Littlejohn straightened his tie and put his hat on properly. A brisk walk along the promenade would do him good after that.
The wind had freshened and there were white horses on the sea. The sun had fallen below the clouds clustered on the horizon, leaving a red flush in the western sky. Fishing boats were returning to harbour and the tide was going out.
Littlejohn leaned over the rail of the promenade and looked at the busy sea, with white breakers tirelessly pounding the shingle and tossing their white heads against the stones. He felt tired and melancholy.
Where was he? So far, his enquiries had produced very little.
First, there appeared to be complete absence of motive. Grossman seemed without enemies, and even if he had not got on too well with his business associates, there didn’t seem anything that might make them wish to kill him. His own and the efforts of the police had failed to unearth any adequate reason for his death.
And all this business about breaking Mrs. Doakes’s alibi at the pictures. What was the good of it? All the trouble and scrimmaging of the last hour had simply shown that she could have got in and out of the cinema without being seen. Why should she want to go out? She had no reason for wishing Grossman dead.
The same with his partner. Earlier in the day the local police had been assured by waiters and fellow drinkers that Small had spent the whole of the evening of Grossman’s murder in the smoke-room of the Bay Hotel, getting himself drunk.
Barbara Curwen, too, Grossman’s mistress. She hadn’t shown much grief at his death, so matters were probably growing cold between them. If she’d played the part of the woman scorned, then she’d chosen a funny way of killing her former lover. It all depended on Cromwell’s luck in checking her alibi and it was ten to one it would prove a satisfactory one.
The idea of suffocating a man in a box, of stitching up the sacking again, seemed, somehow, a feminine one, but you never knew. It was all a matter of expediency.
The second key, too. Well, if Miss Adlestrop had one in her bag, there was bound to be a second key, somewhere, for the box had been locked when despatched and showed no signs of forcing. Like hunting for a needle in a haystack trying to find the other key.…
The flag, as well. Robinshaw’s enquiries had drawn a blank. Anybody might have bought a flag from the rebellious, busy little woman who had determined to get rid of her stock as soon as possible.
Underlying this murder there must be some deep motive which was eluding the police. What could it be? More love affairs? Or robbery? But all Grossman’s personal valuables were intact when he was found. Had he, unknown to his partner, taken some large sum of money with him for his own purposes? That might be a line worth following. On the morrow, Littlejohn would call at the bank.
The thought of the bank brought also to mind the state of Grossman’s account there. Perhaps it would reveal the nature of his activities. He might even be a fence on the sly. Pity it was so late. Littlejohn was eager to pursue that line. It would have cheered him a bit. He felt he needed it.
At his elbow, a small man in a shabby, grey suit and blue cloth hat was reading the paper. He was so short-sighted that he had to hold the paper within a few inches of his eyes and looked to be sniffing and receiving the news through smell instead of sight.
He turned his large, melancholy eyes on Littlejohn.
“Gone colder …”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“Been here long?”
“A few days.”
“I live here. Plumbing business.…”
The man seemed all eyes, so hard did he struggle to see. He paused, as though making up his mind whether or not to confide in Littlejohn.
“All this film business.… There’s a company here taking films …”
Littlejohn prepared to clear off. He was tired of the film company.
The man was looking far out to sea, as if seeking a returning ship on the horizon.
“I’m fed up with it all. Upsettin’ like, it is. Now, my wife’s taken a fancy to one of the actors—chap called Tumble, or somethin’. Following the film lot all over the place. And she’s not the only one. Barmy they’ve gone, the pack of ’em. For the fortnight while that lot’s been here, I’ve had every blessed meal to get ready for myself, and wash-up after. Wife’s out all the time, watchin’ the films being made and admiring Tumble or whatever he’s called. Turned the ’eads of all the women here, it has. It’s not good enough.…”
Littlejohn, looking at the man’s shabby dress and lack of energy, was not surprised. Inside him he was saying “No wonder …”
And then, turning his eyes to the man’s worried face, he was full of compassion. The chap wasn’t really blaming his wife. He was puzzled to know what he’d done to deserve such treatment. There was a sort of baffled humility about him, self-reproach.…
“Don’t worry, old chap. It’ll soon be over. They’ll be packing their traps and off in a day or two. And then things’ll be normal again. Judging from the scramble down at The Palace, you’re not the only man whose wife’s dissatisfied with him.… Good-night.”
Littlejohn turned to find his hotel. In the distance he made out familiar forms. Robinshaw and Ethel Gillespie out for a walk. And with them, Mrs. Gillespie. Robinshaw was between his two women and looking pleased with himself, as usual. He had changed from his serge detecting suit into grey flannels and a sports jacket, and on his feet were white shoes with cloth tops. He didn’t seem to care about having Mrs. Gillespie playing gooseberry, but Ethel looked as black as night about it. Mrs. Gillespie was laying down the law.…
Littlejohn greeted them from a distance with a wave of the hand and raised his hat. He wasn’t stopping to speak with them. Enough was as good as a feast for one day with Mrs. Gillespie. Robinshaw tried to raise a bowler that wasn’t there and then, quite unshaken from his usual self-satisfaction, converted the gesture into the regulation salute and passed on, talking to his two girls.…
Littlejohn decided that there was only one way of dispelling his melancholy before bedtime. So he hurried to the hotel, entered the telephone box and put through a trunk call to Letty, his wife.
12
MONEY IN THE BANK
THE morning was cool, for it was early. The sun was dazzling already and the weather-wise were talking about its being too bright and that it might rain later on.
Littlejohn walked along the old quay and turned to climb the many steps leading to The Seven Whistlers. The place stood half-way up the incline, its narrow frontage tucked between two other more pretentious souvenir shops.
The door was locked, although it was past nine o’clock, the official opening-time. Littlejohn could imagine Small idling in the back room enjoying his breakfast in his trousers and shirt, with Mrs. Doakes on the other side of the table clad in a dirty wrapper. They were that sort. No wonder Grossman quarrelled with them from time to time.
A cat lay asleep in the window, among a lot of gimcrack jewellery and odds and ends of pottery and brass. The only sign of life in the place.
At the top of the steps, which he climbed to kill time, Littlejohn found himself again in the busy part of the town, the main shopping street, with the promenade running across the end of it like a letter T.
People shopping or strolling about enjoying the morning sunshine. Tradesmen’s vans and private cars dashing around and some people even making their ways to ice-cream shops at that time in the morning.
“Mornin’ trip round the district?”
A charabanc tout raised his eyebrows and thumbed in the direction of a motor-coach half-full of trippers.
Littlejohn walked here and there, watching the crowds, looking in shop windows and wondering what to do next.
“Charabanc trip to Angley Abbey, guv’nor. Eight and six, there an’ back. Back fer lunch.…”
The holiday feeling was coming back over Littlejohn.
He made his way to the steps and descended to The Seven Whistlers again.
Mrs. Doak
es had just opened the shop. She was perfunctorily dusting odd articles of furniture and ended by hoisting the cat out of the window by the scruff of the neck and throwing it into the middle of the street.
As Littlejohn had guessed, she was still in her wrapper, half-clad underneath, her hair in curling pins. She hadn’t had a wash.
“What! You again?”
“Yes. Mr. Small in?”
No greetings. Just a general attitude of mutual dislike.
Littlejohn didn’t wait for the woman to call Small to the shop. He went straight into the living-room at the back.
Small was sitting there. Shirt, braces, trousers, bedroomslippers with holes in the soles. He hadn’t had a wash, either, and his thin fringe of hair stood uncombed round his orange-like head. An empty, greasy plate stood on the table in front of him, there was a newspaper propped up against a brown earthenware teapot, and Small was drinking a cup of tea held in both hands. He looked up and his face grew unpleasant as Littlejohn entered. He took a noisy drink and put the cup violently in his saucer.
“What the ’ell do you want again? Can’t we have a minute’s peace. Last thing at night and first in the morning—it’s not damn’ well good enough.…”
“That’ll do, Mr. Small. Until we find out who killed Mr. Grossman you’re likely to keep seeing me. As soon as the crime’s solved I’ll be delighted to take myself off.”
“No more delighted than we’ll be. What do you want this time?”
Mrs. Doakes shuffled in. She was wearing mules decorated with bedraggled feathers, and no stockings. Her feet were dirty. Littlejohn looked from one to the other of the untidy couple. They returned his gaze in a sort of challenge.
It all seemed unreal. The dirty room, full of stale air. The quiet backwater with the bustle of the town shut out. Meals served anyhow. Eating, drinking and snoozing about the place. Then the bell would ring and one of them would go into the shop. Even then, not particular about whether you took it or left it. Day in, day out, sitting there getting older and fatter. Sometimes leaving-to go to a sale, buying a thing or two, selling a thing or two, and then the shop was closed. Off went Small to get drunk at the Bay Hotel and Mrs. Doakes went to the pictures or picked up a boy friend for a night’s relaxation.…
What was Grossman doing in the midst of it all? A dapper little chap, said to be fastidious and somewhat of a connoisseur in his own line.… Littlejohn looked at the table. Dirty pots scattered across a newspaper instead of a tablecloth. Grossman …?
“Did Mr. Grossman interest himself in anything else besides this business?”
Littlejohn felt surprised at the sound of his own voice. The place was so still. Small and Mrs. Doakes waiting for Littlejohn to open the ball and on their guard. Small breathing heavily. The cat, which had returned, purring joyfully and rubbing against the table leg, and on the wall a clock with a heavy tick racing noisily. Tuck-tuck; tuck-tuck; tuck-tuck. It struck ten. Somebody must have removed the bell, for the hammer hit thin air ten times.…
Small picked his teeth with a match which he had whittled to a point.
“What do you mean?”
“Had Mr. Grossman any other source of income than this shop, if you care to put it that way?”
“Might have had—I dunno. Might have done a bit of dealing in glass, china and the like on the side.”
“Did he spend much time here?”
“Oh, don’t think I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at. You mean how could a fussy, finicky chap like Grossman stand to be about a place like this room, eh? We’re not particular folk, are we Doris? We like comfort and free and easy …”
Mrs. Doakes nodded defiantly.
“Well, if you must know, Grossman didn’t spend any more time than he could help in this room. Went out for his meals and lived away from the place. This is mine and Doris’s home, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it. He lumped it mostly.…”
“Had he any large sums about him when he set off for London?”
“Don’t ask me. He never told me anything of his own affairs. If he’d bought in London for the firm, he’d have paid by cheque. What he did off his own bat didn’t concern us. We didn’t ask about what we wasn’t intended to know. Did we, Doris?”
“No. He was a close fish about his private affairs. Never told us a thing.…”
“I see. So you can’t help me on that score?”
“No. We’ve told you all we know. Haven’t we, Doris?”
“Yes.”
They kept smiling at each other like two gloating over a secret and pleased at a third party being mystified.
“Where did Mr. Grossman bank?”
“What’s that to do with it?”
“Where?”
“Home Counties—in the High Street.”
“Thanks. That the only place where he had an account?”
“Far as we know. We bank there for the shop as well. Don’t we, Doris?”
Small kept referring to Mrs. Doakes for corroboration, which, when given, seemed to please him immensely.
He rose, and stretched himself.
“That all? Want to get a wash.…”
Littlejohn almost said “Time, too,” but bade him good-morning instead. Mrs Doakes bent to give the cat some milk in Small’s saucer. Her wrapper parted and displayed her bosom, but she didn’t seem to care. In that backwater nobody seemed to care about anything.…
Littlejohn was relieved to get in the street again. The air was like wine after the greasy fug of The Seven Whistlers. He hoped he’d finished his trips there, although he had his doubts.
The Home Counties Bank was crowded. Customers paying in their takings in the middle of a busy season. Six cashiers hard at it. And clerks running about like a lot of ants. Littlejohn entered a box labelled “Manager” and rang the handbell. A girl clerk bounced in as though she had been waiting in hiding for somebody to touch the bell.
Littlejohn sent in his card. The manager said he would see him at once.
It turned out that the manager was called Littlejohn as well. Percy Littlejohn! The two of them were very amused about it and it eased the situation considerably. They didn’t waste any time trying to establish family connections.
Percy Littlejohn was tall, dark and going bald. He wore heavy, black-framed glasses, and seemed very young for the job in spite of his lack of hair. He was dressed in tweeds and a foulard tie with yellow spots, and looked to have the holiday feeling, too.
“It’s very awkward,” said the banker. “We’re not supposed to answer questions of that sort, even if our client’s dead.…”
Littlejohn had asked what sort of an account Grossman had kept with the bank and what the nature of the transactions might be.
“But seeing that you’re one of the family, as it were …”
They both grinned and the Inspector decided that Percy Littlejohn might be a bit of a wag.
The manager sent for the ledger containing Grossman’s account.
“Now this is strictly in confidence. I’ll tell you all I can on the understanding that if you need to use the information in court you’ll ask us for it again, this time with an order from the court to supply it. In other words, this is only to help you with the case and for your own use. Agreed?”
“Agreed. And I’m very much obliged to you.”
The manager turned over the pages of the account and ran his finger down the columns.
“There’s a good balance here. A few thousands. And a good turnover, too.”
“But I’d imagine that the bulk of The Seven Whistlers business goes through the firm’s account, not through Mr. Grossman’s private one. Am I right?”
“Yes. This seems to be a cash business here. Large sums paid in, marked ‘Cash’, and cheques for large amounts payable to ‘Self’ drawn out in cash, as well.…”
“What kind of cash? Could you tell me, sir?”
The manager rang for a clerk, told him what he wanted and they sat back and chatted until the information
arrived.
All Grossman’s dealings were in pound notes.
“What quantities, if I may ask?”
“Well, here’s five hundred drawn out. Eleven hundred paid in. Then another seven hundred withdrawn—and so on. Round hundreds for the most part.”
“Was there any large withdrawal a day or two before Grossman’s death?”
Littlejohn gave the manager the date.
“No,” replied the other Littlejohn promptly. “The last withdrawal was about three weeks ago. Twenty-five hundred pounds.”
“Well, well. That’s very helpful. Very helpful indeed, Mr. Littlejohn, and I’m very much obliged for your help.”
“How is it helpful, Inspector?”
“Well, you’ve told me your secrets, I’ll tell you what I think. I think Mr. Grossman was carrying on some illicit business on the sly. Unknown, perhaps, to his partners in The Seven Whistlers. It may have been black market. There’s a lot of that now. Or, it may have been what I think is more likely …”
“What’s that?”
“He was a fence.…”
“Stolen goods? By Jove!”
“Yes. The round amounts seem to point that way. Also, his business lends itself to that kind of work. Trinkets, second-hand jewels and furniture, trucking and trading all over the shop. It’s an easy cover for that sort of thing.”
“Well, I am surprised. He seemed, quite a decent, harmless sort of little fellah.…”
“They often are. On the other hand, it may be that he’s quite innocent of lawbreaking. We’ll have to find out. Meanwhile, although your information’s very useful, I’ll see that it’s kept strictly for my own use. Good-morning, Mr. Littlejohn.”
“Very glad to be of any help. Call again if there’s anything more we can do. Good-morning, Mr. Littlejohn.”
They both laughed and shook hands.
Littlejohn called for a cup of tea at a small teashop. He wanted to sort things out and to do it quietly.
Assuming Grossman was a fence, how could that have caused his death? It certainly provided a motive at last. That motive might be robbery or revenge. Or—supposing the money paid in by Grossman had been from blackmail. An excellent motive! But who was he blackmailing?
The Case of the Seven Whistlers Page 10
