Death Before Breakfast

by George Bellairs

  ‘That’s right. I was there about half an hour or so. When I got back I didn’t go outside. It wasn’t till Sid Stirrup called for the van that I went out. Somebody’d moved it. It was facing the road when I left it. Sid found it facing the garage.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘So it had been unattended for an hour or so.’

  ‘Yes. Nothin’ wrong with that. There’s hardly anybody passin’ at that hour. In any case, what would anybody want pinchin’ a dairy van for? The name’s on it in big letters. Who’d want to pinch it? Not the sort of thing you’d try to flog.’

  ‘No. But they might have wanted to take something heavy away in it.’

  ‘You might be right there. Somebody’s got a damn’ cheek. …’

  ‘Have you seen Stirrup since?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a café just along the road where I get my dinner. Stirrup was there when I went in just now. …’

  Privett gave his boss, Trodd, a sly look.

  ‘Sid said we wasn’t much good charging batteries at our place.’

  Trodd was indignant.

  ‘What’s Stirrup beefing about? We made a proper job of it. That’s what you get for doing them a good turn.’

  ‘Sid said when he got the van back to the dairy, the battery was nearly flat. They’d to change it before he could take it out on his round.’

  Trodd scratched his head.

  ‘It looks as if somebody who borrowed it must have given it a fairly good run.’

  ‘How far will these vans run before the battery needs re-charging, Mr. Trodd?’

  ‘Not very far. Twenty to twenty-five miles, perhaps, with a good battery. On a long round, the battery needs changing. To save the long-distance vans having to return to the depôt for a new battery, the dairy has a runabout vehicle that meets the vanmen at arranged spots and they change to a fresh battery there.’

  ‘So, if the van was borrowed, it might have been run say, ten miles, five out and five back here?’

  ‘Yes. When they got it back at the dairy, the battery would be pretty low by then.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  Back to the dairy.

  The manager, after referring to records, confirmed what Trodd had said. Stirrup had also reported that in spite of Trodd’s re-charging the battery, it had been almost flat when they tested it when the van returned.

  ‘And, after you’d put-in a new battery, the van went out on a round that morning?’

  ‘Yes. Evening, too. It usually does a run to a restaurant a few miles down the road with a load of milk for the evening trade.’

  ‘Is the van here?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just been cleaned and is ready for its next run.’

  ‘Cleaned inside and out?’

  ‘Of course. In the milk trade, cleanliness is very important.’

  Littlejohn wished for once it hadn’t been. All this cleaning had probably washed away traces of anything which might have helped the police technicians to trace where it had been over the past two days.

  The manager led them to the van itself. Littlejohn was right. It was spick and span. They’d even hosed the tyres and wheels.

  There was nothing for it but to pass out a general message about bodies found in the locality recently.

  The dairy was beginning to hum with activity again. Littlejohn looked at his watch. It was half-past one. And they hadn’t had any lunch! Mann was anxious to get back to the police station. He hadn’t yet got over the idea that, in spite of what the man with the whooping-cough epidemic had said, there wasn’t a body at all. At the police station, two messages were waiting. There were no reports of anybody missing; and Littlejohn was required at Scotland Yard on a routine matter. Mann sighed with relief. Now, perhaps there would be an end to the wild-goose chase and he could get on with some work.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell lunched on sandwiches and beer on the way back. It was almost three o’clock when they reached The Yard and they set about their routine work at once. Meanwhile, the Willesden police were to make another excursion to July Street and question as many residents as were at home. Later in the evening, Littlejohn and Cromwell had promised to go back themselves and see the absentees when they returned from work.

  It was a task that Littlejohn could have fobbed-off to his juniors, but the case fascinated him. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Jump was mixed-up in it; or it might have been that he felt it was challenge to his instinct. He laid great store by his instinct.

  At five-thirty, Mann, sounding somewhat chastened, telephoned to say that the body of a man had been taken from the Grand Junction Canal, not far from Harlesden Station, earlier in the afternoon.

  At half-past twelve, a diesel-propelled barge belonging to the canal authority, carrying a gang of workmen who patrolled and repaired the banks and fabric, had tied-up near the railway bridge not far from Low Level and they had brewed their tea and eaten their lunch. After a spell of rest, they had started on their way again. A man called Alf Bowker had been in charge and it was he who had first seen the body, as he leaned over the side to watch the clearance.

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of bodies pulled out of the water, and it always gives me a turn. This chap must have been disturbed by the propeller. ’E just rose part way to the surface and then seemed anxious to get back to the bottom again. I’d just time to get the boat-’ook and catch hold of ’im. Else he’d have vanished.’

  The body had been taken to the morgue at Willesden and Dr. Palfrey, the medical-legal expert, was on his way there now.

  It was Mann’s turn to ask for help this time.

  ‘Would you care to come along and take a look, sir?’

  The roads were thick with traffic and Littlejohn and Cromwell didn’t get there till well after six.

  Dr. Palfrey, in his white smock, had almost finished his work when they arrived. With sutures, clips, and clever fingers he was repairing the damage he had previously done in the course of his investigation. He was a chain-smoker and the tiles around his feet were dotted with squashed cigarette-ends.

  The body on the examination-table was that of a well-built man of almost six feet height. His hair was grizzled and he wore a small grey moustache.

  ‘He’s not been in the water very long. A day and a half, I’d say. …’

  Palfrey said it with a pleasant smile. You’d have thought he’d succeeded in resuscitating the victim.

  ‘Was he drowned?’

  ‘No. He was dead when he was thrown in the water. He’s had a stab wound through the chest and probably died of haemorrhage.’

  ‘Would he have been able to walk any distance after the stab?’

  ‘That depends. He was a powerfully built-man and well-preserved. He might have been able to take a few steps before he collapsed.’

  Palfrey began to sort out his instruments and hand them to his assistant, who carried them off to clean and sterilise them.

  ‘Do we know anything about the man?’

  Palfrey gave the body a final look and took hold of the hand.

  ‘Someone not much used to manual work, from the looks and feel of his hand. And one who took care of himself, who had a bit of pride in his appearance. His hair is well trimmed, his moustache properly clipped. And look at the fingers. … The nails well manicured. Well nourished and probably in good health. He may have been in the East at some time. His liver’s not too good. Shows signs of hepatitis. …’

  ‘What about food? Had he eaten a meal shortly before he died?’

  ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you, Littlejohn? No; he’d not eaten for hours before. But he’d drunk quite a lot of whisky.’

  Palfrey removed his smock and washed himself in the basin in one corner. Then he put on his everyday clothes.

  A young policeman, who had been assisting, was standing by, silent and dutiful.

  ‘Hullo! You’re keeping very quiet.’

  ‘I’m not often called upon for a job like this, sir. I’m a
ll right now, but it turned me up a bit when we started.’

  ‘Where are his clothes?’

  ‘In the other room, sir, drying out. The canal down there isn’t very savoury.’

  ‘Any means of identification?’

  ‘No, sir. We went through his belongings the best we could, among his sodden clothes, but any clues as to who he might be, seem to have been removed.

  Dr. Palfrey was putting on his overcoat ready for going.

  ‘Was there anything about the body that might help us to identify him, doctor?’

  ‘No birthmarks or such, Littlejohn. But at some time in his life, he seems to have had a gun accident. Or that’s what it seems to be to me. The inside of the calf of his left leg has some old shot marks – about half a dozen of them, which were probably inflicted by pellets a long time ago. He’s also had a very neat job done of appendectomy. The incision is remarkably short and tidy. I think that’s all. If there’s anything else, you’ll know where to find me. I’ll let you have the report later.’

  Littlejohn saw him to the door. It was quite dark now, and it was raining again. A mist of sad melancholy drizzle, illuminated by the amber lights of the road. Passers-by moved about like ghosts. Across the way, people were thronging into a former picture-house, now labelled with a large poster, BINGO.

  Back in the mortuary, Littlejohn turned to the clothes of the dead man. They were in keeping with the physical care he’d apparently taken of himself when he was alive. The suit was dry by now and hanging on a coat-hanger by the fireplace, soiled and bedraggled from immersion in the dirty waters of the canal. There were no maker’s labels on any part of it.

  Littlejohn turned to find Mann at his elbow.

  ‘Evening, Mann.’

  ‘Good evening, sir. It seems there was a body after all. Whether it’s the one we want or not, I wouldn’t care to guess. He seems a bit of a toff, judging from his appearance and clothes, to be spending much time round July Street.’

  ‘Did you have a good spell in court?’

  Mann coughed nervously. He didn’t know whether or not Littlejohn was being ironical.

  ‘Fair. Robbery with violence and rape. A couple of nasty cases. They went on till six, and, of course, were sent to the High Court.’

  ‘We’d better have a photograph taken of the dead man and get it in the morning papers. Ask if anyone who recognises him will come forward and help us. The usual request, please. Now for the rest of his stuff.’

  The underwear was good, too. From appearances it was new and hadn’t been to a laundry. The shirt was of nylon, of the drip-dry variety. The kind that the wearer washes himself, furtively, in the hotel washbowl. The shirt and singlet had been pierced by the knife which had killed the victim and there was still a trace of bloodstains in spite of long immersion in the water. The waistcoat of the suit had been torn by the knife, as well.

  The rest of the dead man’s things were on the table. A pair of gold sleeve-links. An expensive tie, without the maker’s name. A handkerchief, also without a laundry-mark. The shoes were good, almost elegant, but of a standard brand that could not help in identification. Navy blue nylon socks to match the suit of good blue serge. …

  The pockets had been emptied. A sodden packet of cigarettes and a butane lighter. No wallet or diary.

  ‘It might easily have been a case of murder for robbery. He probably had a well-filled note-case on him, judging from his dress.’

  Mann still nursed a bit of reluctance to admit that Mrs. Jump had seen any body at all.

  In the next room there were sounds of tidying up. Feet shuffling, the squeak of the wheels of a trolley which needed oiling. Then more footsteps and the clang of a door. They were putting the unknown man away in one of the battery of refrigerators for the untimely dead.

  Littlejohn was turning over with his forefinger the last of the contents of the victim’s pockets. A bunch of keys.

  ‘That was hanging by a chain from the man’s pocket. Either, whoever threw him in the canal was surprised and startled and hadn’t time to unfasten the chain from the trousers button, or else, in his hurry, overlooked it.’

  A bunch of ordinary keys. The kind one gets with suitcases and brief-cases, and accumulates and leaves on the key-ring long after the locks they fit have gone. Two Yale keys, too, and what looked like those for the drawers of a desk. Finally, one better made than the rest. A fine-steel precision job. Perhaps the key of a small safe or strong-box. It was marked Dizy.

  Littlejohn put the keys in his pocket.

  ‘We’ll make some enquiries about these to-morrow.’

  He strolled over to the suit and felt in the pockets again. Nothing, until he finally reached the last one, the match pocket. The stitching had been missed, either through carelessness or a temporary defect in the machine.

  He thrust his index finger through the hole as far as the bottom corner of the garment. There was something there, still damp from the canal water. He managed to get it out.

  It was a small square of paper. The return half of a ticket from Paris to Melun.

  Chapter 5

  The Silver King

  The appearance of the pictures of the corpse fished from the Grand Junction Canal in the morning papers produced very few results. As usual, there were the vague telephone enquiries by people who thought they’d seen him somewhere. One or two of them were able to give precise details of where they’d come across the dead man, but their enthusiasm petered out under questioning.

  There were, too, of course, the crowd of crackpots who always pester the police when a public appeal is made. One informant even claimed the victim as his brother, but turned out later to be an out-patient of a mental clinic, who was in the habit of claiming brotherhood with all and sundry.

  In Paris, however, the photograph caused more excitement. Littlejohn had sent it off by the night ’plane to the Sûreté as soon as it was ready, together with the safe key and the return half of the ticket from Melun. By eleven o’clock the following morning, Littlejohn’s old friend, Luc, a commissaire who had once retired and had been recalled owing to the Algerian troubles, telephoned him. After the usual cordialities, Luc had a tale to tell.

  Without doubt, the photograph was that of the body of Etienne Jourin, a very gentlemanly and accomplished thief, who had suddenly disappeared from circulation more than a year before, and the Paris police had thought he’d either met a sticky end or retired.

  Jourin had once been known as Le Roi d’Argent, the Silver King, on account of his preference for valuable silver in his hauls. During his heyday, any house within a radius of fifty miles from Paris with a good collection hadn’t been safe. Then he’d suddenly changed his tastes and gone for expensive jewellery.

  Jourin wasn’t just a burglar, taking pot luck about where he operated and what he got. His work was always carefully planned and covered houses where he knew he could get at a good haul. The homes of women who boasted of and paraded their diamonds, pearls and expensive gold ornaments, were particularly attractive to him. Two nights before his body had been found in the Grand Junction Canal, the du Pan necklace, composed of some of the finest diamonds in the world, had been stolen from the neck of the Marquise Malleville du Pan at a reception in her house at Melun. The lights had failed during dancing, the diamonds had gone in the mere two minutes of darkness, and with them the violinist who had been hired with the band.

  Following a recent craze, the band had been dressed-up as students, and the leader wore a beatnik beard. …

  It was a coup of the Jourin type, but he hadn’t been heard of for over a year, so there were doubts.

  Now, the photograph, the ticket and the key made it quite certain who had taken the du Pan necklace. Dizy was the name of a safe-maker and the key fitted a fair-sized safe in the Châtelet Safe Deposit, which the police had hastily visited. There they had found the odds and ends of quite a number of robberies committed over the past three years, but none of the big stuff which went with them. The Broaze pe
ndant, the St. Marc emeralds, the Dufy coronet, and lastly the du Pan diamonds, were not there. There were also in the safe, three false passports, with photographs of Jourin. In one, he had a beard and spectacles; in another a heavy moustache and sun-glasses; and in the third his hair and small moustache were grey and he looked ten years older.

  Etienne Jourin, the Silver King, had obviously hidden the diamonds elsewhere and then fetched-up dead in July Street, Willesden.

  So, it looked as if Mrs. Jump had not only been right about her body, but had touched-off an explosive international crime investigation.

  The case couldn’t be described as very promising. July Street was a most unprofitable area for an enquiry. During the early evening Cromwell, assisted by the Willesden police, had canvassed the remaining houses in the street. Thirty-two of them, all told, in four blocks of eight each. They were occupied by a motley crowd, none of whom seemed in the least likely to be connected with the dead man, a high-class, almost aristocratic French jewel-thief.

  In some cases, the occupiers were definitely antagonistic to the police and occasionally threatened violence. Others were indignant at the intrusion. In the first two blocks, terraces facing each other at the end of the street nearest the main road, four of the tenants were old couples, eking out their remaining days on old-age pensions. The rest were a mixture of honest, modest workpeople, prostitutes, and shabby illiterates who could hardly understand what all the bother was about. For the time being, the police wrote off the two blocks as fruitless.

  The remaining two, which included the empty house, the doctor’s, and that of Mr. Peeples, with his afflicted children, proved equally useless. Nobody there except Mr. Peeples had seen the body. Nobody was likely to have associated with the Silver King. No. 32 was occupied by a multitude of blacks from Jamaica. It seemed to be a clearing-house for immigrants who lodged there until they got properly settled in jobs and more commodious premises. Two houses opposite, Nos. 29 and 31, were in the hands of nuns, sisters of an order of charity, who did good work in the neighbourhood. They cordially received Mann, who was of their religion, but could tell him nothing helpful.