Death Before Breakfast

by George Bellairs

  The enquiries went on until late, when Littlejohn arrived at July Street. Cromwell looked fagged-out and Littlejohn sent him back to The Yard to make his report.

  ‘And then have a good meal and go home and rest, old chap. Well call it a day.’

  Mann and his men were glad to go, too. They’d had enough. The whole atmosphere of the street and its occupants was depressing. And almost a full day’s work had brought no results. Mann was baffled by the whole affair. Had he not had the information from Paris that the victim was known to them and was a first-class jewel-thief, he’d have thought the whole story was another of Mrs. Jump’s tall tales.

  ‘Are you coming, too, sir?’

  Cromwell didn’t look disposed to give-in until the chief was ready to go, too.

  ‘No. I’ll just make another call or two. I want to see Dr. Macready, for one thing. Take the car. I’ll make my way home by ’bus. It isn’t far.’

  Cromwell went off reluctantly and on his departure, gloom seemed to fall upon July Street again. With the night came the thin melancholy November drizzle. The main road at the end of the street was still busy with traffic making its way home to the suburbs from London, and heavy traffic bound for the city. The headlights of the passing cars looked dim and yellow from where he stood and the street lamps were again surrounded by haloes of thin rain. He turned up his collar and made for No. 19.

  Nothing moved in the street. Everyone was at home eating the evening meal. In some of the lighted houses the blinds had not been drawn and he could see families gathered at tables in the front rooms. He was almost at the gate of No. 19, when he heard footsteps approaching. A small fat man wobbled along the footpath, his hands in the pockets of a reefer jacket. He had a cloth cap on his head and a short pipe in his mouth. He approached Littlejohn as though he’d known him all his life.

  ‘Superintendent Littlejohn?’

  He was without a coat and the rain sparkled on his thick jacket. He wore a collar without a tie and a brass stud shone in his neckband.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You in charge of the case of the chap who was killed here early Wednesday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Littlejohn wondered if the man was going to give him some vital information. Instead, he gave a brief snort.

  ‘I’m Sam Barnes, owner of the garage just across the main road there.’

  He looked like an ex-sailor gone to seed. He was enormously fat with short thick legs, a clean-shaven heavy face and close clipped hair. Hardly the sort you see in the motor-trade. More like an old salt. He was full of self-assurance.

  ‘I live just round the corner, a bit beyond the church.’

  ‘By the recreation ground?’

  ‘Yes. You seem to know the geography of the neighbourhood already. But it’s no use you askin’ me questions. I was fast asleep in bed when the woman said she saw the murdered man. Seven o’clock, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you think of the affair? I see from the evenin’ paper that they’ve identified the body. A Frenchman. A cat-burglar, was it?’

  ‘A jewel thief.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he was after jewellery in July Street. That’s a good one, that is. Jewellery in July Street. …’

  He roared with laughter and shook like a jelly.

  ‘Can’t be that he tried ’is hand at one of the houses and met his match, can it?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Mr. Barnes. We’re only just starting on the case.’

  ‘Looks as if it’s goin’ to be a teaser, too.’

  ‘How long have you been in these parts?’

  ‘I was born here, but travelled a bit before I came back to settle down. Was in the buildin’ trade in the war and after it all ended, I decided to take it easier. Bought this garage here, put a manager in, and worked a bit less. …’

  He knocked his pipe out on his heel.

  ‘You’ve chosen a bad night to come on duty. What about a drink with me at the Admiral Rodney just round the corner there?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think I’d better get on with the job and be on my way home out of this drizzle. Thanks. Perhaps another time, Mr. Barnes.’

  ‘Any time. So long, then. …’

  He toddled away with short firm steps and vanished into the mist.

  Littlejohn rang the bell at No. 19. There was a long silence and then the door opened. It was Miss Macready. She peered at Littlejohn, recognised him, and laughed nervously.

  ‘I wondered whoever was calling at this time of night. We don’t usually have visitors after dark.’

  ‘Is your brother at home, please?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘He’s fast asleep in his room. As I think he told you – he tells everyone – he’s no slave of time or routine. He works when he wishes and sleeps when he feels like it. He’s been up working several nights and went to bed as soon as tea was over. …’

  ‘Could I have a word with you, then, Miss Macready?’

  ‘Do you wish to question me?’

  ‘If I may.’

  She was standing with her back to the light, silhouetted against the glow of the narrow hall. Tall and slim, with a good figure. She had changed from the house-coat of the morning into a pale blue jumper and a tweed skirt. She hesitated again and then inclined her head.

  ‘Come in, then.’

  He followed her past the door of her brother’s room to the second on the left, which she opened. Ahead was a small kitchen, the door of which she pulled to, not before Littlejohn had caught a glimpse of disorder and a confusion of unwashed pots and pans.

  The light in the hall was covered in a red silk shade through which a warm glow penetrated on the few odds and ends of good mahogany furniture; a hatstand, a heavy chair, and a small table with a telephone on it. It was difficult to thread one’s way through it all.

  Littlejohn wondered why the doctor and his sister had chosen such an unsavoury quarter, quite out of keeping with their standing.

  Miss Macready switched on the light in the room at the back.

  ‘This is my room. I use it as a sitting-room and whenever any visitors come, which is very rarely, I entertain them here.’

  She was still theatrical, her speech precise, punctuated by a sweeping gesture now and then.

  The room was illuminated by a standard lamp. A red carpet on the floor and the furnishing contemporary in yellows and reds. Modern armchairs and a couch like a wooden bench with a long red hassock on it. A grand piano in one corner. It looked to be a good one. On the walls, a number of incomprehensible pictures in modern style. The heavy yellow curtains were drawn, shutting out the sordid view of shabby tumbledown property in June Street behind. The backyards of houses even more dilapidated than those of July Street. There was a faint scent on the air, not of personal perfume, but as though someone had not long ago been burning incense there; a heavy sensual odour which seemed to suit the woman who occupied the room.

  Over all, the faint noises of the road. The almost perpetual hum and rush of passing traffic.

  ‘You wish to ask me some questions, Superintendent? Please sit down.’

  He sat on one of the contemporary chairs with a cushion upholstered in red leather which hissed like a punctured tyre as it took his weight.

  ‘Cigarette?’

  As he expected, they were black Russians. He declined with thanks.

  ‘Smoke your pipe, if you wish. I’ve seen you passing by with it in your mouth.’

  He slowly packed and lit it, although it seemed almost like brawling in church to fill this exotic place with pipe smoke.

  He felt that he himself might be taking part in a play. The furnishings, the sumptuous carpet, the luxurious curtains, the woman with her heavy scent and her precise speech and poses. … All in July Street, of all places. Like a set on a stage.

  ‘How long have you lived here, Miss Macready?’

  ‘Almost seven years.’

  ‘And before that?’

 
‘About two miles away along the main road. My brother was a general practitioner and this house was a surgery he opened here because it seemed a profitable thing to do. He owned the property and when he decided to retire, we moved in here and his partner took over the other house.’

  ‘You didn’t want to get away in the country then, after so long in a quarter like this?’

  ‘Why? Neither of us likes the country. This is a well-built house and we have made it comfortable for our purpose. It is a handy pied-à-terre for visits to London. Most of the neighbours were patients of my brother. They respect us and are our friends. What more could we wish?’

  There was a pause, as though one of them had forgotten a cue and was waiting for the prompter.

  ‘Your brother told me that he was awake and working at seven o’clock, or a minute or two before, on Wednesday morning, but, looking through the window at that time, he saw nothing extraordinary. …’

  ‘What could go on unusual in July Street at such an early hour?’

  ‘The body of a murdered man was lying on the pavement opposite.’

  ‘Indeed. And my brother didn’t notice it. I’m not surprised. He is so immersed in his studies sometimes that he doesn’t know what is going on around him.’

  ‘Have you and your brother ever been to Paris, Miss Macready?’

  She looked him straight in the eyes; a hard, reproachful look.

  ‘I really don’t see how our private life and what we do with it concerns the police, Superintendent. Surely, you aren’t connecting us with the dead body.’

  ‘No. This is a purely routine visit, such as we’re making at most of the houses in the street.’

  ‘We have been to Paris. We were there last year. I said this was a pied à terre, a jumping-off place for travel, visits to the theatre and concerts. We are both fond of Paris. Now, may I ask why?’

  ‘The dead man was, it seems, a Parisian. His name was Etienne Jourin. Have you ever heard of him or met him?’

  ‘Never. …’

  She puffed her cigarette and slowly emitted the smoke.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘He was a jewel thief. I wondered. …’

  ‘If I had any jewellery worth taking? No, I haven’t. We aren’t as well-off as that.’

  ‘May I ask where your bedroom is? Front or back?’

  ‘Front. It is the one over my brother’s quarters.’

  ‘Did you hear anything unusual just before seven o’clock on Wednesday morning?’

  ‘I was fast asleep. I’m a good sleeper. Is that all you wished to ask me?’

  She was stretched on the couch, one leg on the red hassock, the other foot on the carpet, her arm hanging over the back. The pose was voluptuous, almost challenging.

  ‘I hope my visit hasn’t disturbed you, Miss Macready. May I ask how you pass the time here whilst your brother’s busy at work? Are you his housekeeper?’

  It seemed a stupid question to ask. The manicured nails, the well cared-for hands, the expensive clothes, the general appearance of the woman gave the answer right away.

  ‘We have a daily woman who does the housework. I look after my brother. He is really not the type who could look well after himself. He is so lost in his interests that he would forget to eat or even sleep. Even now, as I said, he pays no heed to the clock. He sleeps when he fancies it. In my spare time, I visit friends in London, or travel. Or else I do some writing. I contribute regularly to the fashion journals. Also, I do the cooking here. We both like good wine and food. Would you like to see this place? You seem to find it difficult to believe that we can be happy and comfortable in it.’

  He thought about the room next door, which he had visited the day before. The doctor, just awake, unshaved, with the remains of a breakfast on a tray. And the quick view he had, on entering, just received of the kitchen, strewn with dirty pots and pans.

  She was on her feet. She opened the door and led him into the narrow corridor.

  ‘Follow me. …’

  The visit didn’t include the kitchen at the end of the lobby.

  The stairs were heavily carpeted in red. A narrow well of a place. The steps creaked under the carpet. A blast of perfume met them half-way.

  She halted at the top of the stairs. There was a short landing with two doors leading from it. At the stair-head another door.

  ‘That is the bathroom. …’

  She didn’t show him inside but made for the door which led to the room at the front of the house.

  ‘This is my room.’

  More thick carpet, a divan with a carved-wood headboard, a dressing-table and a large Louis XV wardrobe. The perfume was heavy and almost caught him by the throat. Over the fireplace, which had a wooden Adam surround, hung an eccentric still-life in reds and yellows. Heavy curtains of scarlet velvet. Littlejohn drew one of them aside and peered out.

  The street was silent. Not a soul about. Shabby, almost repulsive, and out of keeping with the house he was now visiting. At an angle opposite, he could see the spot where Mrs. Jump’s ‘body’, as he and his wife now called it, was lying as she hurried to church.

  He pointed to the spot.

  ‘That is where the body was found. I’m surprised your brother didn’t tell you about it, especially after my visit.’

  ‘He forgets things. Besides, I suppose compared with the work he has on his mind, it wasn’t of much importance to him.’

  ‘The lives of royal rakes, I think he said it was.’

  ‘Whatever it was, it would occupy all his mind whilst he was thinking of it. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. You have made this place very nice, if I may say so.’

  ‘It was the only way to be happy here. Now, I don’t think either of us would be happier elsewhere.’

  Littlejohn followed her out on the way back. As he passed it, he paused at the door of the other room.

  ‘That is my brother’s bedroom. He sleeps downstairs in his study most times. He likes it that way. Then, when the mood takes him, he will come up to his bedroom for a spell.’

  She didn’t offer to show him the place and he didn’t press her. They went downstairs one behind the other.

  ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent. You must think me most inhospitable. I didn’t offer you a drink. Would you … ?’

  ‘No, thank you, Miss Macready. I must be on my way. Briefly, your brother, although he looked through the window when the body was lying opposite this house, didn’t see it; and you were asleep whilst the murder was committed right over the way. …’

  ‘That is true. If my brother had seen the body, he wouldn’t have denied it. Why should he? And incredible as it may seem to you, I slept through the murder. That isn’t so incredible so early in the morning, is it?’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose it is. Well, thank you for receiving me so kindly and for your help. I won’t detain you any longer.’

  They said good-night in the narrow lobby. As he stood there momentarily, Littlejohn heard the creak of a board behind the door of the doctor’s room. Macready was up and listening. …

  Still nobody about in the street. Littlejohn crossed the road to the empty house and, as he did so, the light in the doctor’s room went on. Quickly, the Superintendent slipped into the deserted garden and behind the screen of shabby trees watched the house opposite. He had not to wait long. The light went out again, the front door suddenly opened, the doctor’s figure was silhouetted against the open hall, and then he hurried down the path and took the direction of the church and vanished round the corner. His speed and springy step belied the decrepit alcoholic Littlejohn had visited the day before. Hastily he made for the gate. With luck, he might reach the road past the recreation ground before Macready disappeared.

  Before he could make a move, however, the door of No. 19 opened again. Miss Macready appeared this time, wearing a winter coat and a scarf over her head. She looked in both directions and briskly took the one her brother had followed. As she turned the corner, Littlejohn hurried
after her.

  When he reached the road they had taken, however, there was nobody in sight. The lamps shone down on empty streets and old neglected houses with their blinds drawn and lights shining through.

  The Macreadys had gone.

  Chapter 6

  Sackville Street

  Littlejohn slowly filled and lighted his pipe. July Street was silent; past each end, the steady streams of traffic rushed along the main roads.

  Dr. Macready and his sister had disappeared in the region of Sackville Street, where Mrs. Jump’s church was situated and which ran along the side of the recreation ground. Light traffic used it considerably to avoid the busy main road through Willesden. The pair of them couldn’t have vanished into thin air; presumably they’d called at one of the houses in Sackville Street.

  Sammy Barnes had said he lived there, but Littlejohn had no idea in which house.

  He strolled to the main Willesden road and crossed to the Admiral Rodney. The place had seen better days. It was large and spacious and the main bar was a long one in a vast shabby room, with marble tables of another generation dotted here and there. A lot of workmen standing drinking at the counter, all reflected in the huge mirrors which almost covered the wall behind the beer-pumps.

  The landlord was chatting across the counter to a group of customers and quickly detached himself and came to welcome Littlejohn.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Good evening, landlord. A double whisky, please.’

  Littlejohn seated himself at one of the ancient tables and shook the rain from his coat.

  The landlord was back. A stocky little Scot, with a large moustache, who, although his pub was almost on its last legs, seemed to keep it clean and in good order. He eased himself into a cane chair opposite Littlejohn.

  ‘Have a drink with me, landlord?’

  No sooner said than done. The man ordered a pint of beer from the full-bosomed barmaid in charge of the pumps, who seemed to be making a great hit with some of the customers.

  ‘Your very good health, sir.’

  ‘And yours.’

  ‘Does Sammy Barnes come in here much?’

  The landlord brushed his moustache with his forefinger.