Death Drops the Pilot

by George Bellairs

  One of the fishermen who lived opposite the soft-drinks factory was telling a muddled tale already.

  “At first I thought it was another murder, but when I saw the light from Tom Grebe’s, I knew what it was. He’s been depressed since his brother got killed and this afternoon I crossed on the ferry from Falbright with him and he looked like death warmed up. Like a man in a dream as didn’t know what he was doin’. I can’t say I’m surprised at what’s happened.”

  Dixon suddenly appeared and cleared them all away.

  “I was just taking the wife and kids to see their aunt on the Moss,” he said by way of excuse for his late arrival.

  One of the women gently coaxed Mrs. Grebe to go home with her. It needed two of them to hold her; she was like somebody in a fit.

  “It’s that lawyer, Flewker, that did it. He told my husband that his brother had left him not a penny. Just this old buildin’ and nothin’ to keep it goin’ with. All the money to that scarlet woman at the Arms. God will punish them all. My Tom made away with himself when he heard of it.”

  She screamed and repeated it over and over again, until a door closed and shut it off.

  It was nine o’clock before they got it all cleared up and the body across in a police boat to the mortuary at Falbright. Littlejohn and Cromwell ate a cold supper on a solitary table by the fire. The usual party had arrived and were sitting in their customary places waiting for Littlejohn to join them. Horrocks, Bacon, Brett, and a stranger, a little man with a bald head, pointed nose, receding chin, and a goatee beard. He was anxious to speak to Littlejohn. Horrocks introduced him as Sir Luke Messiah, the chairman of the Homeshire County Council. His arrival had put Brett in a flurry of toadying and excitement.

  “The Chief Constable’s been on again, too.”

  It was obvious that the four men were eager to hear what Littlejohn had to say. Horrocks, his legs crossed, was smoking a cigar and sipping whisky. Bacon was leaning back with his legs and shiny shoes stretched out before him. Sir Luke sat upright, his knees together, and a glass of orangeade at his elbow. Brett couldn’t keep still, watching Sir Luke, glaring at Littlejohn for keeping them waiting, mopping his sweating forehead.

  Littlejohn laid down his knife and fork, and Lucy, who was hanging about, removed his plate. When he started to help himself to trifle from a dish, it was more than Sir Luke could bear.

  “Are you aware, Inspector, that I’ve come all the way from Freckleby to speak with you?”

  He rose and stared about, as though seeking his hat and coat for an exit in a huff, failed to see them, and sat down again.

  Littlejohn looked round in surprised good humour.

  “Are you wanting to talk to me about the man we’ve arrested, sir? The happy prisoner...”

  Sir Luke boiled over.

  “I’ve been discussing the matter with the Chief Constable.”

  It was obvious the Chief Constable had rung up Sir Luke and asked for his help. He’d promised to go to Elmer’s Creek and put Littlejohn in his place. And here was the Chief Inspector, eating lobster and trifle as though nothing had happened!

  “I’m Chairman of the bench at Falbright and I’ve never heard of such goings-on.”

  He paused to gather himself together. His words seemed to choke him.

  “Captain Bacon and Dr. Horrocks are also Justices of the Peace and, I tell you candidly, we shall have something to say in court tomorrow unless you tell a more coherent tale than the one you told Cram this afternoon.”

  Littlejohn was cutting himself a piece of cheese.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d attend to what I’m saying, Chief Inspector. There’s panic all over the village. People are scared to go out of doors. You’ve been here three days and done nothing that I can see. And now you’ve arrested a man you say isn’t guilty. What are we to make of it all? Besides, you haven’t played fair by the local police. Kept them in the dark...”

  Bacon and Horrocks nodded their heads in assent. It was obvious there’d been a meeting and a decision made before Littlejohn got back.

  Littlejohn was eating his cheese and biscuit with apparent relish.

  “I warn you, Chief Inspector. We won’t be embarrassed on the bench tomorrow. Either...”

  Littlejohn wiped his mouth on his napkin, folded it, and put it in a napkin ring marked “2”.

  “Either what, Sir Luke?”

  “Either you give us evidence which will justify our committing him on a charge of murder, or we release him on bail...or even discharge him.”

  Lucy entered again and made for Littlejohn.

  “You’re wanted on the phone.”

  The same dull, flat voice.

  “Not the Chief Constable again, I hope.”

  Sir Luke Messiah gave his two brother JPs a look which almost bordered on triumph. What did I tell you? He’s flouting the lot of us. You could almost hear him say it.

  “No. It’s Inspector Silence. He says he’s some information for you.”

  “Do you mind, Cromwell? Tell him I’m in conference with the local bench of magistrates, will you?”

  Lucy started to clear the table.

  “The man from the Daily Trumpet asked me to tell you he’s waiting for a call to London for his morning column and he’ll be glad if you’ll hurry.”

  “Tell him to go to...”

  The door closing on Cromwell cut off the rest.

  Littlejohn drew up a chair in the circle of Justices and lit his pipe.

  “You were saying, when we were interrupted, Sir Luke...?”

  “We’ll release Fowler if you can’t produce a cast-iron case for his guilt.”

  “It’s my turn, now, Sir Luke, to tell you I shall hold you responsible in such an event. If Fowler is released before I give the word, the bench will be responsible for whatever happens afterwards.”

  Sir Luke Messiah could hardly contain himself, and it was only the fact that the Chairman was the local bigwig that kept Bacon quiet. He was obviously seething with rage, as well.

  “Listen, Chief Inspector. Today you’ve arrested a man who’s threatened the life of John Grebe. We’ve got the cards on which he did it. You performed a good piece of work in laying him by the heels. I won’t deny it. A good piece of work. And then, you spoil it. You say he didn’t murder Grebe at all. In spite of the evidence. Why? You’ve questioned the man. We’ve questioned him. Or rather, the Falbright police have done so. He won’t say a word. That’s natural. He doesn’t want to incriminate himself. Instead, he’s as pleased as Punch about it. Truculent, throwing his weight about. Why? Because you, Chief Inspector, have taken his part. He knows you’re on his side. Why are you?”

  “Just a hunch, sir.”

  “A hunch!”

  The three magistrates all said it simultaneously and then, to show how heartily he was in accord with them, Brett said it, too.

  “A hunch!”

  Cromwell was back, carrying a slip of paper torn from his official notebook. He passed it to Littlejohn, who slowly put on his glasses and read it. You could hear the heavy breathing of the three JPs, and Brett bronchially boiling somewhere inside.

  “You’ll be interested in this, gentlemen. First, let me explain that today we sent a photograph of Leo Fowler, senior, together with his fingerprints, to Scotland Yard, and asked if they’d any information about him. This is what they say.”

  Littlejohn slowly read from the paper.

  “Records show that the photograph is that of Walter Mills, not Leo Fowler. Aged 56. Returned to this country September 4th, of this year, from Russia where he had been a prisoner since March 1945, when he was removed from a German concentration camp. According to German files in our possession, Mills was captured and condemned in Germany for smuggling refugees from Germany, September 1938. He was recently released with a batch of English prisoners sentenced in Russia for political offences. Photographs, taken on his arrival in England, follow...”

  Littlejohn took off his glasses, slowly folded them,
and put them back in his pocket.

  Sir Luke Messiah slapped his knee vigorously.

  “A traitor...a gaolbird, who’s just missed death once. An obvious murderer. Probably a communist, as well. And you say, Chief Inspector, you’ve got a hunch! It’s laughable. Come now, admit, on the face of this new evidence, that he’s your man. Mills or Fowler, or whoever he is, came here for the express purpose of murdering Grebe out of revenge. Perhaps Grebe was in this smuggling scheme with Fowler and left him to bear the blame. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  Littlejohn spoke to Cromwell in an undertone and the sergeant went off once more to the telephone.

  All three JPs looked cheerful and were obviously waiting for Littlejohn’s agreement to make their job of the morrow an easy one.

  “Well, Inspector?”

  Bacon was almost matey. He leaned across and tapped Littlejohn’s knee.

  “Well, Inspector? You’ll charge him with murder before the court sits and then we’ll formally commit him to the assizes. There’ll be no bail. He can enjoy himself to his heart’s content in prison, then. He seems to like it, from what I’ve heard.”

  “I shall do no such thing, gentlemen. We haven’t enough evidence to hold him on anything except suspicion. If you release him, it’s your own responsibility.”

  Horrocks, Bacon, and Sir Luke Messiah rose like one man, all talking at once. Cromwell entered quietly, a puzzled look on his face, and spoke a few words to his chief. There was silence as the rest listened, looking more bewildered than Cromwell himself.

  “Leo Fowler’s greatcoat is still at the Saracen’s Head, sir. Mrs. Liddell says it wasn’t in the wardrobe with the rest of his gear, because she’d got it downstairs in the cupboard. She’d been cleaning it and putting on a button.”

  Sir Luke Messiah was the first to explode.

  “What is this nonsense? Greatcoats...Saracen’s Head...Putting buttons on...Are we all going mad!”

  He tore at his goatee beard and gurgled deep in his throat.

  “It means, sir, that I’m more convinced than ever that Fowler’s not guilty and I can’t charge him with the Grebe murder.”

  “In that case, we’ve nothing more to say. We shall know what to do in the court to-morrow.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The four men stamped out without a good night and Littlejohn and Cromwell could hear them talking outside under the window and then Sir Luke and Bacon shunting their cars about in the dark.

  Lucy was back.

  “You’re wanted on the phone, sir.”

  She’d got to saying it like a weary gramophone.

  Littlejohn followed her out passing on the way the group of impatient pressmen, eager to telephone their latest stories to their papers.

  It was the Chief Constable again.

  “Any news? Anything further to report?”

  Littlejohn seized the elbow of one of the reporters outside the box, pulled him in, and handed over the instrument. Then he lit his pipe and listened with a smile as the pair of them sorted it all out.

  12 THE BUSINESS OF THE EURYANTHE

  SATURDAY morning. It was just past seven and Littlejohn, after having a bath, was shaving as best he could in front of the large mirror on his dressing table. Damp and sea air had affected the quicksilver which gave a distorted image like one in a sideshow on a fairground.

  The weather had improved. The rain had ceased and the gale had blown itself out. High clouds scudded across a blue sky and all the buildings and the road down the quay had a spring-cleaned appearance.

  There were a few people about: Cromwell returning from a constitutional; a couple of reporters talking with some old salts at the head of the jetty; five-day-week men going off with lines and bait for a day’s fishing; others on their way to the ferry. The tide was coming in and the smoke of the departing Irish Mail was just visible on the skyline.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell ate a good breakfast, which Lucy served. She still looked tired and worried.

  “Would it be all right, sir, if I came to court this morning to see father? It might cheer him up. He seems to have nobody...”

  “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you, Lucy. He’s quite cheerful and comfortable. It will all end up all right.”

  “I wish I could be sure.”

  The two detectives crossed the ferry and not far from the pier head on the Falbright side, found the police station. The sergeant in charge looked surprised to see them. Business was quiet. Leo in his cell; the body of Tom Grebe in the morgue; and a man who’d been celebrating the last night of his holidays, got drunk, and broken a shop window. He’d been sick in his cell.

  “I’d like to see Fowler. Is he all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Two kippers, bacon and eggs, toast and jam for breakfast. He asked for more. Slept well.”

  “You’re doing him well, aren’t you? Any visitors?”

  “The Super. and the Chief Constable. He seemed to rile them. The Chief was proper put out when he came back from the cells. I’ll come with you and open the door, sir.”

  Cromwell stayed behind in the office to ring-up Scotland Yard for fuller details of Leo’s wartime offence.

  Leo was lying on his bed digesting his meal. His hands were clasped behind his head and he was settled comfortably on his back gazing at the ceiling. He smiled as Littlejohn entered and scrambled upright to greet him.

  “Morning, Leo.”

  “Morning, Inspector. Good of you to call. Things are busy this morning. I’ve had two already. You look a bit more cheerful than the others.”

  Littlejohn drew up the solitary wooden chair and sat astride it. He filled his pipe and offered his pouch to Leo, who took it eagerly.

  “A smoke’s a godsend. I’ve run out of tobacco and they say smoking’s against the regulations.”

  “You’ll soon be out now. The magistrates are determined to release you on bail, if you can fix up sureties.”

  “I thought I was in on a murder charge.”

  “Hardly.”

  Leo sat up and looked puzzled.

  “What’s going on? Why did you bring me in, then?”

  “Because you’re safer here.”

  “That’s just what Esther said when she saw you coming to the Saracen. She wanted me to give myself up.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better tell me the whole story, Leo? I know a lot of it, but it will help me if you fill in the gaps.”

  Fowler gave the Chief Inspector a shrewd look.

  “How much do you know?”

  “I know you were once a lot nearer execution than you are at present, Leo, and that you just missed death by hanging by the skin of your teeth.”

  Leo passed back Littlejohn’s pouch and slowly lighted his short briar. He puffed the smoke in great voluptuous gulps and then nodded affably to the Inspector.

  “That’s right.”

  You couldn’t help liking Leo, and Littlejohn felt a warm feeling for him. He was a man who had evidently suffered a lot of hardship and who’d come through it on the strength of his ironical sense of humour and strange, smiling invulnerability.

  “All this good-humoured acceptance of arrest, Leo...You’re enjoying yourself, with your kippers and your bacon and eggs, because you’re safer in here than rambling about at liberty. Just as Mrs. Liddell told you. Aren’t you? You’re afraid you might go the same way as John Grebe if you don’t watch yourself.”

  Fowler removed his pipe and gave Littlejohn a look of admiration.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Inspector. You know your business. How did you get on to that?”

  “A hunch, that’s all. And I almost shudder to utter the word because the whole bench of justices slapped me down last night for using it. However, let’s say, for a start, that you went down to the jetty at Elmer’s Creek to find John Grebe when the last boat came in on the night the old man died.”

  “Right again. I came quietly to Elmer’s Creek, by night. I wasn’t going to advertise my arriva
l by using the day ferry where everybody sees you. I got in after dark. Half past seven, in fact. I was on my way to the Saracen where I know the landlady, and she’ll do me a good turn any time.”

  “How did you come to know Esther Liddell?”

  “All in good time, Inspector. I’ll tell you one day. It’s no concern of yours at present.”

  “We’ll not argue about it. Get on with your tale, Leo.”

  “I returned for the last ferry intending to take Grebe by surprise. I’d warned him I was coming, but I thought if I faced him when the boat came in, it would shake him up a bit.”

  “Did you meet anybody you knew?”

  “No. I saw my son, Leo, half seas over, making for the last ferry, and I saw Lily, my stepdaughter, come to the door of the Barlow Arms and see him safely off with a sailor who seemed to be looking after him and who was nearly as drunk as Leo.”

  “You knew Lily was at the Arms?”

  “Yes. I had my way of finding out. I’ll tell you later. I guessed Leo would fetch up there, too, trying to get money out of her when he knew where she was.”

  “Go on. You went down to meet Grebe.”

  “Yes. But I was frustrated about springing a surprise. He came off the boat with another fellow I didn’t know, of course, and I wouldn’t know him if I saw him again. I knew John by his uniform.”

  “The same as your own? Officer’s cap, uniform greatcoat?”

  “Yes.”

  Leo shot another admiring glance at Littlejohn, who looked back at him blandly.

  “That’s right. Grebe walked a little way with the man I mentioned ; almost as far as the Arms. I followed them. They said good night and the little fellow went on.”

  “Wait a minute, Leo. Did you follow on their heels or otherwise?”

  “No. They were in the middle of the jetty walking on the asphalt; I was on the footpath, level with them. It was dark. I couldn’t be recognized.”

  “Go on.”

  Littlejohn pulled another pipe from his pocket, filled it, put the old one away, and lit the new one. He handed his pouch to Leo again who rammed tobacco in his pipe as he spoke, after knocking out the dottle on the iron leg of his bed.