Opposite the man with one eye, a serious, wiry chap, a cut above the rest. A smart grey suit of rough tweed, long clean hands, large nose, hatchet face and a good forehead, Face clean-shaven and furrowed, and complexion pale almost grey. The dark little eyes were shrewd, a bit cruel even. He might have been a shopkeeper or a clerk in someone's office. Perhaps retired, for he looked over sixty.
The remaining man wore a blue suit and a jersey instead of a waistcoat. A fisherman by the looks of him with a rugged, long, tanned face, blue eyes and a rough moustache. The hand which held his cards was heavy and abscess-scarred as though at times he'd had trouble with fishhooks.
Each of the card players had a glass of beer before him. It was obvious the little fat man wanted to get on with the game. He had made the call and was eager to take it. But the man with a glass eye was too curious.
"'Evenin', sir. You the famous Inspector from Scotland Yard? Glad to meet yer. I was the first to find Crennell. . . Poor Finlo."
The others plainly wished he'd shut-up. The three of them had been Crennell's pals and missed him too deeply for boasting. One-eye was an interloper. He'd only been in Castletown ten years; the rest had lived there all their lives.
"Good evening. . . . "
Littlejohn strolled to their table and sat in the corner in an empty chair.
"What can I get you, sir?"
"This one's on me, Edgar."
But the landlord wasn't having Glass-eye taking the lead.
"It's on the house."
"Beer like the rest, please. Don't let me spoil your game."
They went on again, but all except the fat man had lost a bit of zest.
"Pass. . . ."
"Solo . . ."
"I'm bust. . . . "
It was One-eye's turn to deal and he held it up until the beer had been served. Even then, he paused, eager to talk.
"Any nearer findin' who did it, sir?"
"I'm afraid not."
A mixed lot, and all Crennell's old friends. A retired mariner, a fisherman who owned his own boat, a shopkeeper or office man. Glass-eye was a bit of a mystery, perhaps a cheapjack of some kind and a bit of a cadger. The only man in the quartet with dirty ill-kept hands. He later turned out to be a dealer in old furniture and secondhand clothes. . . .
The beer arrived. They played their hands in a little dry circle of the table in the centre of the damp rings made by the glasses. It was just nine o'clock and in the next room the radio time-signal was introducing the night's news.
More trouble in China.
A conference in Paris.
Imminent fall of the French Government.
A hurricane in Florida. . . .
Someone closed the door and cut it off.
"I'll have to go, too. Got to see a man about a deal. Like to take my hand?"
The man with a glass eye rose unsteadily and fumbled in his pocket for money. Then he straightened his hat.
"Good ni'. . . . Be seein' you."
The other three looked relieved. The fat man raised an eyebrow at Littlejohn. "Care to play?" It seemed to be all he thought about; keeping-up the four at cards. That was why he'd asked One-eye. There'd been nobody else.
Littlejohn dealt the grubby cards.
"We only play for halfpennies. Just to give a bit of interest, leck. All right to you?"
"Yes."
Littlejohn leaned back in his chair, puffing his pipe luxuriously, examining his hand. He felt as comfortable as he'd done in Crennell's old home in Queen Street. Cosy room, good company, mellow Castletown ale, and his pipe drawing its best.
"I'll go abundance. The Inspector's brought me luck."
The fat man could hardly play his cards quickly enough.
"By the way, my name's Cretney. . . . "
The big fisherman got in a word whilst the fat man raked in his tricks.
"This is Lucas Finch. . . ." The well-groomed grey man nodded.
"And Sammy Craine, here, is the solo expert. He's the one who started it all. Till he learned to play cards an' roped us all in, we used to talk or else play dominoes. Now it's solo all the hours God sends. . . ."
The fat man started to shuffle, Littlejohn cut, and Finch dealt with swift skill.
"Pass. . . ."
"You played most nights with Crennell?"
"Yes. Just an odd hour or so before closin' time, leck. As I said, Sammy started it all."
Cretney was a bit of a wag with a smile in his eye. Whenever he could, he made a joke at Craine's expense.
"Six. . . ."
"Get 'em if you can. . . ."
"Did Crennell seem to have anything on his mind just before he disappeared?"
"Bust. . . ."
The fat man stretched out his hand to the loser for his coppers and laid down the cards.
"Are we goin' to talk a bit?"
"Yes. We'll play again before closin' time. . . ."
"Did Finlo seem to have anythin' on his mind? Naw, I wouldn' say so. Not one for broodin', was he? Talked to us about his problems. Always spoke his mind. Didn't he?"
Craine and Finch nodded.
"Did he say anything interesting before he left you for the last time?"
Cretney scratched his head.
"Seemed he was plannin' to lend Charlie Cribbin some money. He did ask us if we knew anythin' about farmin'. None of us knew much. My dad ran a croft of kinds when I was a boy, but that's a long time since. All the same, Charlie wasn't the one to be lendin' anythin' much to. A high-flyer, too fond of spendin'. . . ."
"You'd no reason for thinking Crennell was in trouble of any kind?"
"Naw. Throuble? What throuble should Finlo have?"
Sammy Craine fingered the scattered cards lovingly.
"Naw," he said.
"Did Finlo ever mention diamonds to you?"
All three began to look interested, especially Finch whose dark little eyes lit up attentively.
"Why?"
"He had a bag of diamonds with him when he disappeared. The mate of the Dutch boat has handed them over."
"Van Dam?" said Craine in a husky deep voice. "That's a wonder. Never liked him. Comes here quite a bit, leck. Wouldn' have parted with 'em except to save his own skin."
"Probably you're right there. But did Finlo mention the stones to you ever?"
Finch licked his thin lips.
"Yes. I knew he had them. He once showed them to me. I reckon they'd be worth a thousand or two. He said he was keeping them for a rainy day and they'd increase in value by the keeping. He was perhaps right."
"Do you know where he got them?"
Cretney and Craine, bewildered, shook their heads. Finch gave Littlejohn a queer look and shook his own, too.
"Perhaps some deal while he was at sea. He always kept that to himself. One of the few things he never spoke of. That's right, isn't it?"
Craine and Finch nodded again. It was like a little court of inquiry, making a report on Finlo Crennell.
They had drunk three more rounds of beer and Cretney was the most talkative. Finch seemed to be nursing some thoughts of his own and Craine was eager for his card game again.
"Diamonds. . . . A few Manx fortunes made in them. That's so, isn't it. . . ?"
More nods.
". . . My father's uncle Mark did well out at the mines. Settled down in South Africa and made a fortune. His wife's family got it all though. An' then there was Joseph Mylchreest, the Manx diamond king. Ever see the big White House at Michael? That was his. Came home an' did a bit of good to his own li'l Island with his money. . . . An', I forgot, there was Diamond Jim, too, made a fortune in Kimberley and brought it home to die. You should tell the Inspector about Jim, Lucas. You know all about him. . . ."
"Shut up!"
Finch snarled it and his thin lips curled with anger.
Cretney looked shocked.
"Come, Lucas, no offence. Didn't know you was so touchy. After all, you were Morrison's book-keeper till you retired. Diamond Jim saved the famil
y fortunes, didn't he? Just came home in time. . . . "
"That'll do. I don't want to discuss family business here. Let's get on with the cards."
Cretney shook his head in a good-humoured effort to understand what he'd done wrong.
"All right, if that's the way you want it, Lucas. But I must say it's a bit rude to the Inspector. . . . "
"I'm sorry, but . . . well. . . . This isn't the place to discuss the family. I'm a bit upset on account of Mrs. Morrison's death. I didn't intend to be rude."
Finch was anxious to smooth things over and make them forget his outburst.
"All right. You shuffle 'em, Inspector. You don't mind, do you? I mean, Lucas didn't intend to be rude, did you, Lucas?"
"Of course not."
Littlejohn shuffled the cards and Craine dealt eagerly.
"Pass. . . ."
So. . . . Diamond Jim. . . . The late James Morrison had turned up from Kimberley about the time all the trouble of Nancy had started. And Finch, the old retainer of the Morrison family, didn't want to talk about it. Another who dried up and grew secretive just as things were getting warm.
"Your shout, Inspector."
"Sorry. . . . Misere. . . ."
Until the landlord called 'Time' and Littlejohn left for Grenaby, he thoroughly enjoyed the game. Good companions, good beer, a cosy corner in a warm room. And in the Chief Inspector's mind, that faint stir of excitement which he always felt when he found the first trail and the case began to show some sense.
15
THE MAN WHO SHOT SEAGULLS
THURSDAY, and another funeral.
This time it was Mrs. Morrison's and the procession to the family vault at Malew was timed for eleven o'clock in the morning. It was another cold, sunny day and Castletown was in mourning again. Black everywhere, shops closed, people almost walking round the streets on tiptoes. A repetition of Crennell's last day in town, except that whereas Finlo had been a beloved local character, the Morrisons were bigwigs and the funeral of any one of them called for even more public respect and mourning.
The Archdeacon was attending the funeral, the local police were represented at it and keeping order in the matter of arrangements, Knell was detained in Douglas in a case of robbery with violence in the Deemster's Court, and Littlejohn was left to his own devices until noon.
The Chief Inspector had never visited the part of the Island which lies between Castletown and Port St. Mary on the coast road, and at half-past nine, therefore, he filled his pipe, lit it, and set out to walk as far as he could and get back by noon to meet the Archdeacon. He briskly passed through Arbory Street and struck the main road which by-passes the town.
"Just as you get past the turning into the by-pass, notice the two mansions on each side. One on the left is Balladoole, home of the Stevensons for hundreds of years and the present owner of which is British Ambassador to Egypt. The one on the other side, Ballakeighen, was occupied at one time by Captain Quilliam, who navigated the Victory at Trafalgar. Beyond Balladoole is Poyll Vaaish Bay. Its name means Death Pool but that refers to the black marble they quarried there, some of which was once used for the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral."
Littlejohn remembered it all and took note of the parson's instructions lest he disappoint his old friend.
A blue sky with white scudding clouds and the sharp tang of the sea on the breeze. A car passed now and then; otherwise the Chief Inspector had the place to himself.
He gently climbed the road until he reached the summit and there on Fishers' Hill, he suddenly came upon the finest panorama he'd ever seen on the Island or anywhere else.
The wide sweep of the Bay ny Carrickey, with the waves lashing the Carrick Rock in the midst of it, came in view. Castletown with its grey towers at one end, and at the other, the great Mull Peninsula terminating in Spanish Head, with the Mull Hills and Bradda Head in the background. The road ran round the low-lying shore of the bay, passing a small stone chapel and farmhouses built four-square and strong against the elements, like fortified refuges surrounded by thick granite walls. Port St. Mary nestling in a corner of the coastline of caves and precipitous rocks and the morning train puffing its way from Port Erin in a lot of steam and bustle.
Littlejohn looked at his wrist-watch. Ten-fifteen. Ahead lay the mansion of Kentraugh, protected from the elements by a screen of wind-tortured trees. Just time to get there and back for noon.
And then, Littlejohn noticed the man with the rifle. He had reached the shore near the deserted chapel and the whole coastline of the bay was visible. Near where the Archdeacon had described Poyll Vaaish and given details of a coastal footpath back to Castletown, a man was standing and, as Littlejohn spotted him on the skyline, he raised his gun and shot a seagull in flight. The bird jerked in midair and fell like a stone. The next shot brought down a jackdaw, but the man seemed to take no further interest in his quarry. Instead, the barrel of his rifle described an arc and before Littlejohn could move or even grasp what was happening, a bullet whistled past his ear. Then another. He could hear the two faint slaps as the bullets hit the wall of the chapel behind him.
The Chief Inspector acted instinctively. He flung himself, like a rugby player making a flying tackle, behind a large dune covered in grass and marsh daisies. Then he fully realized what was happening. Someone had seen him leave Castletown, had followed him, and was taking potshots at him. From all appearances, if he had been successful and killed Littlejohn, he would have, in the unlikely event of discovery, pleaded bird-shooting on the foreshore and an accidental ricochet. . . .
Whoever it was, Littlejohn had already taken a violent dislike to him, quite apart from his own safety. He didn't like men who shot seagulls and jackdaws!
Littlejohn's mind filled with all kinds of things, like a mad phantasmagoria.
He was well-screened by the tussock and the grass and, by gently parting the stalks, could see his assailant, peering ahead, trying to make sure his bullet had done the trick. It looked as if the man was undecided whether or not to cross the field between them and investigate. He hesitated, and then decided to make for the spot where Littlejohn had fallen. His rifle was over the crook of his arm and he shifted it to a position where he could again fire from the hip.
Littlejohn could not at the distance and from where he was lying, make the man out. He wore a dark felt hat and was of medium, loose build.
The Chief Inspector's thoughts raced.
He even found himself still admiring the view regretfully. From where he lay, he could see the whole spread of the bay and the road winding as far as Kentraugh, half-way between himself and Port St. Mary. There was not a soul in sight. A railway engine whistled wildly and out at sea a large cargo boat slowly passed along the horizon. The breeze whipped the blue water into white tops, the gulls rode the crests with indolent grace, and a little party of wild duck paddled down a small stream to the shore.
Unless someone turned up quickly and disturbed the man with the rifle, the conclusion was almost obvious. If Littlejohn jumped up and ran for it, he stood a good chance of being mown down, for whoever his enemy might be, he could certainly shoot. A gull and a jackdaw on the wing. . . . Not bad.
A large car, driven hard, descended the road in the direction of the sea from Castletown. Littlejohn not daring to rise, hoped the driver would see him. Instead, the car cornered madly, accelerated, and went off in the direction of Kentraugh hell-for-leather.
And then, from the opposite direction, Port St. Mary to Castletown, there appeared in the distance, an ungainly salvation, a van high on an ancient chassis, driven almost painfully. Littlejohn watched his approaching antagonist, who had halted in his steps as the previous car appeared. The man now hesitated again, turned, and began to run in the opposite direction, all the time looking back over his shoulder, lest the Inspector should get on his feet or the van pass the spot where Littlejohn was lying without stopping to investigate. In his anxiety to follow all going on behind, the man with the rifle missed a patch of uneven
ground. He stumbled, threw out his arms, righted himself, halted, and then, apparently having twisted his ankle, ran, hobbled and skipped out of sight.
J. Kermeen. Baker. Ballafesson.
A large and ancient bread-van driven by a large and ancient Manxman with a shock of white hair, white moustache, good pale-blue eyes, and leather gloves. He wore a cap and spectacles.
Littlejohn had never in his life been so pleased to see anyone! He actually found himself looking at the gloves!
"Hurt yourself, sir? Been stumblin' among the tussocks? Bit rough, there. . . . "
Mr. Kermeen seemed anxious to excuse Littlejohn for lying full-length in the grass. The Chief Inspector decided not to mention the incident of the rifle.
"Yes. . . . Just measured my length in the grass. . . . Wrenched my ankle, and I'm in a hurry."
"Jump up, then, sir."
Littlejohn sat beside Mr. Kermeen in the cab.
"Lookin' at my gloves? It's just a little fad o' mine, sir. Clean bread. Bread's the staff of life, isn't it, sir? Not right to handle it with dirty hands as you've bin drivin' a car and handlin' dirt with. May seem a bit eccentric to you, sir. But there's so much dirty bread. . . . Keep my hands clean."
Littlejohn wondered if this was going on all the way to Castletown. Mr. Kermeen seemed such a decent, happy fellow, that Littlejohn hadn't the heart to interrupt his little lecture on clean bread. He needn't have bothered, however. Mr. Kermeen, impressed by the fact that Littlejohn had said he was in a hurry, was cracking on speed. He accelerated to thirty and the old contraption almost left the road. They tore and bounced past the spots Littlejohn knew, Balladoole, Ballakeighen . . . and then off the by-pass and down Arbory Street into the town. Littlejohn was surprised to see it was only twenty minutes to eleven. It had seemed like hours.
As they passed the end of the side street leading to Framley Lodge, he could see the cortège of Mrs. Morrison drawing-up at the house.
"Take me to the police station, will you, Mr. Kermeen?"
He pressed a ten shilling note in the hands of the honest baker and thought it little enough for what Mr. Kermeen had done that day. The baker, however, was indignant and it was as much as Littlejohn could do to get rid of the note and his new friend.
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 18
