Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  Everywhere the polished tidiness of a good housekeeper. Everything neat and in its place.

  Crennell's room was simple, even austere. Carpet on the floor, a single iron bed, a chair, a wardrobe, and a mahogany tallboy. In one corner a seaman's chest. An even finer view of the bay from the window.

  There was a brass ship's chronometer on the wall, still going and marking half an hour after noon. A brass telescope on the window-sill, whence Crennell must have watched the passing ships. A sextant and a peaked officer's cap hanging on the back of the bedroom door.

  The mahogany chest contained Crennell's linen, ties and underwear. You could even see there the meticulous care of Mrs. Cottier. Two of each! All neatly folded and put away. The same in the wardrobe. A uniform suit with brass buttons and a poorer suit of civilian wear, tweed and little worn. Then a black funeral suit smelling of mothballs.

  The seaman's chest was unlocked. Littlejohn raised the lid. Books on navigation, binoculars, tobacco tins, pipes, a hotch-potch of souvenirs of all sorts picked up in a sailor's travels. A small revolver and some cartridges. The weapon had been cleaned, oiled, and laid away.

  Littlejohn felt a faint twinge of excitement as he turned over the contents, one by one. But there was nothing to get excited about. Crennell had obviously not been a hoarder. No letters, no diaries, not even a receipted bill. Just the ordinary papers which mark the milestones of an uneventful life.

  A copy of Crennell's birth registration at Arbory Church. The marriage-lines of his wife. His certificates as second and third mate. His wife's death-certificate. Pneumonia and Heart Failure. A deed concerning the grave of his wife at Malew church. The birth certificate of Nancy Gawne. Even that! The illegitimate child had taken her mother's surname, of course. Then an out-of-date passport and a lot of photographs. Strangely enough, the pictures were not family groups, but of boats, nautical parties, many in foreign parts.

  Knell watched over Littlejohn's shoulder as the Chief Inspector slowly examined the photographs.

  "That looks like Mr. Morrison," he said pointing to a half-plate print, obviously made by someone who knew how to do a good job.

  Littlejohn recognized the harbour at Cannes. A mass of masts like lances, rising from the hundred ships moored there. The familiar quayside opposite the Square Reynaldo Hahn. And standing, smiling in front of a sleek and expensive yacht, Finlo Crennell in officer's uniform, a fellow officer similarly dressed, another sailor, and then a huge man in a reefer coat and yachting cap.

  "It looks as if Crennell was employed at some time by Mr. Morrison and that was taken on a trip somewhere."

  "Who's Morrison?"

  "He lives in Castletown in a big old house along Malew Street. A rich man who used to own boats here till he retired. I believe he once had his own yacht, but I didn't know that Crennell ever worked for him."

  Littlejohn slipped the photograph in his pocket.

  There was a copy of a will, too, bearing the name of the lawyer who had drawn up the original, which was probably in his office now.

  I, Finlo Crennell, retired Harbourmaster, of Castletown,

  Malew, in the Isle of Man.

  My house and contents to Alice Cottier. . . .

  My boat, the Maggie, to Simon Collister. . . .

  My sextant and books of navigation to the Manx Museum. . . .

  The residue to Nancy Cribbin, born Gawne. . . .

  "Who's Simon Collister, Knell?"

  "I don't know, sir, but we can ask at the police station."

  More official papers, but nothing else. Littlejohn closed the box.

  "Crennell wasn't a man for hoarding trifles, was he?"

  They took a final look round. A neat, peaceful room, with a view of the sea which needed a lot of beating. Plain cream paper on the wall and all kinds of souvenirs, plaques, ornamental gourds, photographs of foreign towns, groups of men in naval dress, fastened to the walls with tacks. In one corner, a wash-basin and a ewer filled with water, and soap and a towel. . . .

  Littlejohn glanced through the window in passing. The man next door was in his back-yard looking from one window of Crennell's house to another, trying to spot what was going on inside.

  They barely looked at Mrs. Cottier's room, which was on the front and as neat as the rest. Over the fireplace, another wedding group. A much younger and plumper Mrs. Cottier with a retinue of groom, bridesmaid, and groomsman. The late Cottier was tall, thin, sad-eyed and had a heavy moustache and beard. Finlo Crennell was in the picture as best man. Both men wore naval uniform.

  Out in the street a knot of people had gathered, talking and watching the house, anxious to know what the police were doing.

  Finally, the two detectives went downstairs again. The dividing walls between the houses of the row must have been thin. They could hear noises next door. Voices, and people tramping about.

  Littlejohn locked the door and pocketed the key. The men who had been watching the house broke into small knots and strolled away a bit self-consciously. One of them, tall, heavy and ruddy-cheeked, hesitated and then approached Littlejohn.

  He wore a blue suit of a nautical cut, double-breasted, with wide-bottomed trousers, and a jersey instead of a waistcoat. He touched his cloth cap with a forefinger.

  "You the special detective from across, sir?"

  The other groups of men halted and looked on. It was obvious that the big man had been telling them he would ask the police what they were doing. Now, faced with the fulfilment of his threat, he was having to see it through. He was diffident about it.

  "Yes. Do you want me?"

  The man gulped and his large Adam's-apple rose and fell.

  "I just wanted to say that Finlo Crennell was a big friend of mine, sir. He wouldn't hurt a fly, sir. Everybody wants you to ketch and see hung the man who did this to 'im."

  Littlejohn nodded.

  "Your name is?"

  "Collister, sir. I live along the street here. Finlo and me was friends. I was at sea with 'im once. We used to sail his boat, the Maggie, together."

  Littlejohn didn't tell Collister that his friend had left him the Maggie for his own.

  "Have you any idea who could have done this, Mr. Collister?"

  "I don't know, sir. But if there's anythin' I can do . . ."

  "Thank you, Mr. Collister. I'll remember. . . ."

  They went along the street back to the Parade again. Most of the doors were open and emitted the good smells of Sunday's dinner. Curtains moved as they passed and eyes followed their progress. A murder in Castletown was unheard of and was everybody's business. A group of cyclists passing along on their ways to the coast round Scarlett Point, turned and curiously eyed the two policemen. The news had travelled fast and far. Everybody was on the look-out.

  At the police station, more news had come in from Scotland Yard.

  The Amsterdam police had telephoned another report about the Rijswijk affair. Van Dam, the mate of the vessel, had been arrested and charged with the murder of Captain Leeuwens. The police had searched the ship in the course of their inquiries and, beneath a loose board under Van Dam's bunk, had found a wallet in a waterproof bag. With the wallet, a bulging packet containing a thousand pounds in Bank of England notes. The money had obviously been in water and the notes had been dried. No other papers in the wallet, but written in ink under the flap of the note-case could be faintly read the name of the owner. Finlo Crennell. Castletown. Isle of Man.

  The Dutch police held the theory that Crennell had been picked up by the skipper of the Rijswijk from the harbour at Castletown. His unconscious body had been searched and the money taken by the captain, probably with the knowledge of the mate. Perhaps Leeuwens had held the notes in safe-keeping till Crennell recovered. Van Dam knowing of it, either stole or fought for the money with the captain, and killed him. He was being questioned. . . .

  So, there had been some jiggery-pokery connected with Crennell's death!

  What was he doing with a large bundle of notes totalling a th
ousand pounds? How had he earned them? Who had handed them over to him?

  Knell and his colleagues in uniform looked completely abashed. They were in deep waters with a vengeance.

  "What do we do now?"

  Knell almost whispered it.

  "I think we'd better find a place for lunch."

  "There's a good hotel round at Derbyhaven and we pass Mrs. Christian's with the key, sir."

  "Right. Lead on, Knell."

  They called with the key and drove along the coast road to the hotel. Knell parked the car and they stood looking at the scene.

  The sky was clear and blue and there was a cold wind. A little sheltered bay to the left of Langness peninsula, which thrust out to sea and divided Castletown Bay from Derby-haven and protected its waters from the prevailing winds. A large hotel, a smaller one with a queer name, the Dandy Rig, a row of cottages, a few villas, and a shop and post-office, all clustered round the end of the road. Ahead, a neat breakwater and Fort Island, joined by a causeway to the mainland and with a round fort and ruined oratory. Behind and beyond, the gentle rolling hills of Man, purple and brown with autumn tints and with little fields climbing their sides as far as cultivation could reach.

  The tide was out. There were little boats and a cabin cruiser anchored in the sand and seaweed of the bay. Among them, the Maggie. In the foreground, men in rubber boots digging for bait. Lobster pots on the tideline. A man feeding the swans from a bucket. . . .

  They turned to find a newcomer standing beside his own car in the park waiting for them. A man an inch taller than Littlejohn and as heavy. Between sixty and seventy, with a lined bronzed face, Roman nose, and broad chin. He gave you the impression of squinting, but a second look showed the dark eyes were a bit too narrow, too close together. He wore a tweed sports suit and heavy brogues.

  "You the police on the Crennell case?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Knell's attitude had grown a bit deferential before the heavy stranger, who, even as he spoke, saluted passers-by and asked them in a patronising way, how they were. The traditional squire of a small community, being heavily gracious to the small fry and fiercely competitive among his equals. He raised his tweed cap and greeted a woman with a dachshund. She was good-looking and the newcomer turned twice to follow her with his eyes after she had passed.

  "Found out anything?"

  "This is Chief Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, sir, who's in charge of the case."

  "I thought you were in charge."

  An impudent cut at Knell. The man didn't wait for an answer.

  "Good-day to you, Littlejohn. I was a friend of Crennell's and I want to see the swine who's killed him brought to justice . . . hanged."

  He said it through his teeth.

  "We'll do our best, Mr. . . ."

  "Mr. Morrison, sir. Sorry, I forgot."

  Knell was a bit out of countenance.

  "I'm a J.P. and I naturally want justice doing. Any way I can help, let me know. Call at my place for a drink. I'm usually in about this time. Knell knows where it is. You lunching here? I've just called for a drink. Off in five minutes. Join me."

  The imperative invitation nettled Littlejohn.

  "Not before lunch, sir, thanks."

  The man's eyes narrowed, this time into an angry squint. "However, you know your own mind best. Probably see you later."

  He vanished heavily inside the Dandy Rig.

  "So that's Mr. Morrison, Knell? He doesn't seem to like me and I don't like him from what I've seen of him."

  Knell's face broke into a smile.

  "By jove, sir, it was good to see you refuse his drink. He's not used to that. It's usually law what he says. People jump to it when he wants anything. It's given me an appetite for lunch. . . ."

  Littlejohn took a last look at the Maggie, rather forlorn and lying on her keel in the sand. He imagined Crennell, with all the time in the world at his disposal, tramping down to Derbyhaven with his buddy, Collister, taking her out on the tide to fish and, as he fished, looking at the panorama of gentle hills and patchwork of many-coloured fields, the quiet hamlet, and the pub for a drink when it was over.

  And somebody had come along and put an end to it all. Thrown him in his own harbour, condemned him to wander about London docks until he was picked up, and then, when Finlo returned, smiling, to his old life, they'd shot him like a dog.

  Littlejohn wasn't smiling as he entered the Dandy Rig. He'd known Crennell at his worst; without speech, or mind, or memory. Now he felt he knew him as he used to be, and the more he knew of him the better he liked him.

  "Steak pie, sir?"

  Knell awoke him from his reverie and he nodded agreement.

  5

  THE HOUSE IN DRUIDALE

  THE Dandy Rig hotel at Derbyhaven was quiet. Nobody around now that the season was over, except an odd local or two, like Morrison, calling for a drink or his lunch. Littlejohn and Knell had the place to themselves until the Big Shot arrived.

  The Big Shot. That was the name Littlejohn mentally gave him. Later, his name turned out to be Nimrod Norton.

  Norton entered the small dining-room with his wife. Between them, they seemed to fill the place. They were both fat and he entered before her, as though some exception had been made on his behalf in matters of courtesy. Before he saw Littlejohn and Knell, Mr. Norton slapped the waitress on the behind. Then he spotted the Chief Inspector and glared at him. Littlejohn disliked Mr. Norton from the start.

  A tall man of nearly six feet and heavily built, like a Roman emperor. His height made him seem less obese than his wife, who was short with it. He had a face resembling a frog's. Bald, large ears, a shallow skull like a saucer above them. Heavy, bulbous nose, fleshy mouth, square chin and dark, slightly mongolian eyes. He wore a tweed suit, a bow tie, and suede shoes.

  There was a pause, as though they were all holding their breath. Then everybody started to dance attendance on Mr. Nimrod Norton. The cheerful little manager, his equally cheerful wife, the potman, and the waitress. Like good natured people who rush to humour a baby, who otherwise will raise the roof with screams and lamentations.

  "He's a big business man from over, sir, and he's had a nervous breakdown," the waitress explained to Knell by way of excusing her divided attentions.

  "Kitty! The menu. . . ."

  Mr. Norton interrupted, as he presumably did to his understrappers in his big office on the mainland. Even the few words he spoke, revealed that he had had lessons in elocution and that under his pompous and aggressive manner lay an element of uncertainty.

  "It's a good job we've finished our meal," said Littlejohn. "That man gives me dyspepsia."

  They left the room without waiting for coffee and made their way back to Castletown where more news might easily be waiting for them at the police station.

  On the promenade, as they passed Chanteclair, they found Mrs. Christian and Mrs. Cottier, looking out for them.

  "My sister wonders," said the spokesman, "if you could find some way of letting Nancy know her father's dead. It's so isolated at Druidale, and they're not on the telephone. The rest of the family aren't on speaking terms with Nancy and won't go to tell her, although Wilfred runs a car and could easily do it. It's not fair."

  Knell rubbed his chin.

  "We might telephone the constable at Ballaugh and ask him to go up on his bike, but it's a long way, even from Ballaugh."

  "We can go ourselves. I'd like to talk to Nancy," said Littlejohn. "We'd better pick up the Archdeacon if he's free. He's the best man to break the news properly."

  "You might tell Nancy that the funeral will likely be on Tuesday. The inquest's to-morrow and there's no sense in keeping him any longer."

  More news at the police station. Scotland Yard had been on again. Another report from Amsterdam.

  The Dutch police had been grilling Van Dam, who, whilst protesting he hadn't laid a finger on Leeuwens, had told the story of picking Crennell up from the river at Castletown.

&nb
sp; The Rijswijk had left on the high-tide in a heavy sea mist. As they had crept to the mouth of the river, the look-out at the stern had spotted something floating in the water. Captain Leeuwens had been on the bridge and Van Dam on deck. The quayside and the left mole had not been visible and those watching the ship depart could not have seen what was happening.

  They hadn't even needed to lower a boat. The body was so near the hull that Van Dam had thrown out the Jacob's ladder, gone down, brought it in with a boat-hook, and they had hauled it aboard.

  Captain Leeuwens was a bad-tempered man and, as his ship had been held-up by delay in discharge of his timber cargo as well as the weather, had refused to put back in port. Both he and the mate knew Crennell and as the ex-harbourmaster was alive, they determined to take him and leave him at the first port of call.

  Crennell was a long time in recovering and they found he had a nasty wound on the skull, either from a blow or by hitting his head on the side as he fell. They had undressed him and put him to bed. The following morning, in mid-channel, Crennell seemed better, but he was completely bewildered, didn't know where he was or what had happened to him, and refused to talk.

  In drying Crennell's clothes, they had found his wallet, which contained a large sum of money; a thousand pounds or thereabouts. Captain Leeuwens had asked Van Dam to take charge of the wallet and the money, dry them, and keep them safe for when Crennell departed. Van Dam had obeyed orders. Or so he said to the Dutch police, who seemed to doubt it.

  The Rijswijk had docked in London and it was there that Crennell had vanished. His clothes had been left in his cabin, but the pockets had been emptied when the suit was dried. Crennell had simply dressed and wandered off. After making brief inquiries, Captain Leeuwens had refused to wait any longer and had sailed for his home port. Van Dam expressed his disapproval of the way Crennell had been left to his own devices. The Rijswijk ought to have stayed longer and the London police been informed about Crennell. According to Van Dam, his own conduct throughout had been impeccable and virtuous.

  Littlejohn read the report carefully, puffing his pipe, his hat at the back of his head.