douglas and got them from my rooms. Then I went to the office for a bit and he brought them back later. They were too big for me and they fitted him. He'd even stuck on my moustache. . . ."

  "Fitted is a mis-statement. They hung on him like they did on you. He looked like you. Did anybody see you at the office at the time Morin was in the restaurant poisoning Irons' coffee?"

  Colquitt milled eagerly around, waving his arms, laughing with relief.

  "Yes, yes. Old Joe, the watchman, was there. He'll tell you. I brought in some bottled beers and we drank them together. Thank God for old Joe! He'll bear me out. He'll give me an alibi. Good old Joe. . . ."

  "Don't get excited. Then, when you heard about Irons' death, you thought it was Morin and tumbled to the idea that he might have done it whilst impersonating you in your Charlie Wagg get-up. Is that it?"

  "Yes. I knew you'd be on that. I thought it better to get rid of Charlie and all about him. I hoped nobody would know. I went to Liverpool, after checking out of the hotel I'd been staying at getting copy and playing my Charlie part. Remember, I saw you and Mr. Knell in Castletown that day? That was me. I flew over to the mainland, changed in a lavatory, threw the bundle of clothes in the Mersey, and returned here on the boat as myself. Now I've told you everything and it's up to you to play fair by me. . . ."

  "We'll play fair. You must have suspected a lot of what was going on. You were always in Ramsey hanging around the Jonee Ghorrym and The Duck's Nest. Did you never suspect there was jiggery-pokery and even murder going on?"

  "I guessed things weren't right, but I'd no proof. You've got to believe me. After all, I'm a reporter, not a policeman."

  "But you can help the police, and you
could have done then. However, you'll be detained here till we've settled matters at Ramsey. You're far too talkative, Mr. Colquitt, for us to let you loose to go chattering at The Duck's Nest again. You'd better settle down till it's safe to turn you out."

  "That's all right by me, provided you do get Morin."

  "And whilst you're here, think things out and write out an account of your own connection with The Duck's Nest lot."

  "It won't be much, I'll tell you."

  "It had better be the truth and all of it, Mr. Colquitt."

  "I haven't done anything wrong. I was only following my profession as a journalist, and surely I can't be convicted for getting news. . . ."

  Littlejohn turned back and faced Colquitt.

  "News, did you say? What news did you hope to find in sneaking round the crowd that congregated at The Duck's Nest? Anything they told you wasn't of public interest and anything you discovered of their activities . . . illegal ones, I mean . . . couldn't find its way to print, because your editor wouldn't have printed it before he'd handed it over to the police. . . ."

  Colquitt blinked. He took a cigarette from a battered packet and lit it with trembling fingers. Already the tin-lid which served as an ash tray was filling up with spent matches, fag ends and ash.

  "Have you any cigarettes on you, Inspector? Or could somebody get me another packet? This is my last. . . ."

  Littlejohn passed over his own case.

  "Take the lot. I'll get some more. . . ."

  He sat down and faced Colquitt.

  "Are you sure you haven't something you want to tell me? Something you found out. . .? Something vital in this case? Why were you always hanging round The Duck's Nest? It wasn't for news. In fact, by spending so much time there you were neglecting your duties. Were you on the payroll there?"

  "I told you, the set-up interested me. . . . The queer types. . . . The gang of characters. . . . I'm going to write a book one day and they provided good copy. . . ."