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

by George Bellairs

  Littlejohn intervened.

  "Could I have a word? Being an outsider, perhaps I could get a bit more violent with him."

  He seized Van Dam by the collar and hauled him to his feet.

  "You speak English, don't you? Don't you?"

  The Dutchman was powerful but the shaking Littlejohn gave him made his teeth chatter.

  More Dutch.

  "What's he say?"

  "You'll soon know."

  And he shook Van Dam again until his knees started to give way. "Now, speak English, Van Dam, and no more nonsense. You've been travelling to and from England and the Island for years. Don't tell me you haven't learned English. . . ."

  "A liddle."

  "I thought so. From your looks I could see you understood all we said to your friend here. Now talk, if you don't want a few days in the cells."

  "I mus' get to my shib. . . ."

  "Not till you've talked a lot."

  They sent the waiter home, still pestering about the amount of his fee.

  Bit by bit, Van Dam told the story they'd already heard from the Dutch police. It tallied almost exactly.

  "How was it that when the men on the quayside, who heard Crennell fall in the harbour, though they couldn't see him, called out to you, you didn't answer them and say you'd got Crennell with you safe and sound?"

  "Captain Leeuwens said to be silent. They would otherwise have called us to put back. We were late. Captain Leeuwens wanted to get home to port."

  "Was Crennell unconscious when you picked him up?"

  "Pardon."

  "Was Crennell insensible?"

  "Yes. He had been hit on the head."

  "How do you know he'd been hit on the head? He might have struck his head as he fell."

  They had to put the question in several different ways before its meaning sank in Van Dam's mind. Finally, the Archdeacon addressed him in German. Van Dam almost embraced him. He knew German moderately well, and what he didn't know sounded like Dutch. He was sure from the nature of the blow that Crennell had been hit on the head and pitched in the water.

  "What's he say?"

  They told the sergeant, who wrote it down.

  Then about the rendezvous aboard the Victoria. Van Dam started to lament and shed tears as the Archdeacon's sonorous German reached his understanding.

  "He says this is his first ship and he's disgusted at his bad luck. He insists he merely went on board to look her over."

  "And P.C. Corris says there were two of them. We believe P.C. Corris, sir."

  It was difficult for Littlejohn to put Van Dam through a mild third-degree with a parson as interpreter, but the Venerable Archdeacon was as dogged as the police.

  "What's he say?"

  "He says he admits he met a man there, but he doesn't know his name. When his ship docked here, somebody rang up the dock office and asked for him. It was somebody who had rung up two or three times before to inquire about the arrival of the Rijswijk. Van Dam says they told him that at the dock office. He spoke to the man who telephoned and was told he must meet him secretly on private business. The rendezvous was aboard the Victoria. . . . "

  "What was the business?"

  "He didn't know. They were disturbed before they got down to it."

  Littlejohn turned to P.C. Corris.

  "Did the other man join in the fray, constable?"

  "Yes, sir. I had the pair of them on me. I'd both in my grip till this Dutchman bit me. Then I let the other fellah go."

  "Did you hit him first?"

  Corris's solemn face creased into a self-satisfied smile.

  "Once with my truncheon, and the other with my fist. I think he'll have a nice lump, sir, and a black eye."

  "Very good. Has Van Dam been searched, sergeant?"

  "Just his pockets and his belt, sir. He'd a body-belt with some Dutch money in, that's all. Not much."

  "Take him and strip him, then. See if he's any papers. He must have taken something else from Crennell, that our unknown friend seems badly to want."

  Van Dam understood it without an interpreter. He started to shout the place down and demanded lawyers and consuls.

  "Take him off and bring back his clothes for me to see before you dress him again."

  "Very good, sir."

  Van Dam was hustled out by three pairs of hands which almost lifted him from the ground in their enthusiasm. He struggled, held on to objects and projections in the room, and finally, lay on the floor. This assisted them in carrying him out. One by one his clothes were passed in to Littlejohn, who went carefully through them, pockets, linings, seams. . . . Jacket, jersey, trousers, underwear which badly needed the laundry. . . .

  "Nothing more?"

  "No, sir."

  "There's nothing here. What about the belt?"

  The sergeant produced it.

  "He shouted so much for his belt, that we made him do without it because he used bad language . . . or that's what it sounded like, judging from the way he said it, although I don't know Dutch myself."

  A canvas affair with two leather pockets attached and a leather tongue and buckle. Littlejohn held it and felt it. Then he took out his pen-knife and slit the leather binding which held the two strips of canvas together. He inserted his thumb and forefinger in the cavity, drew out something, held it up to the light, and grunted.

  Then he took up the evening paper which one of the policemen had been reading, spread it on the table, and shook the belt over it. The noise sounded like a lot of shots being emptied from a cartridge.

  But they weren't shots. About forty diamonds, mostly decent-sized stones, sparkled among the newsprint.

  "Well, I'll be damned!" said the sergeant. And then he begged the Archdeacon's pardon.

  12

  THE MAN WITH THE BLACK EYE

  THEY spent another hour with Van Dam after that.

  In English and German and with innumerable more "What's he says?", Archdeacon Kinrade, after infinite patience and kindness, got a tale of sorts from the Dutchman.

  At first, Van Dam pretended he was as surprised as the police at what had been found in his belt. Littlejohn had to intervene now and then to give him another good shaking. True, there are Judges' Rules which forbid the manhandling of witnesses, but, after all, Van Dam pretended over and over again he was falling asleep.

  Finally, he said Captain Leeuwens had asked him to take care of Crennell's diamonds for him. . . .

  Crennell's diamonds!

  "Yes. I took care of the banknotes, didn't I? But I couldn't get those in my belt. So I hid them in my cabin. The diamonds I put in my belt for safety."

  Of course, he was going to turn them up! He was an honest sailor!

  Van Dam was a medium-built fat man, but as they questioned him, his flesh seemed somehow to grow flabby and in the end he sagged completely, guilt written all over him. His usually cunning eyes had grown shifty and glazed.

  "You know we shall have to check this. If the diamonds were actually Crennell's, you'll avoid a charge of smuggling. Otherwise . . ."

  Van Dam seemed to be talking to himself in the mixture of languages which only the vicar of Grenaby understood.

  "He says you've proof of his honesty in the fact that he brought the stones back to the Isle of Man with him. He intended handing them over to Crennell's relatives."

  "That remains to be seen. He'd better stay in custody overnight, at least. With the burden of complicated charges upon him, we can do no other."

  Littlejohn turned to Sergeant Quaggin.

  "I'm really only concerned with the murders of Crennell and Cribbin and I'll have to leave Van Dam in your hands. If I were you, however, I'd see the Dutch police were kept informed about this affair. The discovery of the stones might throw quite a new light on the murder of the former skipper of the Rijswijk. You'll sort things out with your Chief in the morning and if I can help, let me know. Thanks for your co-operation."

  The diamonds were locked in the police-station safe; they all said go
od-night, and Van Dam was conducted to his cell.

  Outside, the town of Douglas was clear and quiet. Lamps shone in the empty streets and, above the silence of the night, they could hear the sea beating on the shore. The lights glowed on the quays and the midnight cargo boat having left, these too were deserted. In the harbour near the Tongue, the large shadowy bulk of the Victoria loomed against the background of Douglas Head. Knell had left them and gone to his home at the top of the town. Littlejohn and the Archdeacon were the only ones about. The car slid over the old bridge and on its way to Grenaby.

  Littlejohn had been thoughtful since leaving the police station.

  "Do you mind if we try an experiment, Archdeacon?"

  "I don't mind a bit. What's the time?"

  "Nearly two. I want to call at the Dandy Rig. It's a bit of a risk and there'll be trouble if it doesn't come off. But I must see Norton right away. He's one of the suspects of to-night's escapades. If we give him time to recover his composure, we might never know. It's now or never."

  "I'm game, if you are."

  There was a moon about somewhere, but the clouds obscured it. Instead, a soft white light diffused itself over the landscape. Trees, farms, the distant hills, the undulating white road were all visible. Now and then, they could see the sea far away. Littlejohn was torn between driving slowly to enjoy the beauty of the night and putting on all speed to get quickly to Derbyhaven.

  Not another vehicle on the roads, not a solitary light in the hamlets as they passed through. . . .

  Through Ballasalla, where a couple of lamps lighted the road; past the darkened airport; then, in the distance, the glow in the sky over Castletown, where the great mass of the castle rose in the dark. Littlejohn turned left before the town and ran along the promenade to Derbyhaven.

  The Dandy Rig was in total darkness. Lights on the breakwater and, far along the peninsula of Langness, on the green grass of which the first Derby was run before it went to England, the same solitary lamp glowed in the window of the large closed hotel. The beam of Langness lighthouse probed the night.

  Littlejohn rang the door-bell. Now for it! There was no night porter. He could hear the purr of the bell somewhere in the direction of the kitchens. He pressed twice again before a light snapped on and shuffling footsteps sounded behind the door. Bolts, bars and the turning of a key. The manager appeared. He was in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, his hair dishevelled and bags under his eyes. He looked bewildered, like one suddenly roused from a baffling dream.

  "Hullo! It's you, Inspector, isn't it? And the Archdeacon! Nothing wrong, I hope."

  He stood aside to admit them, showed them into a small sitting-room, and jerked the lever of a slow-combustion fire to boost the dying embers.

  "I'd like to see Mr. Norton at once, if you don't mind, Mr. Stocks. Sorry to disturb you, but it's urgent."

  "That's all right as far as I'm concerned, but how Mr. Norton'll take it, I don't know. He's a bit of a terror, you know. I'll go and wake him."

  "Just a minute, sir."

  Mr. Stocks turned sharply and one of his down-at-heel carpet-slippers fell off. He grunted as he put it on again.

  "Has Mr. Norton been out all night?"

  "No, sir. He took his wife and mine to the local cinema again. Mrs. Norton's fond of the pictures. They got back about half-past nine. They went early and saw the show round and he met them. Then, while his missus and mine were having a nightcap together . . . a cup of tea . . . he said he'd go for a run again; the night was nice, he said. He got back here at half-past eleven. I had to wait up for him. I'd left the door loose and was sitting having a drink as I waited, when suddenly I heard him going up the stairs. I hurried out and he called good night from the landing. I didn't even see him. Where he'd been, I don't know. Perhaps called on somebody and been having a drink, too."

  "Will you tell him I'd like to see him, then, please?"

  They waited and could hear the vibration of the manager's feet on the landing above, then a discreet knocking, and, at last, a growling voice, more vibrations, and the manager's timid muttering at the bedroom door.

  Stocks was soon back, looking put-out.

  "I said what it would be. He's hopping mad with me. He says he'll see you in hell before he'll come down at this time of night . . . ."

  Littlejohn himself was on the way upstairs before the manager had finished.

  Room No. 1. The best in the place. That would be Norton's. Littlejohn knocked on the panels.

  "Who is it? I tell you I'm not coming down at this hour, and in the morning, I'm off first thing to see the Chief Constable of the Island. I'll make that meddling fool from Scotland Yard look a bigger fool before I've finished with him."

  The voice sounded strange. At once hollow, lugubrious and angry. Littlejohn suddenly realized that Mr. Norton was without his false teeth!

  Littlejohn knocked again. He could hear Norton snorting and shouting, and his wife's timid voice, begging him to see what it was about and get it over. Like a climax in an opera, increasing in noise and violence.

  "Don't upset yourself, Nim. Your blood pressure. . . ."

  "Mr. Norton. I want to see you right away. Please come down at once to avoid any further fuss."

  Littlejohn spoke like issuing an order.

  Heavy, reverberating steps, and the key turned in the lock. Norton bolted inside again to insert his teeth, and then suddenly he looked bigger than ever in a large gown made of bath-towelling, the first garment he'd laid hands on. At first he could hardly speak for rage. Then:

  "What the hell do you mean by this? And at this hour? Whatever it is can wait till to-morrow. I warn you, I intend to report this first thing in the morning. I'll have you removed from office. I'll . . ."

  Littlejohn stretched out his hand and put on the landing light. Fully illuminated, Mr. Norton's face was the most unpleasant sight he'd seen for many a long day. He had a black eye and there was a cross of sticking plaster holding a pad of lint over the swollen spot near his crown where P.C. Corris's truncheon had smitten him in the dark. In addition, the Big Shot's other eye was half closed with sleep and the remaining fringe of his hair was dishevelled as though he'd recently been tearing at it.

  "I think you'd better join us downstairs, sir. I've just come from speaking to Captain Van Dam. He's spending the night in gaol in Douglas."

  Without another word, Norton closed the bedroom door behind him and thudded his way down the stairs and into the little room below. He started to vent his spleen on Stocks.

  "What are you doing here, hanging about? This is private, so you can get along to bed. You'd no business disturbing me at this hour. We're leaving to-morrow. . ."

  Stocks beat a speedy retreat.

  The fire had burned up and without greeting the Archdeacon, Norton stood with his back to it, glaring with both eyes, although one was almost closed and glittering in its dark surround.

  "Well. Get it said and get out, Littlejohn. And it'll have to be good, or else . . . "

  Littlejohn waded-in without delay.

  "I said I've seen Captain Van Dam. He's told me all about the rendezvous on the Victoria. . . . "

  A pause as Norton tried to find words, and failed.

  ". . . You may think yourself lucky if I allow you to sleep here for the rest of the night. Van Dam's in gaol and that's where you ought to be, as well, Mr. Norton."

  Mr. Norton could hardly contain himself, but in the eyes fear was slowly creeping and he was losing his poise.

  "What do you mean? If you've anything to say to me, you can say it in front of the Chief Constable. I've had enough of you."

  "Very well, sir. You'd better dress. I'm arresting you on a charge of being on enclosed premises without any right to be there and for resisting the police. You'd better come along."

  "Wait a minute. What's all this about?"

  "Get dressed quickly. Van Dam is waiting to identify you as his partner in to-night's incidents on the Victoria, and he's in a pretty foul temper,
I can tell you."

  Silence. A little cat emerged from the kitchen and began to rub round the legs of Norton's pyjamas. He kicked it away, and the Archdeacon picked it up and stroked and comforted it.

  "We'd better sit down and talk this over."

  "That's better, sir."

  "But I warn you, I'm in no mood for trifling."

  "Neither am I, sir. I, too, have lost a night's sleep through your misdemeanours. Let's get to business. What were you doing on the Victoria earlier this evening?"

  "I . . . I . . . I wanted to see Van Dam on a business matter. That fool of a constable butted-in."

  "He was doing his duty. You'd no right aboard."

  Norton snorted.

  "If it hadn't been for you and the police and your damned snooping, I wouldn't have needed to go there at all. As it is, I find it impossible to get a quiet talk anywhere without you and your gestapo looking on. I knew the Victoria was deserted and accessible so I rang up and asked Van Dam to see me there. It was private business and has nothing whatever to do with you."

  "Let me be the judge. What was it about?"

  Norton licked his lips, undecided whether or not to burst into a fit of rage again. Then he gave in.

  "Van Dam had some jewellery he wanted to sell. Now, you can imagine us meeting in a public house or even here and me examining them, can't you, with you and your snoopers popping round every corner . . ?"

  "So, you met in secret somewhere where you could examine the loot? That what you're trying to say?"

  "Loot! What loot? It was perfectly honestly acquired."

  "Unset diamonds on a ship coming from Amsterdam. . . . Come, come, Mr. Norton. You can't expect to get away with that."

  Norton blew-up again.

  "That's the truth and if you don't damn' well like it, Littlejohn, you can lump it."

  "What do you want with diamonds, Norton?"

  "I'm a wholesale jeweller in a big way . . . and the name's Mister Norton, too."

  "So you were buying smuggled stones from Van Dam?"

  "NO! I tell you they were his own stones. I mean. . . . He's had them for some time and wanted to . . ."

  "The truth is, Norton, that Van Dam took the diamonds from Crennell when they picked him up unconscious and took him aboard the Rijswijk. Van Dam's admitted it. He said he was bringing the stones over to hand them to Crennell's next-of-kin."