Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  “You shall pay for this outrage … Himmel! … I will have the law.… You have no cause …” yelled Braun, now beside himself, and his scholarly reserve quite broken down.

  “We’ll call it h’obstructing the police in the discharge of their duties to begin with,” replied Bowells, who with his two assistants was taking liquid refreshment, after securely trussing his prisoners pending the arrival of the milk van which was to serve as Black Maria.

  “Say, officer,” said one of the Canadians, “that was a durned good effort with the stone against the feller with the gun.…”

  “Constable Bowells is the best bowler in these parts,” replied Ward proudly.

  “Baseball?” asked the other Canadian, grinning over his mug.

  “Noooo …” answered the farmer with disgust. “Cricket!”

  DOMESTIC INTERLUDE

  WHILST the rest of his colleagues went their various ways about the countryside, Littlejohn stayed at home in Harwood Hall.

  Heathcote, of the Sussex Police, came and went off again with a promise to communicate at once with Special Branch at Scotland Yard concerning Littlejohn’s suspicions of spying activities. Another plainclothes man, who arrived with Heathcote, was posted in the grounds with instructions to keep an eye on the movement of the Hartwrights and the Carberry-Peacockes, who, so far, didn’t seem to have made a move.

  The whole place grew very quiet. Littlejohn rang over on the house-telephone and told Stone to come to the Hall at once. As he waited for the janitor he saw through the window two women arriving from the village to clean some of the flats. Agg, the Cockney, was still about the grounds and at the time was smoothing the gravel of the main drive.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Hartwright and Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke could be heard beginning a conversation, the latter’s voice raised querulously.

  “I’ve not been used to housework.… Since the maid gave notice and went, it’s been a nightmare. And Mrs. Stone won’t help. She’s got enough to do, she says.…”

  The telephone bell of Littlejohn’s quarters rang shrilly.

  It was Mrs. Littlejohn calling from their Hampstead home. She asked her husband if he’d settled down for life at Harwood.

  “I’m ringing to tell you that Luc’s been here.…”

  “Who?”

  “Inspector Luc.…”

  “Oh, Luc.…”

  “That’s what I said. He’s in London on business and paid a friendly call. I told him where you were and he says you’re right on his beat. He’ll probably pop in to see you on his way back. I showed him the spot on your big map.”

  Littlejohn, in the course of his duties, had visited the Sûreté in Paris several times. His French was good, thanks to his wife’s efforts and the fact that his neighbours in Hampstead were French people with whom the Littlejohns played bridge quite often.

  The Scotland Yard man’s counterpart in the Police Judiciare was Inspector François-Xavier Luc, and extradition, records and conference work had made them good friends. Littlejohn had even stayed with the Lues at their home in Passy. He looked forward to meeting the Frenchman again, especially in existing circumstances, when the war prevented many of the former cross-Channel comings and goings.

  After hanging-up the telephone, Littlejohn lit his pipe and stood staring through the window with unseeing eyes. He was mentally uneasy. Somewhere in his sub-conscious an idea struggled to make itself manifest. The Inspector was familiar with this mental state of affairs. It was the herald of illumination, as a rule, and followed a period of gathering information, soaking-in atmosphere, and often pursuing a blind course. No use hurrying the process. Incubation must be complete. Meanwhile, with it almost established that Harwood was a nest of spies, what other revelation could be knocking at the door?

  Stone arrived and Littlejohn borrowed his pass-key. Then he dismissed the lodge-keeper. He wanted to investigate the flats of the mysterious tenants alone.

  A modern oak bureau, such as could be bought any day in Tottenham Court Road, stood in one corner of the Potts’ dining-room and Littlejohn made for this as soon as he entered the flat. The drawers were all locked, but presented no difficulties.

  From the point of view of disclosing espionage activities, the search was most disappointing. The desk revealed nothing whatever in that line. In a writing-case, however, were letters from Williatt which left no doubt concerning his relations with the younger sister. Furthermore, the fellow had begun enthusiastically, and cooled-off. That was apparent.

  There was a passbook, too, from a bank in Mayfair, showing a good credit balance with substantial items in cash feeding it from time to time.

  Littlejohn went through the flat in expert fashion. He even set about the books in the small bookcase and was in the midst of them when he heard the telephone again ringing in his own rooms. Hastily he set the books in order again and hurried out.

  It was Cromwell announcing the disaster at Devil’s Dyke and the deaths of both sisters.

  The Inspector felt a bit reluctant to resume his search of the next-door flat now that the tenants were dead. He returned to his task, however, with the thought that if he did not finish it at once, he might never have a real chance again. He met with disappointment, for his renewed efforts yielded nothing whatever, except a book or two on psychic research. In one of these the pages covering poltergeists were well-thumbed, as though the owner had been studying technique.

  The rooms occupied by Braun, to which Littlejohn next turned his attention, were equally barren in useful information of the kind he was seeking. They were very plainly furnished.

  A bed, a dressing-table and a chest of drawers in the bedroom, with two collapsed camp-beds for the hirelings when they stayed the night. The other furnished room held a dining-table and three dining-chairs, a desk and three cheap easy chairs.

  The remaining two rooms of the suite were used for storage. Several packing-cases holding the meagre fruits of Braun’s digging and hunting. Brown bones, corroded ornaments and weapons, bits of broken pottery.

  The main contents of the kitchen were tinned goods.

  Littlejohn went carefully over the whole of the flat. No papers anywhere, except a batch of what seemed to be inventories of anthropological objects found in the district with a list of other sites for excavation. The Inspector guessed that there might be in these documents more than met the eye. The Special Branch man could look them over when he arrived. He was better equipped for such a job.

  Nothing of further interest came to light and Littlejohn returned to his room rather chagrined. Both his searches had revealed little to connect the parties with a well-planned scheme of espionage. Yet, somewhere in the building there must be evidence for or against his theory.

  Littlejohn filled his pipe and as he waited for Cromwell to return, began to turn the case over quietly in his mind. Perhaps this, he thought, might bring to the surface the cause of the vague unrest he had felt all the morning.

  Assembling the jigsaw, he saw a picture somewhat as follows:

  Assuming a nest of spies, somebody had evidently found Harwood Park flats eminently suitable for the purpose. They were anxious to secure a sole tenancy for their gang and aimed at keeping-out intruders.

  Burt’s letting-agent had himself said how surprised they were to receive offers of rent in excess of those advertised.

  Meanwhile, young Harwood and his pals had started to “haunt” the place. Perhaps this suited the gang, who, whilst unwilling to tolerate continued disturbance, welcomed the preliminaries which scared-off outsiders.

  Elaine Freyle was frozen out and left in a hurry.

  Braun was suspect as a Nazi.

  Edith Pott had been unduly interested in what was going-on over the roads which led to the coast. Troops were now moving over them in large numbers.

  Williatt was a mystery man, a cad, and the lover of Edith Pott.

  Could Hartwright and the Carberry-Peacockes be mixed up in it, too?

  What was the link between the
separate tenants who had one trait in common, at least? They refused to be hounded from the place by hauntings and each found a justification for staying-on in spite of it all.

  As for Brownrigg, the invisible tenant … He was apparently a figment created by someone to keep another flat free from unwanted strangers.

  And Burt, but for whose death the whole affair might never have come to the light of day.… He was of different mettle from Miss Freyle.

  He had sunk his money in Harwood Hall and intended making the place pay. He had arrived in person to lay the ghosts and got himself laid instead.

  What had Burt seen going on in the Carberry-Peacockes’ quarters when he unexpectedly arrived through the window in his sackcloth suit?

  Had he caught them at something which necessitated his being silenced? Who had done the silencing?

  As regards poltergeists, it was probable that the Carberry-Peacockes and Edith Pott had created their own to continue the haunting started by the practical jokers. The arrival of Mr. Burt had called for a further display. So had that of Littlejohn. It would not have done for the manifestations to cease as soon as investigators arrived.

  Someone had put up a poor show, however, for the electric plugs gave evidence of human agencies, not the violent handling of an unruly ghost.

  And yet, there were disquieting doubts about the theory.

  Littlejohn got to his feet and began to pace the carpet, leaving trails of smoke in his wake. Outside, he could see a cart loaded with manure entering a field. A woman, apparently an evacuee, pushing a perambulator with one hand and with the other peevishly belabouring a small child walking beside her, passed the entrance gates of the Hall.…

  Yes. You could drive a carriage and pair through the spy theory.

  Suppose Miss Pott and Williatt had merely come sneaking down to Harwood for a vulgar intrigue right under the nose of the elder sister, who was half dotty and didn’t know what was going on. In such a case, however, what were the large sums for cash paid into the bank doing in Edith’s passbook? Were they honest gains; was she on some good literary line?

  Then again, whilst Braun might be an enemy alien after all, there was no concrete evidence of his spying activities.

  Hartwright was a mystery and Carberry-Peacocke might be a harmless old buffer, in spite of the fact that he had a son who was a fascist and in gaol for it.

  Littlejohn sighed, knocked out his pipe and began to fill another, carefully prodding down the tobacco with his middle finger. A porter from Meadford station passed on a bicycle and in the field opposite, a little, thin, spindle-shanked chap in riding-breeches and walking like a cavalryman, started to shoot rooks.…

  The end of the case was nowhere in sight. In fact, Littlejohn hadn’t got a proper theory.

  Stone could be heard shuffling upstairs and he knocked on Littlejohn’s door.

  “Come in!”

  “There’s a call for you in the ’phone-box under the stairs, sir.”

  “Can’t I take it here?”

  “Sorry, sir. All the lines here go through the exchange. There isn’t a switchboard. Somebody must ’ave got the ’all from the directory. The separate ’phones is under the tenants’ names in the telephone book, but if you want just the ’all the number rings in the box under the stairs.”

  Littlejohn didn’t bother to puzzle it all out, but followed Stone down.

  The telephone was installed in a sort of cubby-hole under the main staircase. Littlejohn lifted the receiver. It was Bowells telling the tale of his fracas with Braun and Co. The bobby reported in precise terms, as if facing the magistrates.

  The Inspector’s heart grew lighter. At last Braun had made a false step. Even if his labours were harmless, he’d no right to pull out a gun.… And an alien at that. Here was an excuse for focussing the full power of Scotland Yard on the German and his activities.

  “What were they doing in the field and culvert, Bowells?”

  “I haven’t yet had time to h’investigate, sir. You see, they were rough, sir. I ’ad to call in help, as it was. Two Canadian soldiers, sir. We gave it ’em ’ot, sir … if you’ll pardon me.”

  Bowells sounded to be glowing at the other end.

  “.… I got a few scratches in the fight, sir. Jest ’ad them dressed and now I’m going back right away to see what’s in the tunnel and the field.”

  “Very good, Bowells. An excellent morning’s work. I’ll come right over. Where is the place exactly?”

  There followed precise directions as to how and where to find the scene of the battle.

  Littlejohn hung-up and paused in the telephone-box. Still at the back of his mind was that vague unrest, the stirrings of an idea which might suddenly throw a light on all his problems in this case.

  He opened the door and stepped-out into the hall; and then the heavens seemed to fall down on his head. He felt himself swimming in darkness and melting into space. As he lost his grip on reality, from somewhere a name floated into his mind, one which had eluded him all the time.

  It all happened in a second of time and Littlejohn lay stretched unconscious on the floor. A foot pushed his great body back across the threshold of the cubby-hole and the door was closed.

  THE MAN IN BROWN SHOES

  LITTLEJOHN was in no condition to receive the spate of news which greeted him when he recovered consciousness.

  They had lain him on the top of his own bed, where the late Mr. Burt’s expensive eiderdown voluptuously embraced him and a feather pillow supported his outraged head. They had also removed his coat, waistcoat, collar and tie and lost his collar-stud in the operation. He looked to be recovering from a debauch.

  A voice sounding to echo from far distances in an awful void, roused him.

  “He’s coming to.”

  He saw Dr. Shortt from Meadford sitting, like the first thinker, by his bed and quizzically watching him through gold-rimmed glasses, his long nose making him look like a bespectacled tapir. Over the doctor’s shoulder the anxious, almost maternal face of Cromwell, looking at once relieved and affectionate.

  There was a heavy smell of French cigarettes on the air. Even in his persent condition Littlejohn was conscious of a vague nostalgia. He closed his eyes, seeing the bright ripples on the lake in the Luxembourg Gardens and seemed to sink into nothing amid a thousand bright lights and the scent of Marylands.

  “He’s going off again.… Here, here, Inspector, rouse yourself.…”

  Littlejohn opened his eyes.

  A tall, thin figure approached from the window into the orbit of Littlejohn’s vision.

  “Hullo, Luc,” said the patient languidly. “How are you? Sorry to be like this.…

  The newcomer smiled, baring a set of even, white teeth beneath a small black moustache, took and shook Littlejohn’s hand in both his own and then patted the back of it solicitously.

  “Now … now … no excitement,” fussed the doctor.

  Luc was a sallow, thin-faced man with a hooked nose and eyes as dark and bright as sloes set in tired sockets. His head was bald in front and thatched behind in short, fine, black hair. He wore a navy-blue suit which looked to have seen better days. There was cigarette ash all over the front of his jacket. A battered Maryland hung from his lips. He never had one out of his mouth. Littlejohn often wondered if he smoked in his sleep.…

  On his feet, a pair of pointed brown shoes the colour of bananas. They were the first thing which caught your eye, and looked like a cheap line from the bargain basement of the Samaritaine.

  “… What brought you here, Luc?”

  “Business. I will tell you soon.”

  Luc spoke good English, but his vocabulary was basic and hence limited. He chose his words carefully, like a card player who holds a strictly limited hand of trumps and plays deliberately.

  “What happened?”

  Cromwell could contain himself no longer.

  “Hartwright laid you out, sir.”

  “Hartwright?”

  “Yes. He�
��s dead.”

  Littlejohn rose. Dr. Shortt’s hand on his chest gently forced him back on Mr. Burt’s green quilt. Littlejohn scrambled to his feet on the opposite side of the bed.

  He felt awful. His head seemed the size of four and rubber hammers seemed to beat on the tiny tonsure of his crown.

  Shortt shrugged and pottered like a foraging ant-eater.

  “.… Won’t be responsible.… If you faint, don’t blame me. Not much damage done, but you’ll have to take it easy. Drink this.”

  Littlejohn swallowed a dose of stuff tasting like gall.

  Cromwell benevolently helped him to a chair and poured out three fingers of Burt’s Napoleon brandy.

  “Now, now …” said the doctor.

  “That’s better,” said Littlejohn, and everybody, even Shortt, looked pleased.

  “Now, tell me all about it.”

  Luc squatted on a low chair, stretched his long legs in their narrow trousers across the hearthrug and exhibited the yellow shoes in all their glory. A long cylinder of ash broke from his cigarette and sprayed itself down his front. He looked very pleased with himself.

  “Now that it is no more a secret, I can tell it,” he said. “I came to England to confer with your own police about a visit of our Ministers and Staff who are now at a place in Surrey holding a council of war with your own … your own big men. Dudidier and Bollet and General Chandolin are here. They came by air from Quimper to Brighton. Thence by train.”

  “H’m. And you were arranging their safe passage, eh?”

  “Exactement. We thought it was all safe. I called at your home. Your wife sent me here. I came by auto with your Harrop, of the Special Police, who was also coming.…”

  “Yes, yes?”

  “To my surprise, as our car rounded the … the concierge’s house …”

  “The lodge.…”

  “The lodge. Thank you … as we passed the lodge another car was driving out, the other direction. A man whom I knew was driving … your Mr. Hartwright.”

  “You knew him?”