Death Before Breakfast

by George Bellairs

  He buried his nose in his glass again.

  Madame Jourin must have been nearly eighty, judging from the ages of her children. She was remarkably strong and active for her years. Now, she seemed in full control of the situation.

  ‘I thought your daughter lived in Paris, madame.’

  ‘She did. Her husband lost his job through his quick temper. He fancies himself a politician and quarrels with everybody who doesn’t think like him. He’s got a job, for as long as he can manage to keep it, here in Sens. They’re living with me. …’

  Littlejohn wondered how they all managed it!

  ‘. …Their children are grown-up now. The boy’s in the army and a fine boy he is, too. Their daughter’s married to a motor mechanic and expecting her second any time. And their clever uncle Etienne brings disgrace on all of them.’

  She began ferociously to attack the contents of the mixing-board again.

  ‘I suppose it’s God’s will and what can’t be cured must be endured. We’ll live through it.’

  More faces at the window.

  ‘Bernard, go out and tell that Goupil woman to mind her own business. Go on. Tell them all to go away. There’s nothing here for them.’

  Bernard shuffled to the door and they could hear him gruffly trying to disperse the crowd, who told him he didn’t own the street.

  That was all there was to it. There seemed little to help them there. The old woman took advantage of Bernard’s absence to tackle Luc again. She did it almost in a whisper.

  ‘Will they be bringing his body home?’

  ‘Do you wish it?’

  ‘Yes. I want him to be decently buried where I’ll know where to find him. I know he was a disgrace while he was alive; but dead, I want him in God’s peace, buried proper with the comfort of the church.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  She emptied the bones in a pan of stock.

  ‘We’ll be going now, thank you, madame. We’re both very sorry.’

  ‘I thank you for your good manners, sir. Not all the police are so kind.’

  Her eyes had softened and now her upper lip was trembling. They bade her good-bye and, as Littlejohn turned to close the door, and she thought she was alone, she sprawled her arms across the mixing-board and sank her head on them. Her heavy shoulders shook with dry sobbing.

  Outside, Bernard was still quarrelling with the crowd of inquisitive women.

  Luc and Littlejohn made their way back to the Rue de la République, the high street which carries the main road from Paris to the South.

  ‘She said he stayed at the best hotel in town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be l’Hôtel du Cathedral Let’s try it.’

  Enriched by passing traffic, especially that of the summer months on its way to the Riviera, the Hôtel du Cathedral was sumptuous. Revolving doors, deep carpets, everything of the best. In November, the place was a bit quiet and the hall-porter had shed his magnificient summer uniform and was doing heavier work in his shirt sleeves. He met them in the porch. Luc wasted no time.

  ‘I’d like to see the proprietor. Police.’

  ‘Good God! What’s up? I hope it isn’t anything wrong we’ve been doing.’

  ‘The proprietor?’

  ‘He and madame are in Paris. Monsieur Guy is at home, however. Want to see him?’

  ‘Their son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’ll do.’

  ‘I’ll ask if he’ll see you.’

  ‘He’d better.’

  The porter shambled off among the palms in the rear of the hall and almost at once emerged following a tall, slim young man with a small dark moustache and sideboards. At that time of day, even, he was dressed like a tailor’s dummy. He’d been trained in Paris and had highly manicured finger-nails and hair plastered with aromatic brilliantine.

  ‘You wished to see me?’

  He eyed Luc’s soiled raincoat and slouch hat. When he’d finished scrutinising Littlejohn as well, he seemed in a better temper.

  ‘You’re English?’

  ‘Yes. This is Chief-Inspector Luc of the Paris Sûreté.’

  That changed his tune! He rubbed his hands.

  ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Just answer a few questions, if you please.’

  ‘Delighted to help. May I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks, we’re anxious to get back to Paris. My friend here has to be back at Scotland Yard this evening.’

  Monsieur Guy seemed even more eager to help. His body worked in convulsions of anxiety to do the right thing. He clapped his hands for the porter.

  ‘Bring the bottle of the best Marc de Bourgogne, Simon. No, no, gentlemen, I insist. It will not take more of your time, if you honour me by drinking with me.’

  He poured out three high-speed heavy helpings of the brandy.

  ‘To your successful endeavours, gentlemen. …’

  Then in a lower tone.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just some information about someone who might have stayed here this Spring. Etienne Jourin.’

  Monsieur Guy was pale, but turned paler.

  ‘I hear he’s been murdered in England. It’s all over the town.’

  ‘Did he ever stay here?’

  ‘He did. For several days. Last May, it was. How can I forget it?’

  ‘Why?’

  Monsieur Guy flung his hands in the air, like someone playing diabolo.

  ‘He was a gaolbird. He’d not long been released from prison, I’m sure. It was all regular here, of course. He filled in the usual fiche when he checked-in, but gave a false name. Unfortunately my father was away in Auxerre on business at the time, and I was then in Paris, working. Mademoiselle Lebrun was in charge of the reception. My mother was looking after the hotel until my father returned at week-end. Neither of them knew Jourin. If my father or I had been here, it would, of course, have been different. We knew him in the old days. As it was, they booked him in. He took a suite. Yes, he did. The impertinent bounder. We’d have showed him the door. Kicked him out. As it was, he stayed four days. Then my father returned, recognised him, and asked him to leave.’

  ‘He didn’t tell the police?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t aware that the police were still after him. They didn’t tell us till much later, long after he’d gone. Jourin took it with his usual impudence. Asked if he might telephone, and booked a suite at the Carlton, at Cannes. I must say, he paid the bill here, and tipped the staff lavishly, just to show-off. I don’t know where he’d got his money from. Presumably robbed someone on the way.

  ‘And that was that, eh?’

  Monsieur Guy had to take another drink of his brandy to brace him.

  ‘It was not. As you might guess, he left scandal behind him. First, he seduced a new floor-maid we had. A girl from Sens, too, to add to the trouble. After he’d gone, her mother came here and played merry hell in front of a party of high-class guests who’d just arrived. Her language was dreadful, I believe. They had to give brandy to one of the ladies of the high-class party. The mother wanted the address of Jourin, but, of course, we didn’t give it. This is a discreet hotel. …’

  Littlejohn hid his smile in his brandy glass. He could imagine it. The mother of the wronged new girl, coarsely filling the hall with her oaths and lamentations, and perhaps some other unspeakable details as well, and the management and staff rushing round, being discreet, trying to get the woman in the street. …

  ‘But that wasn’t all. Something far worse.’

  Good heavens! What was coming next! Littlejohn helped himself to some more brandy, as Monsieur Guy seemed to have forgotten it. The hall porter, who had edged nearer to be in at the kill, caught Littlejohn’s eye, winked at him, and nodded to show that there was a real titbit on the way.

  ‘He ran off to the Riviera with a very nice guest of ours. A lady travelling alone, studying church music. She was English.’

  Littlejohn was just swallow
ing a few drops of excellent brandy and it went down the wrong way. He choked and then controlled himself.

  Luc stepped aside.

  ‘She was English,’ he said with a chuckle.

  There then began a contest between Monsieur Guy and Littlejohn. At first, Monsieur Guy began to address Littlejohn in broken English, but Littlejohn’s French was more adequate. Monsieur Guy persisted for a time, for this was a chance to practise his English for the coming season. However, Littlejohn won.

  ‘What was her name?’ he said in his good French.

  ‘It was on the fiche. The police here have it. I can find it for you, however, in the books.’

  He clapped his hands in the direction of the desk labelled Reception by an illuminated sign, which kept going in and out, not intentionally, but because there was something wrong with it.

  A young lady like a film-star emerged and almost made obeisance to Monsieur Guy.

  ‘Mademoiselle Lebrun. First, get the electrician to repair that sign. It’s at it again. Now, you remember the Englishwoman who stayed here last May? The one who was interested in church music?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Guy.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I’ll look it up, Monsieur Guy.’

  ‘Do so, and be quick.’

  She gave him an adoring look and undulated behind the opaque glass screen where the secrets of the hotel were presumably kept. Littlejohn wondered if Jourin had tried his wiles with the receptionist, too. She seemed his style.

  ‘Will you tell me what happened whilst Mile. Lebrun’s looking up the name?’

  ‘I will, indeed. It appears from all accounts, that Jourin struck up an acquaintance with the English lady. I believe he told her he was interested in church music, too. As if he was! But just like him. They went out quite a lot together in the three days he remained here, before my father kicked him out. Visiting local churches, I gather. Can you beat it? Jourin! From what I’m told, Jourin fell properly for her. I never saw her, but I believe she was lovely and a perfect lady. Simon, come here!’

  The porter scuttled to be in the forefront. He was wearing felt slippers and his haste almost shook the ornaments from the walls.

  ‘You were here when Jourin had the impertinence . .. ?’

  ‘I was. But the funny thing was, he seemed in love proper with the English Miss. She had him round her little finger. Why else should he have stayed here with the police after him. He was a proper cool ’un.’

  ‘That will be all, Simon. I just wanted you to confirm, not to sing a hymn of praise about him. When he left, he took the English girl with him to Cannes.’

  The porter loitered off reluctantly, but posted himself well within earshot.

  ‘Well, well. And you never saw them again.’

  ‘I wasn’t here. But the young lady returned from the Riviera, without Jourin, less than a week later. Her brother brought her back.’

  ‘Her brother! I see. How did that come about?’

  ‘A few days after Jourin had taken the lady away, her brother telephoned from London. He’d had a postcard from Cannes. As she’d left England without any intention of going farther south than Vézelay, where, as you know, the music of the Church of the Madeleine is absolutely unique, her brother was anxious about her. He knew she should have stayed with us another week, when he hoped to join her here. My father told him what had happened. He said he couldn’t prevent it and warned the brother what a scoundrel Jourin was. The brother, it seems, took the next ’plane for Paris, arrived here on his way south, learned that Jourin had booked-in at the Carlton, at Cannes, and rushed off there hot-foot to find her. Next day, next day, they were back here, late at night, asking for rooms and on their way home to England. My father told me the young lady didn’t seem at all upset or embarrassed. My father said, in his opinion, she was a bit soft in the head. Very beautiful, but une sotte. Une originale. The type who ought not to travel alone. It seems she also played the harp. …’

  Monsieur Guy sniggered discreetly and smoothed his little moustache, which reminded Littlejohn of a couple of misplaced commas.

  Mlle. Lebrun was hurrying towards them with the information, but Littlejohn knew it already.

  ‘The name of the lady was Mademoiselle Macready. Her brother, who later brought her with him, was Doctor Macready. Il était très gentil. …’

  ‘I’ll bet he was,’ said Littlejohn.

  Chapter 9

  Seaside Excursion

  Another dismal november morning. There was no rain as dawn hesitantly broke, but the sky was dark and low. Anything might happen.

  Detective-Constable Peddar was on the job at daybreak. He was sitting in a police-car in Sackville Street, watching the gate of The Sycamores and ready to follow Sammy Barnes on an excursion to the ends of the earth, if needs be. He was an earnest young man, eager to get on and in the duties of the coming day he saw a chance of doing it. He sat as low as possible in his vehicle, which, on Cromwell’s advice, he’d parked in front of the church.

  ‘It’ll look as though you’ve gone inside to say your prayers,’ the sergeant had told him.

  Peddar had also given a lift, under cover of darkness, to Detective-Constable Stopford, who was jovial, but keen. Stopford’s cracks about the November dawn got on Peddar’s nerves a bit. He was concentrating on the work assigned to him, and was relieved when he was able to drop his companion at the end of July Street and brood upon the task in hand.

  The Willesden police had borrowed the key of the empty house almost opposite that of Mr. Peeples, and Stopford had been sent there to keep an eye on No. 25, where the little French polisher lived with his wife and the two children who were recovering from whooping-cough. Stopford quietly let himself in and watched the dawn arrive as he sat on a box in the front room keeping an eye on the house over the way. It seemed a forlorn sort of job, and Stopford had been chosen for it because of his equable temper.

  Stopford hadn’t been at his post very long, before the upstairs window of Peeples’ place showed a light. The blind was drawn and the watcher could not see what was going on, but it cheered him, at least, to know the house was occupied. He went into the hall to light a cigarette, and had hardly got back, before the light in the bedroom was extinguished.

  It was then that Stopford realised the kind of job that had been assigned to him. He’d been promised relief at noon. How someone else was going to effect this was a mystery to Stopford. In the full light of day and under the curious eyes of the occupants of July Street, it was going to be a bit ticklish to keep it a secret. However, that was going to be someone else’s headache. He began to wonder how he was going to pass the time, with one eye glued on Peeples’ front door and a small dusty room in which to entertain himself. He wasn’t occupied with the problem for long.

  Ten minutes after the bedroom light went out, Mr. Lionel Peeples appeared at his front door, struggling his way into a raincoat and putting on his cap. He then picked up an old suitcase, closed and locked the door, and made for the main Willesden Road.

  Stopford barely got himself cautiously out of the empty house, before Peeples reached the end of July Street and turned to the left. When the detective saw him again, he was standing at the bus-stop, fifty yards down the road. He hadn’t to wait long. Peeples had just time to take out and light a cigarette before the bus arrived. He bundled himself and his case on board and wormed his way upstairs.

  Stopford had to run the last few yards, leapt on the vehicle, and made himself comfortable down below.

  Peddar’s vigil lasted longer. People came and went at the church, the priest finally emerged and went in the presbytery to his breakfast. There was a smell of ham and eggs coming from a house opposite, which made Peddar miserable, for he was a trencherman. Still nothing happened at The Sycamores. He was just beginning to wonder if instead of a trailing job to Eastbourne, he’d been sent on a fool’s errand. Then, a car suddenly appeared, a small saloon, driven by a man in overalls. It emerged from August Street,
shot along Sackville Street and pulled up at Barnes’s house.

  The mechanic knocked on the door, someone answered, he didn’t stay, but left the car, and walked back down July Street. Peddar started his engine and sat at the alert.

  Ten minutes later, Barnes emerged alone. He’d been described to Peddar and the detective knew that his job was beginning. The car was so small and Barnes was so fat that he might have needed a monstrous shoe-horn to get him in the vehicle. But he was used to it. He went in head first on his stomach, sprawled all over the front seat, writhed about until he was properly arranged, and then began to shout through the window for his wife.

  ‘Come on! Don’t be all day.’

  Mrs. Barnes hurriedly appeared, pulling on her gloves, walked slowly, like an invalid, to the car, opened the door herself and arranged herself beside her husband, who, all the time, could be seen grumbling and abusing her for keeping him waiting. His complaints off his chest, Barnes then started the car and set off down Sackville Street. Peddar followed in a hurry.

  For some time, all went well. Shepherd’s Bush, Hammersmith, Fulham. … And then, suddenly, Barnes pulled-up just beyond Putney Bridge and waited. Peddar passed him, turned down a side-street, parked, and emerged smoking a cigarette and began to look in the shop-windows.

  Barnes was obviously annoyed. He looked at his watch, said something to his wife, didn’t receive the right answer, and started to berate her again. She was spared much of it by the sudden appearance of a ’bus, from which a man in a raincoat and cap and carrying a battered suitcase descended. He saw Barnes’s car at once and almost ran to join it. Barnes thrust his head through the window. He was, by now, in a towering rage and gave the newcomer a poor reception. Finally, the man in the cap scrambled in the back of the car and Barnes set-off again.

  Peddar, however, almost lost his quarry by his astonishment at the sight of Stopford, descending from the same bus and making a desperate effort to appear casual. Peddar caught his colleague’s eye and, without any other sign, hurried to his car, flung himself in it, and started the engine. Stopford seemed pleased to see him, but Peddar had no time for courtesies. He started the car before Stopford had closed the door, and was just in time to see the small black saloon vanishing in the far distance. He didn’t speak until he was well and safely on the trail again.