He'd Rather Be Dead

by George Bellairs

“Just one, Mr. Dashwood,” replied Gus. “You’ve had enough already, you know …”

  “Who’s drunk?” asked Dashwood. Oscar looked round as though prepared to take on anyone who challenged his pal. Joe, the chucker-out, at a sign from Gus, edged nearer the bar.

  “A bloody dentist did this,” complained Slap-Happy, lowering a double whisky with ease, in spite of his infirmity. “I ought to ’ave rammed his tackle down his blasted throat. I would ’ave done, too, if I hadn’t been under gas …”

  “What happened, Dash?” someone asked.

  “Got a bit o’ toothache, so went round to Fenwick … the ruddy, half-baked molar-puller, that’s wot ’e is … Went round to ’im to pull it out. When I gets there, he looks as if he’s seen a ghost. The very sight o’ me seemed to put the ruddy wind up him. I know I wasn’t a bloody oil-painting, my cheek bein’ swollen up, though not as much as this by a long chalk. He was terrified at the size of me, that’s wot it was. Thinkin’ I’d got teeth in comparison and if he hurt me, I’d ram ’is blasted forceps down ‘is throat.”

  Here, having been refused another drink by Gus, Slap-Happy in the heat of his narrative swallowed that of another customer without apologising.

  “‘Gimme a shot o’ dope first,’ I says. Cocaine, or such stuff.’ At that his nibs nearly ’as a fit. ‘No, no,’ sez he. ‘Better ’ave gas.’ So I agrees thinking he knows best. Well, he gives me gas, and I don’t go properly under or something, because I can feel every pull he gives on that tooth. But somehow, I was like somebody paralysed. Couldn’t get up and defend myself, until, at last, making a desperate effort, I raised myself and pushed him off. ‘Is it out?’ I says, like walking in my sleep. ‘No. I broke it in. Have to try agen. But come tomorrow. I can’t do it now.’ ‘Not ruddy likely,’ I says and beats it. Lucky for him I was stupefied with his gas …”

  Dashwood looked round for another stray glass and finding none grew melancholy.

  “No wonder Sir Gideon Ware kicked the bucket,” he said. “After visitin’ a chap like Fenwick. As I went in, Ware was comin’ out looking like thunder. Then, off he goes to his banquet and drops down dead. If he hadn’t been murdered, I’d have said it was from shock being treated by that ruddy ’oaxer Fenwick.”

  Hazard looked at Littlejohn. They had been sitting in an alcove drinking beer and listening to the conversation with divided interest. Now they were very much alive.

  Hazard made his way through the crowd and took Dashwood by the elbow.

  “Hullo, Mr. Dashwood. Whatever’s been happening? Come and have a drink with me and tell me all about it.”

  “Evenin’, Inspector. Oh, it’s not a case for the police. No good you interferin’. I’ll settle with that ruddy little runt when I lay me hands on him. I’ll pull his teeth out one by one. But I’ll have a drink with you. Double whisky, Gus.”

  Hazard gave Gus a nod and the pair of them joined Littlejohn in their corner.

  The two Inspectors listened again to Slap-Happy’s tale of woe.

  Then, “Did you say you met Ware leaving the surgery as you arrived?” said Hazard.

  “Yes. If he hadn’t been murdered, I’d have said he died from shock. I’d have done the same, but for my constitution. Here’s to your very good health, gentlemen both.”

  “What time would that be, Mr. Dashwood? “

  “Twelve noon, exactly. The Town Hall clock struck as I went in Fenwick’s house.”

  “And Ware was leaving then?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’d be prepared to testify to that if necessary? We want to get as much information as we can about Ware’s movements before his death,” said Littlejohn.

  “Sure, I’ve said so, haven’t I? Jerry Dashwood doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.”

  “Right, then. We’d better have another talk later.”

  “Yes. And I hope it puts Fenwick on the spot, what I’ve just said. I’ll get even with him for the mess he’s made of me. Him and his fancy ways. ‘I don’t touch it,’ says he as he lowers me in the chair and smells my breath. I’d apologised for breathing whisky on him, but with a tooth like mine, aching like hell, I’d to take something to keep it quiet, hadn’t I?”

  “Sure, Mr. Dashwood.”

  “But his pal can drink with the best of them on occasion.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Littlejohn.

  “Dr. Preedy. Not often you see him drunk. But when he is drunk, he’s drunk good and proper. I remember the last club do we had. The annual dinner, you know. Fenwick drinking his seltzers or something such —tonic muck—and Preedy his whiskies. I saw Fenwick taking the doctor home. Old sawbones couldn’t stand.”

  “When was that?”

  “August the fourth. Red-letter night that. Never had so many men drunk at a club dinner before. They’d been saving supplies at the club for that night and, by gad, we let ourselves go. Well, s’long. Oscar’s waitin’ for me. See you again.”

  “Fenwick tomorrow?” said Hazard as they left the bar.

  “Yes. The sooner the better. I’m delighted with that bit of news,” replied Littlejohn.

  But they did not need to wait until the morrow to see the dentist.

  He ambled up to them as they stood in the porch ready for leaving.

  “How’s things going?” he said, addressing them both with an air of familiarity, and before they could reply, “I’ve been looking for you since I heard about the inquest this morning. It seems they were wanting to know where the Mayor was between 11.30 and 12.15 on the morning of his death. Well, he was in my surgery from 11.30 to twelve. I filled a tooth for him …”

  “It’s getting late now, Mr. Fenwick,” said Littlejohn. “Thanks for the information, which is very useful. I’ll be round to see you about it first thing in the morning, then. Good night.”

  And to Hazard’s surprise, the Inspector took him by the arm and led him off.

  “That fellow heard Dashwood talking, I’ll bet,” said Littlejohn. “Otherwise, he’d have said nothing. Now what does that mean? Anyway, it’ll do him no harm to stew overnight. We’ve waited long enough for him. Now he must wait for us.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE NIGHT OF AUGUST 4TH

  Fenwick’s house in Oxford Crescent was more tumble-down than its aristocratic neighbours, a sort of Cinderella of a place, pretty, but neglected. The stucco on the front had been patched up and the new material gave the façade a camouflaged appearance, or as though a rash had broken out over its jaded face. The door had been painted a bright red, giving the whole exterior a raddled aspect, as when a harridan tries to rejuvenate herself by rouging her lips.

  Littlejohn raised the chromium-plated knocker and brought it down again smartly. The noise reverberated throughout the building.

  A shrivelled, suspicious-looking little woman shuffled down the passage and opened the door.

  “Mr. Fenwick in?”

  “You got an appointment?”

  “He’ll see me. Tell him it’s Inspector Littlejohn.”

  The woman almost whimpered.

  “Oh dear! The police. Oh dear! Is it the dog again?”

  “No. Please take my card in, will you?”

  “Come in. There’s a patient in the surgery, but you can wait. I’ll tell ’im.”

  The old woman’s erstwhile shuffling feet seemed suddenly to take a new lease of life, and she hustled Littlejohn into a waiting-room, bade him be seated and scuttered off, not to be seen again.

  There was a square table in the middle of the room with dog-eared copies of periodicals scattered across it. On a bamboo stand under the window flourished a number of geraniums and aspidistras. By the side of it a highly-polished, out-of-date dentist’s cuspidor, relic of a bygone age, and probably retained as an ornament. Pictures of cattle and deer adorned the walls. The remaining furniture consisted of a cheap suite, leather-upholstered. Four dining-chairs, a carving-chair and two “easies.” In one corner stood a bookcase. Littlejohn strolled idly across and examined its content
s.

  The shelves were about half-filled. Books on dentistry, anatomy, physiology, and kindred subjects. Thrust untidily here and there were professional pamphlets and leaflets advertising proprietary preparations. On the bottom shelf, a number of dental journals and, sandwiched between them, a large, dark-red volume. Littlejohn bent to read the title. Forensic Medicine and Toxicology. Professor J. Dixon Mann, M.D.

  The Inspector tried the door of the bookcase. It was locked, but the bolt of one of the double glass doors had not been shot home, and with a bit of persuasion, Littlejohn opened it. He took out the book on Toxicology. It was an old edition, dated 1893, and had been well used. It did not, therefore, fall open at any suspicious page in the detective’s hands. He tested it, but after finding “Placing Habitual Drunkards Under Restraint” and “Preternatural Combustibility” he gave it up. There was a book-plate stuck on the fly-leaf. The name of Francis Merrivale had been scored out in ink and that of Alan Fenwick written above it. Obviously second-hand. Littlejohn had just time to replace it and adjust the doors of the bookcase to their original position before Fenwick entered.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” said the dentist. “You’ve called about Sir Gideon Ware’s recent visit here, I presume. Afraid I can’t tell you any more than I did last night.”

  Fenwick was dressed in a white jacket, which accentuated the pallor of his features.

  “You’re not looking well, Mr. Fenwick,” said Little-john.

  “The death of Miss Latrobe’s upset me, Inspector. She was a good friend of mine. Dr. Preedy, of course, is one of my best friends, and working for him as she did, we met quite often.”

  “It must have been a shock to both of you.”

  “And on top of that, Preedy’s now unpleasantly involved in the case, isn’t he? I thought the questions the coroner asked him were a bit thick, you know … He’s not the sort to commit a crime of that kind.”

  “You were at the inquest, then?”

  “No …” Fenwick licked his lips. “Preedy told me afterwards. He was very upset about it.”

  “Well, to come to the point, Mr. Fenwick. Ware was here just before the luncheon. In fact, this seems to have been his last port of call before the Town Hall. What did he call for?”

  “I had a filling to finish. He’d called before with a broken tooth, which I cleaned up and in which I inserted a temporary dressing. Then, on the day he was … he died … he called and I finished the job.”

  “H’m. Did you use a local anaesthetic, Mr. Fenwick?”

  Fenwick threw a sharp glance at the Inspector.

  “Yes. On the first day. He was very jumpy and irritable if I caused him the least twinge. So I gave him a shot of dope.”

  “With a hypodermic, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Fenwick answered boldly, almost truculently. “Naturally.”

  “What did you inject?”

  “A proprietary compound I buy ready mixed. Adrenalin and cocaine. Come in the surgery, I’ll show it you. I only gave him a small dose … just one puncture. The second visit, he didn’t need it, of course.”

  They went in the surgery to the discomfiture of a man seated in the operating-chair, and Fenwick produced a bottle of a well-known mixture for Littlejohn’s inspection. They returned to the ante-room.

  “Where was the injection made, Mr. Fenwick?”

  “Behind the left canine. Why?”

  Littlejohn ignored the question.

  “Did Ware make any comments which you think might be useful for me to hear?”

  “No. He was in a hurry as he always was. Mentioned the lunch and told me to get a move on. He couldn’t very well talk with a towel and a cotton-wool pad in his mouth and me poking among his teeth, could he?”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Tolerably. He was a member of the same golf club as I am. I never played with him, but we met in the club-house and at other gatherings.”

  “I heard about his beating your dog the other week. Did you have a row about that?”

  “Now, now, Inspector. I hope you’re not trying to pin something on me. It’s bad enough with Preedy under suspicion …”

  “Please answer the question, Mr. Fenwick.”

  “No. We didn’t quarrel. Another member of the club was there when it happened. You see, although I took the dog with me to the links, she was roaming around when she fell foul of Ware and I didn’t see the incident. When I heard of it, the row was finished, so I said no more about it. I didn’t want to get at cross-purposes with Ware. He’s vindictive and can do a lot of harm.”

  “Right. That will be all for the time being. Probably I’ll call again if there are any fresh developments on which you might be able to throw light, Mr. Fenwick.”

  “Such as?”

  Littlejohn again ignored the question.

  “I think, however, you might have come forward with your information a bit earlier, Mr. Fenwick. It would have saved us a lot of trouble if we’d known where Ware was just before the luncheon. Good morning.”

  “Just in time,” said Littlejohn to Dr. McAndrew later. “While the corpse is above ground, just have another look and see if you can find a needle puncture behind the left canine tooth, doctor.”

  “Great Heavens, mon!” gasped McAndrew. “Ye’ve saved my bacon. If we’d had to apply for an exhumation order, it would just about have finished me.”

  Whereat the worthy M.O.H. slammed on his hat and rushed off to the undertakers who had been given charge of the body.

  Littlejohn, too, had urgent business in many quarters.

  He strolled back to Oxford Crescent, his pipe going and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket. It was a pleasant morning and crowds were on their way to the beach and promenade. The distant organs of the pleasure beach in full blast announced that fun and games were hotly in progress even at that early hour, for it was not then eleven.

  On a bench under the trees which skirted the garden in the middle of the crescent, four old-age pensioners who habitually gathered there in a little exclusive forum and jealously regarded this special seat, were sitting, smoking their pipes and turning over the morning’s news. Littlejohn approached them. At first, they received him in hostile silence, returning his greeting curtly, for they thought he was seeking a place among them.

  “ There’s no more room here,” said the spokesman, a very smartly-dressed old chap with a goatee beard and resembling a veteran of the American Civil War.

  “I’ve no time to stay, sir,” replied Littlejohn. “I’m just after a piece of information.”

  The heads of the four pensioners reared in curiosity and relief.

  “Can you tell me if there’s a second-hand bookseller’s near here?”

  They were all about to speak at once and then paused with respectful looks at their spokesman, the veteran.

  “Yes. Just round that corner, there, sir,” he said. “Name of Mottershead. Locally known as ‘Old Mot.,’ and he don’t like it much.”

  There was a quartette of shrill cackling.

  “Thanks very much. I’ll be off then and find him.”

  “You after some book or other?” continued the spokesman. “I’m a reader myself. Perhaps I’d know if he’d got it.”

  “Twenty-five Years of Detective Life, by Caminada,” said the Inspector, naming the first title that came into his head.

  “Never heard of it,” said the old fellow, in peevish tones, for he felt his prestige before his comrades had suffered.

  The remaining three pensioners looked at Littlejohn as though he were an ignoramus, quoting titles unknown to their chief.

  “Been having sensational happenings in these quarters of late,” said the Inspector, passing his pouch to his temporary friends, who set about its contents with frenzied good will and emptied it.

  “We have that,” said the captain of the gang. “We’ve our own opinion about those goings-on …”

  “Indeed!”

  “Aye. And we know who you are
, too, so you needn’t try to spoof us. You’re the Scotland Yard fellow after the murderers …”

  The pensioners nodded their heads and said “aye” like unanimous shareholders at a company meeting.

  “… But you’re wasting your time. Ware killed himself. Took a dose o’ pizen, that’s what he did. Financial worries. That’s what it was. Too much money druv ’im mad.”

  “That’s very interesting, sir. And what about the young lady who was killed on the pleasure beach?”

  “No better than she should be, that one wasn’t. One o’ the fellows she led astray with her wiles, done fer ’er,” added the veteran, handing back a limp pouch to the detective.

  “You’d see her quite a lot here, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, aye, we did that. Didn’t we?”

  “Aye,” echoed the chorus.

  “Did you see her the day she was murdered?”

  “We did, sir. Came out of the doctor’s about eleven or thereabouts. It was her half-day. She was a bit earlier than usual.”

  These old gentlemen with nothing to do but watch and talk were apparently the historians of the crescent!

  “Did she go straight home?”

  “No. She went in the dentist’s!”

  “What! Fenwick’s?”

  “Yep. She did, didn’t she?”

  The chorus confirmed it.

  “And stopped there until after we went off to our dinners at noon.”

  There was a trio of chattering concurrences by the other ancients of days.

  “Very interesting, sir,” said Littlejohn. “Well, I must be about my business, so I’ll wish you good-day.”

  “Good-day to you, sir. And thanks for the baccy,” said the spokesman solemnly, and the rest echoed him through a smoke-screen of Littlejohn’s favourite mixture.

  “Old Mot.” proved to be a shrivelled man, as dusty as his own old books. Dressed in a green frock coat and wearing a tie like a string, he approached his visitor rubbing together two dirty hands with nails like talons. The shop was like a pig-sty, but the owner apparently knew the exact spot where reposed every item of his stock.

  “Medical books,” he lisped in answer to Littlejohn’s question. “Yes. I get ’em now and then. What were you wanting?”