Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  “Mais certainement. A hanger-on of Himmler at one time. Then of the German-American Bund. After that, hanging on Himmler again. I went with Dudidier’s party to Munich in 1938., There I saw Hartwright … Hartmann he was then. He was serving the Nazi big men as I served Dudidier. A shadow … detective … hein? I never forget a face.”

  “So you followed.…”

  “Yes. Harrop got out of the car and came here on foot. I turned round and pursued unsuspected. Oho, my Hartmann, what are you doing here? I said to myself. Meanwhile, Harrop came on and found you unconscious. He is now turning-up all the rooms in search of evidence. He never rests, that one.”

  “And Hartwright, or Hartmann?”

  “Took himself to the railway, where a policeman was examining a hole in a field. Seeing him, Hartmann skirted the field, and entered a small tunnel … a drain, hein? … from the other side of the railway line. I followed. He was carrying a suitcase and a detonator. It was two o’clock. Dudidier’s train was due over the little tunnel at about 2.20.…”

  “So, that’s what Braun was at!”

  Luc’s eyebrows rose in query. They were singed from constant encounters with his spluttering French matches.

  “Yes,” broke in Cromwell. “Hartwright must have heard Bowells reporting to you by ’phone. The one in the hall’s tapped by a lead-in to Hartwright’s room.”

  “So he coshed me and went to finish the job himself?”

  “That’s about it.”

  Luc gazed patiently at Cromwell with a when-you’ve-quite-finished expression, and then took up the narrative.

  “When I saw what Hartmann was carrying, I was in a puzzle.… a … a …”

  “Dilemma?” said Cromwell respectfully.

  “… dilemma. Thank you. Would he hurl the bag of explosives if he saw me or blow up the railway, himself and me?”

  Something seemed to tickle Cromwell, whose sense of humour was usually very heavy.

  “What would you do, chums?” he muttered, caught Littlejohn’s eye and wiped the smile from his face with a jerk.

  “Pardon … ?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He saw me … drew a revolver … So, I had to shoot Hartmann dead. There was no time for … for … les convenances. Hardly what you would call wicketing, but what would you?” Luc shrugged his shoulders like one in despair.

  “Do you mean cricket?” asked the doctor, suddenly butting-in with great animation, for he was the captain of the village eleven.

  Luc didn’t seem to hear.

  “You did the right thing under the circumstances,” interposed Littlejohn with hasty tact.

  “I was wet with sweat of fear when he sank down. Would the explosive go off? If so—BOOM—no Luc.”

  Cromwell took the opportunity to guffaw loudly and enjoy the joke he was still hugging to himself.

  “So Hartwright was in it after all,” mused Littlejohn.

  “Sure,” said Cromwell. “The whole bloomin’ lot’s in it, as you said, sir.”

  “Carberry-Peacocke?”

  “Him too. The man on duty in the grounds nabbed him and his wife levanting through the rhododendrons on their way to the station with two suitcases. They’re cooling their heels in the kitchen till we can deal with them.”

  Cromwell seemed to relish the idea of the forthcoming interview.

  “What time is it now?”

  “Half-past three,” said Cromwell pulling out the large gold hunter which his father had given him when he was twenty-one.

  “That all? I seem to have been passed out for years.”

  “Harrop saw the glass of the ’phone-box all steamed up as he came in.”

  “Smart work!”

  “Eyes in the back of his neck, that one,” chuckled Luc, who seemed greatly to admire the Special Branch officer.

  “You were talking away to yourself in German when you came round, sir,” said Cromwell.

  “German? I don’t know a word of it.”

  “You were saying something about an der egg.”

  “Anderegg?” Littlejohn said eagerly and his face brightened.

  “That’s it!” he went on. “That’s what’s been bothering me. The tap on the head must have brought it to the surface. Melchior Anderegg … that’s it. What or who was Melchior Anderegg?”

  Cromwell looked alarmed. Shortt seemed apprehensive and rose to his feet. Had the knock on the head been more serious than they thought?

  “Melchior Anderegg?” said the doctor. “What are you worrying about? He’s a dead-and-gone Swiss mountain-guide. What has he to do with this affair …? I used to climb, myself, in my nimbler days. Old Melchior’s almost a legend in mountaineering lore.”

  Littlejohn’s face glowed.

  “Do you know any Cambridge mountaineers, doctor?”

  Dr. Shortt’s nose twitched nervously. He raised his hand in a deprecating gesture and then thought better of it.

  “Do you?” persisted the Inspector.

  Luc had dropped out of the game and gazed with admiration at his footwear.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Who? Come on, doctor, come on!”

  “Oh, Clapthorne, lecturer in histology, and Forrest, the pathologist. Why?”

  “Could you introduce me to one of ’em by ’phone?”

  “Certainly. But I think you ought to keep calm. Very dangerous.…”

  “If you don’t stop fussing, doctor, I will go off my head altogether.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Shortt as if to a wilful boy, and he reached for the telephone.

  PROCESS OF MOPPING-UP

  ARCHIBALD CARBERRY-PEACOCKE worked himself up into a highly nervous state in waiting for questioning by the police. They made him cool his heels for some time, and he and his wife sat in the kitchen under the watchful eye of a constable whilst Littlejohn and Cromwell searched their flat.

  Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke seemed overwhelmed by the plight in which she found herself and spoke no word during the period of waiting. To see the husband she had adored for thirty years, and under whose domination she had always been since first they met, reduced to a gibbering coward was more than she could bear. She was bereft of speech and almost of her wits as well.

  The detectives called-in Stone to assist in the search, for it was thought that he might know the nooks and corners of the place which might otherwise escape attention. His co-operation proved worth while. Nothing was found to incriminate the tenants of the flat until Stone remembered the well under the kitchen floor.

  “This little place usedter be the buttery in the old times and there was a lead tank for rainwater under the floor, sir,” he said. “When they made them alterations they found it, and the new owner not being willing to fill it in properly, they boarded it over. Quite safe, it was, all the water having been drained off.”

  “Show us the place, Stone.”

  The janitor indicated the spot and, sure enough, the flooring showed evidence of disturbance.

  They prised away enough boards to reveal a neat little transmitting set, which they lifted into the light of day.

  Littlejohn then sent for Carberry-Peacocke. When the little man saw the wireless-set he almost fainted. And then he broke down completely and threw himself on the mercy of the police.

  “I’ll turn King’s Evidence,” he panted. “I’ll tell you all I know. But you’ll have to give me protection.… These people are dangerous. Is Mrs. Hartwright about?”

  “She’s having attention. You’re afraid of her?” said Littlejohn.

  “She was as bad as he was. Ruthless and heartless, the pair of them. Once we were in their clutches, we were done-for.”

  Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke uttered a low moan, but sat like a statue, tears coursing down her cheeks and forming drops on the end of her chin.

  “It all started with Terry. He’s our only son. He’s always been an independent sort of a lad and of advanced political views. Once it was communism; then it was fascism. And he got mixed up with the fasci
st party over here and rose high up in the ranks. Went to Germany, too, and was well received by the Nazi leaders there.”

  Here Luc strolled in, a cigarette still dangling in his mouth. He looked at Littlejohn and gave him a wry grin. They had always differed in their views concerning the handling of prisoners or suspects. Luc thought Scotland Yard too light-handed with them. Just let him get this little rat in his room in the Sûreté for ten minutes.…

  Carberry-Peacocke was evidently still proud of his son and resentful of the treatment he was receiving in prison.

  “He used to talk to me and his mother about the future they were planning. A sort of Utopia. But first we’d have to clear away the decadents with which the country was overrun, the grafters, the privileged classes.…”

  Littlejohn was getting a bit sick of this political lecture.

  “Come, come. We don’t want to hear any more about your political ideas. It’s information concerning the gang you got mixed up in that we’re after.”

  “Very well. My son and I were always interested in wireless. We used to run a transmitter before the war and Terry said it might be useful in war-time, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “Don’t you see? This war’s not country against country. It’s creed against creed. Those of one creed are allies the world over.…”

  The man was half-mad and evidently quite unable to realise the truth when it was thrust under his very nose.

  “How did you meet these people?”

  “When he was arrested, Terry said I was to keep the transmitter hidden until I got instructions. He didn’t say where they’d come from. One day Hartwright called to see me. Said he’d a message from Terry. I was to take the set to a certain place and put myself at the disposal of Hartwright. I didn’t like Hartwright, but he said he’d information in his possession which would get Terry shot as a spy if it got to the proper quarters. I guess I let myself be led away a bit. I was so confused, losing Terry and our fighting Germany, with whom I thought we’d ally and fight bolshevism. I was doing as they said before I knew it. Once in their hands there was no turning back. They’d have killed us both.”

  “So you came down here?”

  “Yes. They said this place was very suitable and central for what there was to do.”

  “What was there to do?”

  “I wasn’t told, but I found out quite a lot. Braun was a proper scientist, but he was a German in the pay of the party. He had two assistants. One a fascist; the other an I.R.A. man, who hated Britain like poison. They went digging in places where they could watch and report on airfields and lines of communications.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “From what I overheard and by putting two and two together. I’d nothing of that sort to do. All I did was work the transmitter when it was wanted.”

  “So Braun and his men were planning sabotage of railways and such.”

  “Yes. And they were to mark hidden aircraft when the bombers flew over from Germany. The roof of their van had a striped pattern which could be seen from the air. They hadn’t got to that part yet, though. They were just gathering information. Their first job was blowing-up the railway when French big shots were travelling to a rendezvous with the British chiefs.”

  “Where did you get that information?”

  “I’d all day with nothing to do. I used to keep an eye on them from time to time. Overheard quite a lot and sometimes followed them. I was watching when the police nabbed them to-day.”

  “So you prepared a hasty exit.…”

  “I’d had quite enough. Things had gone too far. Then I saw Hartwright dashing off. I knew he was going to finish the job.”

  “Who was the head of the gang?”

  “Hartwright, here. But there was somebody higher-up outside.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, they weren’t free-lance, were they? Hartwright got his orders from outside. Braun tried to put-up for boss, but got put in his place.… A bad-tempered piece of work and very domineering was Braun. Sort of rebelled against orders and had to be reminded who and where he was.”

  “What about Miss Pott?”

  “Oh, the elder had nothing to do with it. Deaf as a post and ignorant of what was happening. In fact, she was useful … added a respectable air to the place. Her sister was madly in love with Williatt and did whatever he told her. She used to watch the roads to the coast and report on convoys, troop movements and the like.”

  “And when you’d got all this information, what did you do with it? Transmit it?”

  “Sometimes, if those were the orders. It was coded and sent. The coding wasn’t done here. There again, somebody outside did it. We didn’t always send it, either. There must be other transmitters and they were used in turn.”

  “And what were the means of communication with the outside?”

  “Williatt. He was the runner, so to speak. Travelled to and from London, just as if he were going to rehearsals, which he was, of course. But that was his cover for contact with the higher men. He’d take information regularly and sometimes he’d come back with code messages for transmission.”

  “And now. What happened when Burt was killed?”

  Carberry-Peacocke licked his dry lips. In his terror he had released a spate of information in the hope that his punishment might be lightened. The mention of the murder was the last straw. He looked ready to have a fit.

  “Might I have a drink of brandy? There’s some on the shelf in the scullery. I’m all in.”

  Cromwell went foraging and returned with a bottle of cooking sherry. He gave Carberry-Peacocke a dose and the fellow was too miserable and overwrought to know the difference.

  “You’re sure Mrs. Hartwright’s been arrested?”

  Littlejohn wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the Special Branch man had gone off with another plainclothes officer to Meadford, where she was supposed to be shopping.

  “She’s been attended to,” was all he could say to the terrified prisoner.

  “On the night Burt died, we were transmitting. We’d heard all the commotion, but the door was locked, so we carried on, thinking it was Braun, who used to get drunk sometimes and kick up a fuss. Right in the middle of it, Burt climbed in through the window. He was a sorry sight, wrapped up in sacks and his teeth chattering. But he twigged what the set was. Must have known something about transmitters. He said, ‘What are you doing with a transmitter on these premises? Don’t you know it’s illegal?’ And then he rushed for the door and went out.

  “Hartwright was after him. He was afraid he’d ’phone the police. In any case, it wouldn’t have done for the secret to get out.… You see, I’m telling you everything. You’ll bear it in mind, Inspector, won’t you?”

  Littlejohn said nothing. He puffed his pipe unmoved.

  “Well?” he muttered at length. “Go on.”

  “Hartwright put out the lights and must have chased him upstairs and thrown him over the balustrade. Burt was dead when we looked at him again. Hartwright got us all together. We arranged the alibis. The poltergeist and all that. Such things do happen, you know, and as there’d been previous hauntings, I concocted another.… In any case, we’d our alibis.”

  The wretched man was half demented. He carried on with his torrent of talk and every time he opened his mouth he put his foot in it. His wife sat petrified as he incriminated himself, whilst trying to win the favour of his captors.

  The detectives looked at one another. This was something new. Even Luc was flabbergasted at such an easy victim. Under normal conditions, it would take at least twenty-four hours of the roughest stuff in the repertoire of the Police Judiciare to get such results.

  “So you don’t know who the big noise of the gang is, eh?”

  “Never seen him or heard his name. I tell you Williatt’s the liason officer and never mentioned who or where he was.”

  “When you’d killed Burt and scared-off Miss Freyle, you’d the place to yourselves th
en.…”

  Carberry-Peacocke was startled and his pallid face flushed.

  “I killed Burt? … I tell you I’d nothing to do with it. It was Hartwright … Hartwright, I tell you.…”

  Suddenly, at the window a figure appeared. As if answering the call of a name, Mrs. Hartwright seemed to materialise from nowhere. In her hand was an automatic and this she pointed at Carberry-Peacocke. There was a loud explosion and a crash of shattering glass. The little informer’s mouth opened, his pince-nez fell off, he swayed for a moment on his toes, looked astonished and outraged, like a dog whose master has given him poison, and then crashed to the floor. It all happened in a few seconds. The woman with the revolver was still at the window and raising her weapon a second time to finish off Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke, who had flung herself on her husband’s body.

  Luc’s pistol cracked and Mrs. Hartwright sagged from sight, like a figure on an Aunt Sally stall after receiving a direct hit.

  It was dusk when they had cleared-up the wreck and packed-off Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke, now prostrate, to the nearest hospital in charge of a prison nurse. The whole place was like a morgue. Half the tenants in gaol; the rest dead. Only Williatt remained and instructions had been given for the man who was watching him to be finally relieved by an arrest.

  The telephone bell in the hall rang stridently. Cromwell hurried to answer it. His face registered astonishment and incredulity.

  “No!” he shouted. “Not another! All right. I’ll tell him.”

  He hung up the instrument as though he bore it a grudge.

  “Well?” said Littlejohn, who, after his ordeal earlier in the day, was beginning to feel the strain and was sitting resting on the divan in the hall. His bag was packed and he was ready for off to London and home again.

  “Williatt’s hung himself in his London flat. About ten minutes since. They found him when they went to pick him up.”

  Littlejohn’s head began to spin.

  “Look out!” said Cromwell. “He’s going over!”

  The last straw and the last of the Harwood bunch!

  Luc placed an affectionate arm round Littlejohn’s shoulders and passed him his flask. The Inspector was soon himself again.

  “Let’s get out of this,” he said. “The place is getting on my nerves.”