"Who was the hidden contact-man between the Ramsey gang and their hirelings in Douglas. . . . Irons, Fannin, Lamprey? Was it you?"
"No. . . . No. . . . I didn't . . ."
Littlejohn drew his chair nearer. Colquitt's wild eyes and his twitching fingers told the truth better than his gasping answers.
"Who followed the Deemster round on his investigations into the Jonee Ghorrym? Who passed on the orders that Lamprey must get the keys to the Deemster's room and desk? Who trailed poor scared Alcardi about and set the thugs on him who killed him? Was it you, Colquitt, or Charlie Wagg? And who gave you the orders . . .?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. It's fantastic. . . ."
Another cigarette from the battered packet and another in the tin-lid. He wasn't troubling to smoke them to the end now, and the ash-tray was filling up with half-finished cigarettes.
"Was it Amy?"
Colquitt sprang to his feet, his face twitching, his jaws clenched. He was white with fury. Knell took a step forward fearing Colquitt was going to attack Littlejohn.
"Don't you dare bring her into this! She's nothing to do with it. She's a decent girl trying to earn an honest living. . . ."
"How? As mistress to Alcardi . . .?"
Colquitt waved his arms.
"Who told you that? She was never . . ."
"I know she wasn't, but she told me so. She said she was Alcardi's girl and he couldn't marry her because he had a wife somewhere."
"It wasn't true! She was trying to stop you bullying her. . . . Why can't you lay off her . . .?"
"You're in love with Amy? Is that why you're always hanging round there? Is that why she twisted you round her little finger and got you to do all she asked. . . . Spying on the Deemster, spying on Alcardi, acting as an errand-boy for her orders to Irons and Co. Orders given to her to pass on by Morin, the man you'd like to kill or else betray to the police but daren't. . . . Why daren't you?"
"It's all lies. Amy and I were going away together when all this was cleared up. . . ."
"So, to keep her out of trouble, you shielded Morin?"
"She told me that if things blew up, she'd go to jail. That gang had her in their clutches. If I'd help, they'd clear it all up, sell out and get away. . . ."
"So you followed the Deemster around, found out how closely he was on the track of the smugglers and the murderer of Captain Teare, told them all you'd discovered, and then they killed the Deemster, the boy scout, Irons . . ."
"Captain Teare? He was drowned; he wasn't murdered."
Another cigarette and one more to the collection of fag-ends smouldering in the metal cap.
"He was murdered . . . by the Duck's Nest gang. . . . However, we're wasting time here. We're due in Ramsey at five. On second thoughts, you can go free. If you were mere news-hunting, there's no reason for locking you up till we really need you. Only don't try to leave Douglas. . . ."
"I don't want to stay in Douglas. I want to stay here. It's not safe for me if Morin's not arrested. He'll think I blew the gaff on him dressing up as Charlie Wagg, and he won't rest till he's had his revenge on me, like he did . . . like he did. . ."
"Like he did to Irons?"
"Let me stay in jail till you come back. . . ."
Colquitt was whining now.
"Very well, but you were the 'shadow' who followed the Deemster and Alcardi, were you?"
"Yes. . . ."
You could hardly hear him say it.
"What happened the night Alcardi died?"
"For some reason, as soon as he heard that Scotland Yard were here, he got fright. He was on the run. . . ."
"Who started him on the run . . .?"
"Amy asked me to do it. . . ."
Amy! The girl with the large mysterious eyes and nothing else. The thin, dreamy, flat-chested, sinuous girl, who, now and then painted her lips, rouged her cheeks, washed and waved her hair, put on a false bust, and looked attractive, after all.
Amy, who pretended to fall for Colquitt, the man who had no success with women, whose wife ran out on him, who was the hanger-on of the Duck's Nest mob. He suddenly finds Amy making eyes at him, offering herself to him, just to get him to do as she wanted, to help her and Morin. . . .
"What did she ask you to do?"
"I rang up Alcardi and told him you were on the case. You'd found out about Alcardi making the keys for the Deemster's room and were on his track on suspicion of murdering the Deemster."
"Yes. . . ."
"He bolted as I said he ought to. But he didn't quite do as was expected. They thought he'd make for the Jonee Ghorrym right away; instead, he started hunting for you to try to explain. I think he must have gone mad. . . ."
"Or had an alibi?"
"Alibi? How could he? He killed the Deemster. He was guilty. . . . But it seemed folly to come to you with that on his crop."
"Not at all. He wasn't the murderer. . . ."
Colquitt gasped.
"Not Alcardi? Who was it then?"
"Not for publication. Go on with your tale."
"Instead of bolting for the Jonee and getting a passage to the mainland, he started hunting for you. Luckily, you were out, otherwise I guess he would have told all about the smuggling and Morin and the rest. They had to stop him. Fannin and me did the work in turns. Fannin got drunk and nearly messed it up. Alcardi made for Grenaby vicarage. I knew you were staying there. It had got round you were coming to Parson Kinrade's before you even arrived. . . ."
"When he found me not there, what then?"
"He took the Round Table road. I knew if I stayed near the vicarage, he'd probably come back."
"Why didn't he go to the police?"
"I telephoned Amy from Colby and she arranged for Morin and Kewley to keep an eye on Douglas and Ramsey police-stations and for one of Parker's men to watch Castletown. . . ."
"One of our toughs, Knell, I'll bet. . . ."
Knell rubbed his hands at the recollection of the Battle of Ballaugh. Colquitt was so immersed in his tale, he didn't even notice the interjections, and he'd stopped smoking.
". . . Amy said they were only going to find him and take him off to the Jonee and get him away. . . ."
"Indeed! And what happened next?"
"He seemed mad with panic. As I came from the 'phone box at Colby, Alcardi passed on the way to Douglas. He went to the pictures. Fannin lost him, but I was there. He seemed to be hiding till he could be quite sure he'd find you home. When we came out, there was somebody else on Alcardi's heels. Must have been one of the police, I think. . . ."
"Me!" said Knell proudly. Colquitt went on as if nobody had spoken.
"Alcardi took the coast road, the other car followed, and I followed them both, but I didn't want the police to see me on their tail, so I took other cuts. If you know the road to Ramsey, you can do that. You can even follow the main road by parallel older roads and see the headlights on one from the other. Onchan, Lonan, Ballarach. . . . It was easy, popping on and off the main road. . . ."
He waved his arms and lit another cigarette.
"When we got to Ramsey, Alcardi tried to get in The Duck's Nest but Morin wouldn't let him in. There were people there. He told him to come back. Alcardi tried the Jonee, too, but the man on watch didn't know him and pushed him off. Then the Italian took to his heels again. This time Jules came out and followed him and the police car. I went back to The Duck's Nest and stayed the night. . . ."
"Was Amy there?"
"What are you getting at?"
"Nothing. Was she there?"
"Of course she was. There'd been a party and she was clearing up. . . ."
"That was after you left Alcardi to Jules after you chased him from the pictures?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Go on. . . ."
Knell's pencil flew across the paper of his book. It was almost full and he hoped they were near the end.
"She stayed with you?"
"Look here, it wasn't as you think. I sat in the kitchen
with her till two o'clock, when she'd finished, and we made some tea and had a chat. . . . Then we both went to bed, in our own rooms."
"No doubt. And when, the following day, you heard Alcardi had been murdered, too, what did you do?"
"I tackled Jules. He said there'd been trouble. The Italian went to Grenaby again, in spite of the hour, and Fannin was there and later, a bobby arrived and they had to out him. . . ."
"Me!" said Knell.
Colquitt ignored him and crushed out another cigarette.
"They got hold of Alcardi and tried to take him off quietly, but he pulled a gun and fired at them. They hit him and it seems he fell and cracked his head on the stone floor. . . . He was dead. . . ."
"Very good! Full of virtue, weren't they? They had to lay Knell out, and Alcardi killed himself by the way he fell. . . . Well, well. . . ."
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind. You can stay here till I give you the all-clear. Better spend the time writing it all out. I'll tell the sergeant in charge to find you pen and paper, or else a man to take it down."
Knell's mouth moved and he pointed to his black book, but Littlejohn was on his way to the car, so the sergeant followed.
"We've time to get to Grenaby, I hope, and pick up the Archdeacon, Knell. He deserves to be in at the finale and we seem to be working up to it in Ramsey," said the Inspector, as they drove away.
19
GENERAL MEETING
IT was always like entering another, calmer world when you left the main highroad and turned to Grenaby, and once the circle of trees which marked the boundary of the hamlet was passed, you felt the peace of the place take hold of you like a drug and lull you into inactivity and quietness.
The car ran down the hill and past Joe Henn's house. Joe was in the garden with two walkers he had waylaid and was, with excited gestures, showing them his summer-house, his 'ut, and reciting, like a ballad, the account of how murder was committed and how his precious retreat was violated by somebody parking a car in it whilst the deed was done. . . . He paused in his story to wave as the police drove past and pointed after the car, obviously telling his audience who was in it and why they were there. . . .
Across the stone bridge and up to the vicarage. An angler, tall, gaunt, concentrated, was holding a line over the parapet, outrageously trying with a worm to hook a trout. Women in sunbonnets came to their doors to see who was passing, and the postman emptied the pillar-box. . . .
The Archdeacon was standing at the door as they turned up the "street" leading to the vicarage. The housekeeper was feeding the hens behind a fence of wire-netting, scattering handfuls of corn over them like a baptism. She raised her head, gave the police a look of alarm, and went indoors.
"We're on our way to Ramsey, sir. Care to come?"
The vicar seemed to scent tragedy and looked grave. Without a word he turned indoors and re-appeared with his hat and a shawl for his shoulders.
"Is it the end?"
"Yes, sir. . . ."
They drove all the way in silence, the parson lost in thought, Littlejohn turning over the points of the forthcoming interview, and Knell pretending to be intent on the road and his driving. They drove over the moor to South Barrule Plantation, struck the main road through Foxdale and St. John's, past Michael and the Bishop's Palace, Ballaugh and Lezayre. But they did not notice the calm of the sunny day, now drawing to evening, or the mild sea as they ran into Ramsey. It was as if every mile brought them nearer the dreadful end of the story and the men waiting for retribution. They pulled-up at the police-station. Two grim men, a sergeant and a constable, joined them in another car.
"Is it all fixed, sergeant?"
"Yes, sir. We told them the meeting would be at Mr. Parker's office. Two of our men have gone for Morin and the girl."
"Any trouble?"
"Not much. Old Mr. Parker seemed to expect something or other. His son, Mr. Lawrence, daren't refuse to come if his dad says he must. Dr. Smith tried to laugh it off. I told him if he didn't come, I'd send men to fetch him. Mr. Tremouille was wild. You bet I'll be there, he said. Something about it bein' an outrage and somebody was goin' to be made to suffer. He didn't say who . . ."
"You kept an eye on The Duck's Nest?"
"Yes, sir. The Jonee docked half an hour since. I put a man aboard and told the captain he was wanted at the meetin'. He said he'd come if he felt like it. I said he'd come whether or not, and if not under his own steam, then we'd provide some for 'im. He'll be there."
"What about Morin and Amy?"
"They're there, all right, just as if nothing was happenin'. But I guess they're a bit suspicious by now with none of the usual party arriving. As a matter of fact, they're so cool about things, I wonder if they've got somethin' up their sleeves. When they get to Parker's and put a sight on the crowd there, I reckon we'll have to be watching them. . . ."
"Right. Let's go, sergeant."
They ran up Ballure to the large builder's-yard and turned in at the gate. It was striking a quarter to five and none of the party had arrived. Old Parker, however, was in his room, sitting at his desk, his hat on his head, as usual, watching all that was going on from the large window. They parked the cars by the side of a large limepit with a treacherous dirty white scum covering it.
"I'd better go in myself. . . . Just the Vicar and I, if you don't mind. I'll let you know when I need you, sergeant. I want a word with old man Parker first. . . ."
Miss Caley, the office typist, met them at the door. She was obviously scared by the invasion. She barred the way with her body until she'd had her say.
"Mr. Parker, senior, expects you. I'm to take you to him. He's a sick man and must not be excited. I hope you'll bear that in mind. Follow me. . . ."
She led Littlejohn and the Archdeacon into the old man's room. He greeted them with a nod. Somebody had brought in a lot of chairs as if in readiness for a large gathering.
"Sit down, both of you. What do you want, vicar?"
"He's with me, sir."
"Hmph. . . ."
They drew up chairs to the desk.
Humphrey Parker's cheeks were flushed a dangerous pink. Otherwise, he looked steady enough. His thin silver hair flowed from under his old-fashioned black billycock. His eyes were bright, his thin lips tight. His pale bony hands rested on the desk as he slumped in his chair. One hand trembled with the palsy; the right hand was still. Through the knee-hole in the desk you could see his paralysed legs dangling from the armchair in which he sat.
"What is all this about?"
Parker's voice was audible, but he slurred his words like a half-drunken man. Except that the voice was sharp, with none of the comic jollity of the classical tipsy fool. He did not wait for an answer; his eyes instead fixed themselves on the group of men entering the yard. Lawrence Parker, Harborne-Smith and Tremouille. They arrived aggressively; there was something almost jaunty in Harborne-Smith's manner. Tremouille eyed the cars and approached the police officers. His lips moved and the police seemed to be replying diffidently. Littlejohn waved to Knell to bring them all in.
"Miss Caley will stay. . . . Take all that goes on down in shorthand. . . . Don't miss a word, my girl. . . ."
"Certainly, Mr. Parker. . . . No, Mr. Parker. . . ."
The typist began to fuss about after a pad and pencils, laying them all out on a desk at the side of the room. In her excitement, she knocked over a box of pen-nibs and went down on her knees, picking them up one by one, like some bird feeding on seeds. Old Parker eyed her balefully.
"Sit down and control yourself. . . ."
"Yes, Mr. Parker. Certainly, Mr. Parker. . . ."
Shuffling feet, and the party entered. Tremouille made straight for Littlejohn. His nose was pinched and white at the tip with anger. He was dressed formally in black coat and grey trousers, with a monocle dangling from a cord round his neck.
"I don't know what all this is about, Inspector. It's an outrage and will need a lot of explaining away. I'm here in my c
apacity as lawyer of the company, and I warn you that . . ."
"Shut up, Tremouille, and sit down quietly. Your turn'll come. . . ."
The old man's sliding voice broke in suddenly and Tremouille halted in the middle of a sentence. He looked dumbfounded. He'd been expecting the old terror to side with him.
"Well, what're you all waiting for? Sit down. Let's hear what the police want. Find chairs and sit on 'em. . . ."
Lawrence Parker gave his father a scared look, drew up a chair and sat down. The rest sheepishly followed, including the police. Knell sat by the door guarding it, and the other two local men by the window, as if expecting somebody to jump through it. The evening sun shone in and made a patch of light on the wall behind old Parker. Miss Caley sat intent, pencil poised, tautly eager to carry out instructions to the letter.
"Well? Who's going to speak first? Waiting for the parson to open with a word of prayer?"
Humphrey Parker looked malevolently around.
The Archdeacon fixed him with flashing blue eyes.
"Don't be vulgar, my friend. There's a time for everything, and there'll be plenty of it for prayer and the need for prayer when this meeting's ended. . . ."
Miss Caley was taking it all down. Old Parker rounded on her.
"No need to take all that down. Stick to business. . . ."
"Yes, Mr. Parker. Certainly, sir. . . ."
Lawrence Parker sat licking his lips.
"What are we waiting for?"
Littlejohn sat with his pipe between his teeth, his legs crossed in front of him, apparently comfortable and content to wait all night if necessary.
"We're waiting for Jules and Amy. . . ."
"Hah!"
Old Parker saw the relevancy at once, but the rest took it otherwise.
Tremouille was on his feet.
"This is supposed to be a private meeting. I protest. We can't have all the town in here. . . ."
"Shut up, Tremouille. . . . You can put that down, Miss Caley. . . ."
The typist firmly wrote two symbols in her book.
"Damn' well shut up. . . . Put that down, too. . . ."
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 24
