For some reason, Quantrell seemed to think it was his turn to speak.
‘We all know what sort of a man Handy was. What has he to do with what you’re telling us about the bank raid?’
Duffy jerked up his head in alarm, as though fearing that if Quantrell started to talk he’d involve the three of them in disaster.
‘Shut up, Quantrell! Nobody asked you to put in your motto. The sooner the Superintendent finishes this rigmarole, the sooner I’ll get my lunch. It’s well past the time.’
Littlejohn looked through the window. The Archdeacon had reappeared from wherever he’d been spending his time and was sitting in the car again, with P.C. Kincaid watching him through the open window. The Archdeacon seemed to be writing and then handed Kincaid a note which Kincaid carried to the front door of the house.
The bell rang and Quantrell made as if to answer it.
‘Wait, Quantrell. I’ll attend to that.’
Quantrell shrugged his shoulders and gave place to Littlejohn.
Kincaid was obviously excited, but handed over his note without a word. Littlejohn read it and felt as excited as Kincaid, even if he didn’t show it.
‘Where was it?’
‘Locked in a big wooden tool-box in the old vintage car in the garage. The Archdeacon searched the place. Quantrell must have hidden it there when you sent for him to join you. It was under the rabbit sticking out of the top of his game-bag.’
‘Did the Archdeacon break the lock of the box?’
‘No. He said he tried the keys on his key-ring and the one that locks the cupboard where he keeps the communion wine at the church did the trick.’
‘Get the bag, please. And then join us indoors. We may need you.’
Kincaid went back and the Archdeacon passed the bag to him through the car window. Littlejohn waved congratulations to him. Then he returned to the waiting party. He held up the bag with the rabbit still hanging out.
‘Quite a good morning’s sport, Quantrell. One rabbit, Sydney Handy, and this . . .’
And before Quantrell could reach him, he inverted the game-bag over the table and shook out a shower of banknotes.
12
Rogues Fall Out
LITTLEJOHN RETURNED to his seat and sat down and Kincaid took up an almost rigid position behind him, like a bodyguard.
The notes still lay in a confused pile on the table, just as they’d fallen there. Quantrell kept looking at them and licking his lips, which were like two red slits through his beard, as though he were waiting a chance to pick up the cash and bolt.
The Duffys were worried, but they tried to brazen out the situation.
‘Well?’
Littlejohn said it hopefully, as though awaiting some good news.
‘Well what?’
Quantrell asked the question, as if expecting Littlejohn to tell him to gather up the loot, take it with him, and clear off.
‘Where’s the rest? I suppose there’s about five thousand pounds there on the table. Where’s the rest? Your shares, Colonel and Miss Duffy? One thing seems in your favour, Quantrell. You were at least more honest than Varran. You returned to share the spoils; he tried to make off with the lot. Why did you do that?’
Quantrell swallowed hard. Caught in the net, he’d lost a lot of his self-confidence and cheek. He answered the question in a low voice which was almost smothered by his beard.
‘I know from experience what Joss Varran didn’t. That woman’s a devil. She’ll stop at nothing.’
Sarah Duffy’s eyes narrowed.
‘Just remember that, Quantrell, and tell no more lies to save your own skin. That’s all. Watch it!’ she said.
Littlejohn ignored the threats.
‘You surely don’t mean to tell me that trifle on the table was all you stole from the bank. Where’s the rest you took from Sydney Handy before you killed him to silence him in case he came to us with his tale?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Let us refresh your memory, then. You were a very persevering couple in pursuit of your loot. You guessed that Varran had hidden the money somewhere on the Island during the brief time he’d spent here on the night you stole it and he got here a step ahead of you. You had only to spot him and tail him when he returned home from gaol. You daren’t attack him or even allow yourselves to be seen. Otherwise he’d never have led you to his hiding-place. You found out when he was expected home, either from Handy, who Joss thought was the only one who knew the exact day of his return and who could never keep his mouth shut; or by enquiring from his associates in gaol who’d been released before him; or else from the gaol itself. That doesn’t matter; you were there when he left the boat at Douglas.’
Duffy was thoroughly fed up. He was still drinking and reclining in his chair as though he hadn’t even the energy to move or object to what was going on. His colour had gone and he mustered just enough effort to reach for the whisky bottle and pour himself a fresh drink. He gulped half of it down and it seemed to brace him. He waved a limp hand backwards and forwards.
‘How much longer is this long rigmarole going on? It’s exhausting me. I’ll be having another heart attack . . .’
‘I won’t take much more of your time, sir. And then you’ll be left to yourself for a while. I propose to take Quantrell and Miss Duffy back with us to Ramsey, where they’ll be charged: Quantrell with the murder of Sydney Handy, and Miss Duffy with the bank robbery at Preston. There will, I’m sure, be other charges later, but that will be enough for the time being.’
Quantrell leapt to his feet as though about to make a fight of it, but Knell was ready and thrust him back in his chair with a quick jerk.
‘Watch it, Quantrell! The Chief hasn’t finished yet.’
‘If the two of us are being taken to the cooler, innocent though we are and ready to prove it, what about him?’
Quantrell pointed a dirty forefinger at Duffy.
‘He’ll hold himself at our disposal and if he tries to run away, we’ll soon bring him back.’
Duffy laughed feebly.
‘Run away, did you say? I couldn’t run across the room without dropping dead. I’ve got an aneurism and my number’s up.’
This seemed to annoy Sarah Duffy more than the idea of going to Ramsey to be charged. She had sat through Littlejohn’s statement with a confident sneer on her face, but Duffy’s pathetic effort infuriated her.
‘Don’t listen to him. He drinks too much, that’s all. Aneurism! He hasn’t even been to a doctor. He’s diagnosed it from Everybody’s Home Doctor. If anything’s wrong with him it’s his liver. Pickled in whisky.’
‘This is no time for quarrelling among yourselves. You’ll all be charged, including the colonel as accessory, before and after, to say the least of it. And now, if you’ll allow me to continue. You were on Varran’s trail as he left Douglas. He tried to shake you off by pursuing a roundabout course. We haven’t been able to trace precisely the route he took; probably you were more successful. He ended his day in Ramsey and, at nine o’clock, was recognised by Cojeen, the ragman, drinking in a bar . . .’
Quantrell snorted.
‘A fine witness. He’s a well-known liar.’
‘We’re well aware of that. Cojeen put us off the trail by telling us that Varran was picked up on the quay by a car, an old Bentley, which turned our thoughts to Colonel Duffy . . .’
‘That wasn’t the first mistake you made, as you’ll find out when you encounter our lawyer.’
‘Actually, he was met by his brother-in-law in his van. Sydney Handy, after Varran’s murder, was afraid he’d become involved if it was known that he had met Varran, as you’d already arranged with him, and was probably one of the last to see him alive. He knew Cojeen had spotted him, so quickly made a point of seeing him after the crime and bribing him to tell the police, if asked, that the Bentley car had given Varran a lift home. Why did he do that? Because he was, in fact, involved, to the extent of being paid to ascertain,
by hook or crook, where the loot was hidden. We don’t know how successfully he did his work of spying. Perhaps he took an opportunity of searching the house and grounds, but he didn’t discover the hideout. He hadn’t found out a thing, and at last Varran was back in Ramsey. Handy must have prowled about all day there, hoping to find Joss, offer him a lift and take him home, where presumably the other parties to the crime had been on the look-out most of the afternoon and evening. If the money was hidden outside, they’d look after it. If it was hidden somewhere inside the house, Handy, with his entree as a relative, hoped by hook or by crook to find out. Presumably his hirers had promised no harm would come to Joss. All they wanted was their shares. Instead, Handy’s usual run of bad luck prevailed. Joss was in a hurry to get a spade, dig up the money and disappear. His pursuers hadn’t shown themselves and he imagined he was safe . . .’
‘Wait a minute!’
Quantrell seemed carried away by Littlejohn’s description of events. His bloodshot eyes bulged.
‘You’ve missed something out. Where was the money hid?’
‘Shut your mouth, Quantrell! None of us is saying a word until we’ve our lawyer with us. This has gone too far. Before we know where we are, we’ll find ourselves guilty of crimes we’ve not committed.’
Sarah Duffy was on hot coals. The story was moving too fast for her liking and, at any moment, she expected a climax. She rose hastily.
‘I’m going. Lunch has already spoiled, I’m sure, but I’m going to rescue what I can and nobody’s going to stop me . . .’
‘Sit down, Miss Duffy. There’s nothing much to follow . . . Only the end of the tale . . .’
Knell who had been watching her closely, suddenly pounced, grasped her hand and dragged it from the pocket of her coat. There was a brief struggle and Knell ended up holding a revolver, small, but very efficient looking. She must have gathered it up on her way to the interview.
‘I could see the shape of it in the pocket of her coat,’ explained Knell.
Duffy, by now, was drunk and didn’t seem to know quite what was happening.
‘Will somebody tell me what all this is about . . .?’
Quantrell made a move, too. He took a step towards the door and Kincaid seized him in an arm lock and forced him back in his chair.
‘No use you making off for your gun. I’ve put it in the car outside.’
Sarah Duffy sat snorting on her chair like an angry tigress. Littlejohn felt that given a chance, she’d turn violent and fight it out.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Where is all this leading? You can’t prove anything.’
‘We know enough. Handy didn’t drive Varran to the door of Close Dhoo, otherwise Isabel Varran would have heard his old rattle-trap of a van grinding along outside. Instead, Varran told Handy to put him down at the end of the road. Handy did so, but followed him quietly. Instead of entering the house, Varran called in the garden shed for a spade and made off to dig up his money from the neighbouring field, the Shaking Field . . .’
Littlejohn watched Quantrell as he was speaking and noticed that his forehead was covered with beads of sweat. The man didn’t speak but a faint look of relief crossed his face as though he’d been told the answer to a riddle which had baffled him for long.
‘I can tell from your face, Quantrell, that you didn’t see the money being dug up. You and your companion lost him in the dark. I know you had a companion, because Varran was too formidable to tackle single-handed.’
Quantrell glanced interrogatively at Sarah Duffy who answered with a look of hatred. She was afraid he was going to give the show away in some way or another and didn’t know how to stop him.
‘You came upon him as he was returning to Close Dhoo with his kit-bag crammed with banknotes, followed by Handy. It was like a game of hide-and-seek in the curraghs played with grim silence. So quietly, that even Varran’s sister who was waiting for him didn’t hear a sound. And you all found one another right opposite the house. Handy included, for you gave him a black eye and lamed him with kicks. He must have been suddenly transformed from a miserable coward into an angry and perhaps brave man by the sudden attack on his brother-in-law and he joined in the scrimmage. It didn’t last long, because Handy in the scuffle came upon Varran’s kit-bag, seized it and ran for his life and hid until it was all over. You struck Varran down, Quantrell, and left him to die in the ditch . . .’
Quantrell leapt to his feet.
‘I’m getting out of here!’ he cried and made for the door before anyone could stop him. Kincaid caught him as he fumbled with the door handle, seized him by both shoulders and pinned him to the panelled wall with one knee. Quantrell struggled like a madman and foamed at the mouth. Knell rushed across and he and Kincaid dragged him back and flung him in his chair. All the time Quantrell continued to shout as he gulped in enough breath to do so. It was like a scene in a third-rate melodrama. Quantrell looking like a crazy Svengali with froth on his beard, Sarah Duffy transfixed and horror-struck waiting for what she knew would now, sooner or later, be said and not knowing what to do to avoid it. And Duffy himself, drunk as a lord, gabbling incoherently with drunken eloquence. Among the slurred words they heard him asking why nobody had told him what had happened on the night they killed Varran. Finally he couldn’t even find his mouth in which to pour another drink and scattered the whisky all over himself.
Quantrell was beside himself with rage and fright.
‘You’re trying to pin another murder on me. Well, you’re wrong. I never did. I didn’t. I was on the ground trying to disentangle myself from Handy. He was nothing of a fighter, but he clung like a leech. Then all of a sudden, he jumped up and ran off like hell. When I got to my feet, she was groping about for the bag and Varran was lying dead in the ditch . . .’
‘Liar! Liar! You know it was you who hit him. How could I . . .?’
Sarah Duffy suddenly came to life with a shout that was hair-raising. Knell had to hold her back for she went for Quantrell tooth and claw. Quantrell was so immersed that he didn’t even rise to defend himself. He just continued to shout.
‘Liar yourself! You hit him with the hunting crop you were carrying. It couldn’t have been anything else. I didn’t touch him. Handy clung to me like a madman, his arms and legs wrapped round me, scratching and biting . . .’
Littlejohn, the only one of the party not dishevelled, persisted in ending his tale, by which he had succeeded in breaking the resistance of the Duffy gang in a flurry of hysterical hatred and fear.
‘Handy hid and he heard you both beating a retreat because Isabel had opened the door of Close Dhoo and you didn’t know that she was waiting there alone. She found Joss, thought him dead, and went for help. And then Handy emerged from his hiding-place, found Varran and carried him in the house, where he tried to revive him. But Varran was dead by then and Handy had to make off and scuttered to his car and away to Narradale. It wasn’t until the pair of you thought the heat was off that you dared approach Handy. Then, Quantrell made his way to Narradale to claim the money . . .’
Quantrell was seized by another frenzy.
‘It was an accident. I didn’t kill him . . .’
‘You manhandled him until he told you where the money was. He’d hidden it in the loft and when you got it, you flung him down into the yard because he knew too much. And then you tried to engineer the appearance of an accident.’
Quantrell made one last effort to escape. He leapt from his chair and ran to the window as though intending to dive through it. As he moved, however, Duffy, for some reason, stretched out a leg and Quantrell fell full length. He lay there, swearing and foaming, until Knell lifted him by the scruff of his neck and bounced him to his feet. And then Sarah Duffy hit Quantrell with her fist right on the nose which started to bleed.
‘Where is the rest of the money, Colonel?’
Littlejohn seemed relentlessly apart from the confusion ensuing.
‘Eh?’
‘The money. We will search the house if y
ou don’t tell us.’
‘Oh, that.’
Duffy rose, clinging to the arms of the chair in support, turned and removed the cushion on which he’d been sitting all the time. The seat was old and sagged badly and in the cavity reposed Joss Varran’s old kit-bag. Duffy fumbled drunkenly with the cord which closed the top of the bag and finally opened it. Then he inverted the bag and littered the rug with soiled pound and five pound notes.
‘There you are. Take ’em.’
They took the three of them to gaol. They were charged with murder and convicted. The police found Sarah Duffy’s heavy hunting-crop. It had been cleaned, but there were still traces of blood on it. Sarah was charged in her own name. Duffy’s mistress. She was, at least, loyal to him. She didn’t say a word against him. Quantrell did that. Duffy’s aneurism turned out to be an ulcer, which they cured in prison and he was treated like the rest of them.
An extract from George Bellairs’
The Case of the Famished Parson
WEDNESDAY, September 4th. The Cape Mervin Hotel was as quiet as the grave. Everybody was “in” and the night-porter was reading in his cubby-hole under the stairs.
A little hunchbacked fellow was Fennick, with long arms, spindleshanks accentuated by tight, narrow-fitting trousers—somebody’s cast-offs—and big feet. Some disease had robbed him of all his hair. He didn’t need to shave and when he showed himself in public, he wore a wig. The latter was now lying on a chair, as though Fennick had scalped himself for relief.
The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 15
