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

by George Bellairs

  Finch threw back his head and his eyes lit up.

  "Satisfactorily. . . . So far!"

  "Why? What else is going to happen?"

  "You are going to answer questions properly or else I shall charge you with attempted murder."

  Darkness had fallen outside and there was a melancholy silence in the deserted town. The street lights were on, casting long shadows on the castle walls, odd footsteps echoed hollow as solitary passers-by went about their business. The constable, who had just been given a part in the forthcoming production of an operatic society, hummed under his breath a song he would sing, and which had been running madly through his mind all day.

  His teeth, I've enacted, shall all be extracted,

  By terrified amateurs. . . .

  "Before you question me, sir, I must ask you a favour. I want to see Mr. Morrison. I've something to give him."

  "And what might that be?"

  Finch was silent again for a minute.

  "Mrs. Morrison left two letters with me to be delivered, one to her husband, and the other was to me, and both to be opened after her burial. I want to see her wishes are fulfilled. I must be allowed to do that. It's a sacred promise and whatever you do to me, I must keep it."

  "Why did she leave them with you?"

  "She trusted me, I suppose."

  "And not her husband?"

  "That's different. I did so much for her while she was alive. She asked me to do this before she took so bad and reminded me of my promise only a day or two before she died."

  "Were you allowed to go and see her at home, then?"

  "No. She telephoned me. She had an extension at the bedside."

  "I thought she had no contact with the outside world at the end."

  "That was the only contact. Mr. Morrison tried to persuade her to have the telephone removed as it excited her, but she wouldn't."

  And Morrison had said he wasn't afraid of her learning about Nancy from the blackmailer, because she was absolutely cut-off from the world!

  "What are these letters and where are they?"

  "They're sealed envelopes to be opened after her death. They're in the bank."

  "The banks have been closed for hours."

  "Yes, but Mr. Forrester, the manager of the Bank of Mona, lives over the bank and will let me have them. I told him to get them out of my box first thing this morning before I left town."

  "To take a pot at me?"

  "Before I left town. He'll have them handy and will wonder why I haven't collected them."

  Littlejohn turned to the constable.

  "Just slip across to the the Bank of Mona, and ask Mr. Forrester if he'll either hand you the letters or bring them here to Mr. Finch. I'll look after things meanwhile. . . . At the same time, please ask Mrs. Cottier to come along to the police station, at once. . . ."

  Then, Littlejohn took up the 'phone and asked for the Dandy Rig.

  "Give me Mr. Norton, please. Never mind his dinner. I must speak to him."

  All the while Finch sat there, finishing the stub of his cigarette, eyeing Littlejohn in a fuddled way.

  "Mr. Norton? I'd like you to call at Castletown police station right away. . . . Of course, it's important. Otherwise, I wouldn't disturb you at a time like this. I haven't had any dinner either, but my business comes first. Yes . . . . Right away."

  "Now, Mr. Finch. To business. You were the man who made the arrangements . . . the financial ones . . . in connection with Nancy Gawne, the so-called illegitimate child of Finlo, weren't you?"

  "What arrangements? I don't know what . . ."

  "Come, come, Mr. Finch. I've already had all this out with Mr. Morrison. You scraped together two thousand pounds in cash, the sum paid by Morrison as part of the consideration for Crennell's assuming Nancy's paternity. Morrison was the father, but Crennell accepted responsibility on payment of two thousand pounds cash down to Mary Gawne, and a promise of another four thousand when Morrison had the funds. Meanwhile, the security given for payment of the larger amount was diamonds, brought over by James Morrison. . . ."

  "Has Mr. Morrison told you?"

  "How else would I know?"

  "One of the others . . . Mrs. Norton or Nancy could have told you."

  "You'll have to take my word for it."

  "Very well. What you say is true."

  "Had Mrs. Morrison any money of her own?"

  "Yes. But Mr. Morrison could hardly ask her to put up the cash for such a purpose. He'd have had to tell her what he wanted it for and he'd rather have died than let her know. It was just a moment of . . . of drunken folly caused it all and he was fond of his own wife. Besides, there were his children and the way the family was so well thought of locally. The disgrace . . . "

  "Was she very wealthy?"

  "Yes. She came of a family of brewers on the mainland and her father left her a fortune."

  "So, the Morrison fortune over here wasn't rescued by James Morrison . . . Diamond Jim as they called him?"

  Finch thought a moment.

  "Now let me tell you, Mr. Finch, your future depends on whether or not you tell me the truth. I may consider believing your excuse about the rotten shot you fired at the ducks which almost hit me, provided you co-operate."

  "But I was confidential clerk to the firm and family. There's such a thing as business and personal honour. One can't tell things. I mean . . . "

  "This is murder, Mr. Finch, and if you don't tell me, you'll have to tell the courts."

  "The courts? Has somebody been arrested?"

  "Never mind that. Did Diamond Jim rescue the family fortunes?"

  "That's a thing I can tell you. He didn't. All Diamond Jim came home with was a handful of diamonds for Mrs. Morrison and little else. He was dying when he arrived here and Mrs. Morrison told him he could stay with them till he recovered . . . or otherwise. All he'd got was the stones. He had them made into a necklace for her."

  "So Mr. Morrison said. They're in the bank, I believe."

  "Yes. Mrs. Morrison put them in her strong-box there. Although she was a bit afraid to wear them on account of their value, she kept them as a memento of Jim. He was a very decent fellow, who'd been swindled out of his fortune by a partner in Kimberley."

  "So, in effect, Morrison still lived on his wife's money after he'd lost his own."

  "That's right. I oughtn't to say that, but you force me."

  Littlejohn paused, lit his pipe, and gave Finch another cigarette.

  "If the diamonds were in the bank in Mrs. Morrison's name, how then did Morrison get hold of them to give to Finlo Crennell as security for the four thousand pounds?"

  Finch sagged in his chair.

  "I don't know."

  "Now, Finch. You know what this obstruction means."

  "I can't tell you without Mr. Morrison's permission. I could never hold my head up again if I betrayed the family business."

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the constable with the bank manager, a lean, dark man, wrapped-up in a large overcoat and wearing a cap because he was off duty. He removed the cap as he entered, disclosing a bald head fringed with grey hair.

  "What's all this, Lucas? What are you doing here? Everybody was asking where you were at the funeral."

  "It's just a misunderstanding, Mr. Forrester. I'll soon be out. All a mistake. . . . "

  "Anything I can do? I'm a J.P., you know."

  Mr. Forrester gave Littlejohn a keen look as though to remind him not to go too far.

  "No, Mr. Forrester. Have you got the letters?"

  "Yes. Here they are."

  The banker handed over two envelopes with a blob of red wax on the flap of each.

  "That's all, and thank you, Mr. Forrester. I'll call and tell you all about it to-morrow."

  The banker was very undecided about being led to the door. He hesitated and turned twice, like one who wonders if a friend is undergoing torture.

  "It's all right, Mr. Forrester. Thanks for your trouble. Good night."

>   "Good night, Inspector. It had better be all right, you know. . . ."

  He went out into the dark again.

  "May I open this one addressed to me?"

  "Of course."

  With trembling awkward fingers Finch tore at the seal and the paper, withdrew a single sheet of notepaper, read it, and dropped his arms by his sides. His prominent Adam's apple moved up and down as he struggled to master his feelings.

  "You might as well see this."

  He listlessly passed the paper to Littlejohn.

  A few lines in a bold, clear hand.

  Grateful thanks to Finch for his unending faithfulness and willing help. He must hand the other letter, as arranged, to Morrison. Then a final paragraph.

  " . . . My husband on inheriting my estate will, you know, be able to continue paying the pension he has allowed you. But in case of any doubt arising, I have made full provision for its continued payment in my will, so you will feel secure. . . . "

  "So you needn't have feared anything I might disclose or do, Finch. You needn't have fired those shots. . . ."

  Finch looked up and gave Littlejohn a haggard smile.

  "I don't want to discuss that now. It's of no importance. All I know is, I've lost the best friend I ever had, and she didn't forget me. She was the one I did everything for. He didn't count."

  There were tears in his eyes and he dashed them away.

  "And now, can I go and deliver Morrison's letter to him? You can send a policeman with me if you want."

  "No. We'll send for Morrison and you can give it to him here."

  "Very well, it's all the same to me. I know what's in it, or I think I do. And I'd like to see his face when he reads it."

  Footsteps outside and the constable hurried to let in Mrs. Cottier.

  "Put Mr. Finch in the other room whilst I talk to Mrs. Cottier."

  The constable marched out Lucas Finch, still humming under his breath something about making the punishment fit the crime.

  Mrs. Cottier was flustered. She'd never been in a police station in her life before and felt it a bit of a disgrace.

  "It's a good job it's dark and people can't see me. It would be all over the town. Is it so important you couldn't have come to Queen Street?"

  "Sit down, Mrs. Cottier. I only want to ask you a question."

  She looked relieved. All the way she'd been wondering what she'd done wrong.

  "You worked for the Morrisons at one time. Was that at the time Diamond Jim came home?"

  "Yes, it was. I was a maid there and I also acted as personal maid to Mrs. Morrison. A better woman never lived. I can't believe I'll never see her again."

  Littiejohn had to wait until she'd had her little weep.

  "Do you remember the diamond necklace Mr. James gave your mistress?"

  "Yes."

  "It was very valuable and she was afraid to wear it or have it in the house on that account?"

  "Yes. Mr. Morrison had a duplicate made for her in imitation stones so's she could wear it without worrying. But Mrs. Morrison wasn't that sort. She laughed when he gave it to her and said jewellery like that wasn't in her line for everyday wear. She'd wear the real stones on what she called state occasions and keep them in the bank the rest of the time. I never remember her having them out, except once when the Governor came to dinner."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Cottier. That's all. You can go home now if you wish. Shall I send the constable with you?"

  "Indeed, you won't. I'm not bein' seen about with any policeman. I'll find my own way, thank you."

  And she stepped out into the darkness.

  "Please bring Mr. Finch in again. . . ."

  Littlejohn sat at the desk in the charge room and wearily passed his hand over his forehead. Matters had grown complicated suddenly and everything seemed to have boiled-up at once. He motioned Finch to sit down, too, and gave him and lighted another cigarette.

  "You played cards most nights with Finlo Crennell?"

  "Yes. We usually met at the Jolly Deemster for a drink. Crennell was as regular as clockwork. Arrived at eight and left at closing-time and, wet or fine, he always took a turn along the quayside as far as the harbour and back before he went home. A man of method, and I think he had a sentimental attachment for the old harbourmaster's house. He lived there for a long time, you see."

  Finch seemed almost garrulous when it came to the lighter topics of existence. It was only when the secret affairs of his old employers entered the picture that he dried up.

  "Did Finlo mention the diamonds recently?"

  "Casually, one night. He said he planned to sell some stones he had and that he'd asked Mr. Norton to come over, value them, and make an offer."

  "He just mentioned the stones to you; not to the other two members of your little card-party?"

  "That's right. I knew he had them, you see. He was very close about them, and rightly so, I think. If it had become known he had so much wealth in his house or possession, somebody might have tried to rob him."

  "And you at once told Mr. Morrison that Finlo was going to have the stones valued and probably sell them."

  "Yes."

  He said it very reluctantly this time. Littlejohn felt that had Finch been sure of what had gone on during the interview between Morrison and the Chief Inspector, he would have known better what to say and what not. As it was, Finch was at sea; he couldn't lie in case Littlejohn knew the truth.

  "What did Morrison say to that?"

  "Nothing at the time. And a day or so later, Finlo disappeared; so it wasn't much use bothering any more."

  The swish of tyres and a squeal of brakes and another car drew up at the door of the police station.

  "Park it by the custom-house there, sir."

  It was Norton, and the constable took him and his car in hand. A minute or two later, the Big-Shot appeared, screwing-up his dazzled eyes in the light of the room. He looked uneasy and shifty, as though expecting fresh and unhappy developments.

  "Here I am. I hope it's something important, because I've had to leave my dinner half eaten."

  "I've sent for the diamonds to Douglas, Mr. Norton. I'd like you to cast your eye over them and say approximately what they're worth."

  Norton tried not to look too interested, but it was obvious that he was as eager to see the stones as the rest.

  But a change had come over Finch. He had turned ashen and a noise between a gasp and a groan escaped from him as he sagged in his chair like a beaten man.

  "What is it, Finch?"

  "Nothing. Nothing. I'm a bit worn out with all this. Can't you send for Mr. Morrison? I want to get rid of this letter."

  "As soon as the other constable and Knell arrive from Douglas. They shouldn't be long."

  A minute or two later the police car arrived. Knell looked round the room at the party assembled and raised his eyebrows at Littlejohn expectantly.

  "Do you mind taking the car and bringing Mr. Morrison here? Tell him Mr. Finch, who's detained at the police station, has an important letter which he must deliver into his hands at once."

  "You want these, sir."

  Knell took from his pocket the silk handkerchief in which Littlejohn had wrapped the diamonds the previous night, and handed it to him. Then he left and they could hear him start the car again.

  "Now, Mr. Norton."

  Littlejohn opened the handkerchief and disclosed the stones, which sparkled under the lights of the room. Finch raised his head, looked at them, and then sank his chin on his chest with another faint cry.

  Norton poked among the stones with a fat forefinger. He showed no enthusiasm, took two of the largest, examined them close to the light. Then he took out a jeweller's lens from his pocket, inspected the stones under it, picked up one or two more and did the same. He flung them back in the handkerchief.

  "Thirty bob for the lot! These aren't diamonds; they're very good imitations of the sort worn when there's a very valuable necklace in the background and the owner's afraid to wear it.
"

  He looked hard at Littlejohn.

  "Are these the stones Van Dam brought back with him?"

  "Yes."

  "And they're the ones Finlo made such a fuss about?"

  "Yes."

  "Well. . . ."

  Norton seemed speechless and the single word he uttered with a long gust of breath seemed to express the whole matter very well.

  Finlo Crennell's security for his four thousand pounds had been a packet of dud stones! He'd played with them and caressed them, counted them and relied on them for a rainy day, whilst all the time they'd been mere pieces of glass. And he'd never had them valued or challenged their worth, because his old boss, Morrison, had told him they were genuine and worth four thousand pounds!

  "Did you know of this?"

  Littlejohn addressed Finch who didn't reply. He looked a sick man and too bewildered or afraid to answer.

  "When you heard Crennell was going to sell his stones, you told Morrison, who realized at last, that Nemesis had got him. Had his wife died before Finlo decided to sell, all would have been right. But as it was, he'd neither money to redeem the stones because he daren't ask his wife for it, nor could he get his wife's real stones from the bank and change them with Finlo's, because the bank held them in Mrs. Morrison's name. Isn't that it?"

  "I won't say anything till Mr. Morrison arrives."

  "Was there a definite understanding that Crennell wouldn't sell the diamonds without Morrison's permission?"

  "Yes. I can tell you that. Mr. Morrison said he'd have the money one day and redeem them from Finlo. Genuine or false stones, it made no difference. They were like a promissory note signed by Mr. Morrison. If Finlo wanted the cash, he'd first to take them to Mr. Morrison."

  "Why didn't Morrison redeem them before?"

  "In the first place, he hadn't the money. After the failure of the firm, with the exception of a hundred or two income from his mother's estate of which he couldn't touch the capital, he'd nothing. He depended on his wife."

  "From whom he daren't ask for a loan because the whole thing would come out. I'm surprised he didn't tell her everything."

  "And disgrace his children who'd got on well in the world?"

  "Nobody need have known but his wife."

  "You don't know Mr. Morrison. He'd never admit a mistake to his wife . . . or anybody else for that matter. He only told me because I had to raise the first cash for his transaction with Finlo. I lent him fifteen hundred of my own. My pension was repayment."