Death Drops the Pilot

by George Bellairs

  They crossed the stream on stepping stones to the far bank where the Saracen’s Head stood well back from the water. A solid little low-built house, with a group of neglected-looking outbuildings behind it where a few cows were kept and where the bit of produce raised on the few adjoining acres was stored, together with hay and other provender for the livestock.

  They had to climb two stone steps to the front door. Dixon casually mentioned that at high tide the sea sometimes reached the first step.

  The door was closed. Over it, a sign swinging from a bracket. Saracen’s Head, with a crude painting of a black man’s head and shoulders almost washed away by the weather. Esther Liddell, Licensed to sell Intoxicating Liquors and Tobacco. That almost illegible, too. As Littlejohn raised his head to read it, a curtain at the window over the door moved gently, but he couldn’t make out anybody behind it.

  Inside there was one large public room with a counter at one end. A shelf behind it with glasses—mostly pint glass mugs—and a few packets of cigarettes. Two large tables and old wooden chairs. A wide iron fireplace with a cheap over-mantel and mirror above. A stone floor, sanded...There were no beer pumps; the barrels, in white padded jackets to keep them cool, stood on trestles behind the counter, with large wooden taps protruding from their bungholes.

  The place smelled of beer and stale tobacco smoke. Two spittoons filled with sawdust near the fireplace and a dartboard on the wall beside the bar.

  There was nobody about. A large black cat, stretched on one of the padded benches which ran round two sides, rose and fled into the room behind, the door of which stood open. Beyond the door, not a sound, except the loud ticking of a clock.

  The two officers crossed the bar and peered in the room behind. The front room was well lighted by three windows; this, the landlady’s private retreat, was almost dark. A small casement window let in the sun, which shed rays like a limelight across the room and illuminated a farmers’ almanac and the photograph of a man dressed in the private’s clothes of the first world war. Tunic, puttees, cap, riding breeches, and an astonished look on the face. A large, dark, puzzled man, perhaps wondering what he was doing in the artillery at all and what he was doing at the photographer’s.

  The ceiling was low and the walls dark. A rocking chair, a few rush-bottomed ones, a round table with an open workbasket on it, a small fireplace, and the rest of the heavier furniture in the dim periphery. A staircase rose from one corner, enclosed in a wooden casing and with a door at the bottom.

  Beyond, the light shone brightly in a small scullery, but before they could reach it, footsteps sounded across the yard behind. Two pairs of footsteps and a man’s voice.

  “You need a man about the place.”

  The two seemed surprised when they saw Littlejohn and Dixon. Or rather, the man did. A tall, well-built young fellow dressed in shirt and trousers without collar and with a firm, strong, sunburned neck emerging. Ruddy-cheeked, with a mop of tousled light hair and a countryman’s simple face. He had been delivering the beer from the brewery in Falbright and trying to make love in a clumsy way to the woman who accompanied him.

  She was dressed, as Dixon had forecast, in corduroy trousers and a yellow jumper drawn over her naked torso and showing the shape of her fine shoulders and breasts. Dark brown hair, almost black, cut short, and a shapely face, large brown eyes and a firm chin. The nose was straight and slightly turned up at the tip.

  Difficult to guess her age. It might have been forty or even forty-five. She was tall and well-made and moved with a lazy grace. Although a widow, she wore no wedding ring.

  The brewery drayman looked awkward, produced his delivery note, which she signed with the pencil he handed her. Then, without a word, she passed into the bar, drew a pint of beer, and gave it to him. The carrier drank it almost in a single gulp in his hurry to get away.

  “Good mornin’. See you next week.”

  The woman made no reply.

  It was as if Littlejohn and Dixon weren’t there.

  “What do you want?”

  She spoke at last. There was no anger or insolence in the tone. No curiosity, either. She didn’t seem interested in the sudden appearance of one of the local bobbies accompanied by a stranger. It was all in the day’s work.

  “Some bread and cheese and beer for the two of us, please.”

  She went into the back place and soon returned with a plate on which were four hunks of bread, two large pieces of country cheese, and a knife. Then she drew two pints of ale from one of the barrels and placed them on the counter.

  “Three and six.”

  Littlejohn paid. She nodded and put the half-crown and the shilling in the pocket of her trousers. Then she leaned an elbow on the counter and looked through the open door, waiting for them to finish and go.

  She must have been a beauty in her youth. Now, although she was striking and doubtless attractive to most men who called there, her whole attitude was one of lassitude, tiredness, as though she expected someone and was weary of waiting, or bored with the solitary life she was leading.

  “This is good beer.”

  Littlejohn wanted her to turn her face fully to him and to see it change or lighten as she spoke.

  “It comes from Falbright.”

  She gave Littlejohn a curious, expressionless look.

  “You live alone here?”

  “Yes. We get a few staying in the spare room in summer. Cyclists or walkers...”

  The same flat tone, the same lack of interest.

  “You knew John Grebe? He used to come here till quite recently?”

  “Yes. He said he liked the beer, too.”

  “Was he a friend of yours?”

  She looked at Littlejohn in the same lazy way and now the corners of her lips turned up a bit.

  “They’re mostly friends who come here. Regular customers who live round about.”

  She looked at the plate which was now empty and at the two glasses which were empty, too. A suggestion that now they’d been satisfied, it was time to go.

  “Two more pints, please.”

  She took the mugs and filled them from the barrel, with no sign of pleasure or otherwise. Littlejohn put his hand in his pocket.

  “That will be?”

  “Two and eight.”

  It was then, as she addressed him, that Littlejohn caught the faint aroma of brandy on her breath. He began to understand. She was keeping her equanimity by drinking, just as some take drugs. He noticed the fine lines round her eyes, the signs of advancing middle age. All the same, her complexion was healthy and tanned and her hands as she manipulated the glasses, quite steady.

  “What did Grebe do when he called?”

  “He had a drink and a talk with me and his friends.”

  “Had he friends locally, then?”

  “The men from the village, just upstream. One or two retired men who’ve been to sea...”

  Dixon had been silently munching his bread and cheese and drinking his beer. He thought it time to put in a word.

  “This used to be a rare retreat for smugglers, sir. Didn’t it, Mrs. Liddell?”

  She made no reply. Dixon regarded her warily, a bit shy of meeting her eyes, like an unsophisticated chap who’s heard of a woman’s easy virtue and thinks his own private thoughts about how and to whom it is manifest. And then tries to hide the interest he’s taking by awkward looks and words which betray him.

  Dixon, feeling snubbed, turned his back on the landlady, and continued to address Littlejohn.

  “This is the oldest pub round here and all these little creeks used to be used for revenue runnin’ in days past. The Saracen was a smugglers’ retreat and the cellars are a perfect rabbit warren, aren’t they?”

  He was going to ask Mrs. Liddell to confirm this, but remembering the previous silence, he answered it himself.

  “I’ll say they are.”

  “How long have you been here, Mrs. Liddell? By the way, my name’s Littlejohn. I’m here in connection with the
Grebe case.”

  “Fifteen years.”

  She showed no interest in Littlejohn himself and merely answered his question.

  “You get many regular customers?”

  “A few. We do a good summer trade. That and the farm keep me going.”

  “How long is it since last you saw John Grebe?”

  She seemed to reflect a little.

  “Three weeks.”

  “Was he as usual then?”

  “I didn’t notice him any different.”

  There was something strange about it all. The brandy, the woman’s lack of interest, her tight control of herself. Littlejohn couldn’t make it out. She’d either something to hide or she was determined to have as little as possible to do with the police.

  The two glasses were empty again and she took them and put them away to be washed without asking if Littlejohn and Dixon wanted more beer.

  It was the strangest interview and she was the oddest woman Littlejohn had ever had to deal with in his career. Here he was at the Saracen’s Head and didn’t really know why he was there. An impulse to take a walk and see the place and then another impulse to have a meal there. He and Dixon were merely a couple of customers, nothing more. They’d no right to press the questions, no right to assume the woman had anything whatever to do with Grebe and his death. And yet, Littlejohn was beginning to feel engaged in a battle of wits with Esther Liddell. She had done nothing, said nothing, but he felt a vague challenge in her attitude.

  Littlejohn wondered if Esther Liddell had really loved her late husband and, since his death, little had mattered for her. The brandy...the story of her easy ways...any man would do...the boredom of living alone in an isolated pub...

  A newcomer entered. A little chubby man, like an old salt. He wore an old peaked cap and a reefer jacket.

  “I’m late, Esther. Nobody else arrived?”

  Then he saw Littlejohn and Dixon, nodded, and sat down.

  Mrs. Liddell drew him a pint of beer and put it before him on one of the tables. Then she took a box of draughts from under the counter and a board and set them out before him, too.

  “He’s not come yet, either...”

  More steps, and another arrived. Taller and thinner, but the same type as the first. He saw the policemen at once and looked resentful. Strangers weren’t welcome; they upset the routine of the old men.

  Already Mrs. Liddell was setting a pint before the thin man. The pair of them then started to sort out the draughts and put them on the board, all the time watching Littlejohn and Dixon unsociably.

  Littlejohn paused and listened. From the room above came a faint sound. He remembered the moving curtain just as the pair of them had arrived and how it had crossed his mind that it might be the landlady. But she had been in the yard all the time.

  Mrs. Liddell seemed to have heard it, too. She left the bar and with the same lazy grace strolled into the back room. Littlejohn waited a moment, still listening. He heard her open a cupboard and then came the soft plop of a cork being withdrawn. She was taking another bracer. He crossed to the door.

  She was just opening the door at the bottom of the staircase, without haste or panic. Just opening it in her usual languid way. Littlejohn entered before she could take a step on the stairs.

  “Excuse me.”

  He was there before her and she made no effort to stop him. Nor did she show anger or fear. She just let him pass.

  The stairs were narrow and gave on a small landing with three doors closed and a small bathroom visible at the end of a short corridor. Littlejohn opened the one on the front of the inn.

  A man was standing by the bed, apparently disturbed in listening to what was going on below. His attitude of stock-still attention showed no guilt, just curiosity.

  A tall, powerfully built man, with broad shoulders and heavy arms and legs. His face narrowed from a wide bald forehead to a firm pointed chin and he was clean shaven and ruddy, with full lips and blue eyes under thick eyebrows. His nose had been broken at some time and had a large irregular hump on the bridge. He was in his shirt and trousers and stockinged feet. He raised his eyes and stood rigid. His glance met Littlejohn’s in a frank challenge.

  “What do you want?”

  Littlejohn didn’t quite know himself for a brief second, and then he knew exactly what it was all about.

  “Hello, Leo. What are you doing here?”

  And from the way the man looked at him, Littlejohn knew he was right. And as if in confirmation, Esther Liddell, who had silently come up behind him, uttered a deep sigh, her only sign of any emotion since the Chief Inspector arrived.

  I0 THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T TALK

  “HULLO, Leo.”

  The man in the bedroom smiled faintly. No suggestion of his being cornered or making a bolt for it. Just the smile, half of resignation and half of confidence in his own security.

  Leo Fowler, Senior, was at a disadvantage being caught half-dressed, but he managed to keep his dignity. There was a strange calmness about him and he gave the police a straight look. Obviously a man of character.

  There was a faint air of dampness about the room, as though the atmosphere of the marsh had seeped right into the very fabric of the building. In the corners near the ceiling, the paper was starting to peel from the walls.

  The room overlooked the front of the inn, and beyond there was a view right across Adder’s Moss to Elmer’s Creek. An excellent look-out, and it was obvious that Leo Fowler had seen Littlejohn and the constable approaching almost as soon as they’d taken the road along the coast. He’d had plenty of time in which to hide. Instead, he’d remained in his shirt and trousers and without his shoes.

  A large double bed dominated the room. The sheets were clean, but it hadn’t been made. The rest of the furniture was old-fashioned and good. The kind which might have been handed down with the inn for generations. The large walnut wardrobe was open and Littlejohn could see a kitbag on the floor of it and a reefer jacket hanging from a peg.

  “You’ve come for me?”

  Fowler looked Littlejohn in the eye and smiled. It might have been a rendezvous for a night out.

  “No. In fact, I didn’t know you were here, Leo. How comes that? Do you know Mrs. Liddell?”

  The landlady, still standing silently behind Littlejohn, didn’t say a word.

  “I just dropped in.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A day or two.”

  Leo was almost as vague as Esther Liddell. It was becoming obvious that the pair of them had arranged exactly how they’d behave if the police arrived.

  Littlejohn sat on the bed, pulled out his pipe, and began to fill it.

  “That’s not quite good enough, Leo. We’re on a murder case, and if you don’t want to get involved, you’d better be more explicit. How long have you been here?”

  Fowler shrugged his shoulders and smiled again.

  “I said, a day or two.”

  Littlejohn lit his pipe, rose, and strolled slowly round the room. Below, he could hear footsteps in the yard, the inn door was opened, and then there was a pause and voices.

  “Anybody there?”

  Shouting at the foot of the stairs. A customer wanting serving.

  “Coming...”

  Mrs. Liddell turned without a word and slowly went downstairs. The steps creaked as she went. More shouting greeted her as she appeared in the bar.

  Littlejohn walked to the wardrobe, took down the jacket from the hook, and turned out the pockets. Fowler watched him quite unperturbed. A pipe and pouch, matches, keys, knife and notebook in the side pockets, and a wallet in the inside one. Littlejohn threw them all on the bed. He knew he’d no right to do it, but he wanted to sting Leo into action. Instead, the sailor only smiled.

  There was nothing special in the wallet. Some twopence halfpenny stamps, ten pounds or so in notes, odds and ends of paper bearing addresses and figures, an old photograph of a woman, young, smiling, with an apron on, standing at
the door of a cottage in a row.

  Littlejohn turned to the coat again and thrust his fingers in the inside match-pocket. There was a thin slip of paper there, which he straightened and examined. A ticket issued at the booking office of the ferry at Falbright. The kind they didn’t collect at the end of the trip, because you couldn’t get on the boat until you’d paid and passed through the turnstile. The slip was dated the day of John Grebe’s death.

  “So you arrived just in time for Grebe’s murder, Leo?”

  “If you like to put it that way.”

  “You’d warned Grebe you were on the way, hadn’t you? He expected you.”

  “You found the postcards I sent?”

  “Yes.”

  Fowler nodded. He looked quite satisfied about it all. Glad, in fact, that the cards had been safely delivered.

  “When did you first meet John Grebe?”

  “It’s so long since, I can’t remember.”

  “You’d better get your shoes on, Leo. You’re coming along with us.”

  “You’re arresting me?”

  “If you won’t answer questions, I can’t leave you here. After all, you wrote and threatened Grebe just before he died. Unless you can clear yourself, I’ll have to hold you on suspicion.”

  “Have you got the handcuffs ready?”

  Leo looked to be revelling in the situation. Certainly not the cornered criminal. On the contrary. Leo seemed to want to get himself in gaol.

  Dixon stood by the door, his eyes wide, trying to take in what was happening. This was something new in his experience.

  “By the way, Leo, you don’t happen to be married to Mrs. Liddell?”

  Again the smile. Leo seemed to be enjoying every minute of the whole affair.

  “Why?”

  Littlejohn indicated the bed with a casual hand. Two people had obviously slept in it. Besides, on the old-fashioned chest with a toilet mirror on top of it, stood a woman’s brush and comb, with a hand-mirror and a pin cushion. It was probably Mrs. Liddell’s own room in normal times. If Fowler were only a casual lodger, Esther Liddell, even if she slept with him, was hardly the type to go through her intimate toilet there as well.