Death Before Breakfast

by George Bellairs

  When the police asked for a description of the leader they found he wasn’t without sense of humour. His description answered to that of Willy, of the Mouches; heavy moustache, sideboards, and spectacles, slightly tinted because he’d weak eyes.

  The police couldn’t pretend to go into the pedigrees and physical details of members of every new band in Paris. There had been a pause in jewel thefts and the St. Marc affair was forgotten. Everybody was talking about three or four good bands, among them Les Existentialistes, a gang of beatniks, with beards and a woman playing the piano, whom everyone thought was a man because her make-up was completely unfeminine except for her long hair. They were engaged for the première of the du Pan new ménage. When the lights went out and the du Pan finery went out with them, the band-leader vanished, too. Again, his associates in the band had never known him as anything else but a forlorn beatnik, with his ragged beard, unwashed face, long hair and sun-glasses because he said he’d made himself almost blind studying existentialism by candlelight. It was, without doubt, Willy again!

  The girl in the party had been Willy’s mistress. They lived together in a room in the Rue du Bac. Sometimes she played with the band; when the music wasn’t scored or suitable for a piano, she sat on the platform, admiring Willy. She was arrested and from what she said and other evidence found in their love-nest on the Left Bank, the police identified Jourin. Willy and Jourin were the same man!

  It seems that Willy had been in the villa at Melun the day before, arranging the bandstand and other musical details. Then, in the afternoon, for a final once-over. During his first visit, it later came out, he’d asked one of the maids if she could tell him where the main-switch for the electricity was kept. He said he might want to play a piece in the dark. In fact, he’d eventually promised the girl it would be her favourite number, a dismal thing called Nos Affaires vont mal – Things are in a bad way with us. He didn’t play it, of course. He’d installed a clever time-switch, such as a master jeweller like Jourin could make, in the power room and it put the place in darkness just as the band were playing Paris, Ma Tristesse.

  The other members of the band took Willy’s disappearence very badly. As they told the police, they’d just started recording, and their first effort at their exclusive number, Paris, Ma Tristesse, had been a top hit. Without Willy, they might just as well pack up. And they did.

  Littlejohn closed the files, took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

  Who was the beatnik girl who’d played the piano in Jourin’s last jazz-band? Could it possibly have been Grace Macready?

  Was Grace’s arrested development merely an act to throw off suspicion, or was there another woman in the case? The police report had said that the girl lived with Jourin in the Rue du Bac.

  Better get back to Willesden and see how Cromwell was getting along. Instead the ’phone rang, and Cromwell was there.

  ‘I thought I’d let you know, sir, that three of us have spoken to every tenant who’s at home in July Street, but nobody’s ever seen the men in the passport photographs. We’ve drawn a complete blank.’

  ‘Thanks for the trouble you’ve taken, old man. Sorry you’ve had a journey for nothing. Did you find out much about what kind of neighbours the Macready’s are?’

  ‘Yes. They were in on both sides of No. 19. They all like the Macreadys. They say they’re quiet and peaceful and give them no trouble. Not only that, they’re not always complaining. The man on one side takes a pride in coming home late and noisy-drunk on Saturday nights. The Macreadys never say a word.’

  ‘Good! That might help the case a lot! They’re quiet and peaceable. Well, well. … Anything else, old chap?’

  ‘No. Miss Macready plays the piano, the harp and a gramophone, now and then. Remember, sir, you told me she was a musical highbrow. Well, it seems she can be a lowbrow, too. The man on the other side from the noisy-drunk, says she has fits of playing the same tune over and over again and it gets on his nerves. When he told me that, his daughter, a real little beat, if ever there was one, ups and defends Miss Macready. She could go on playing for ever as far as she’s concerned. The kid got so enthusiastic about it that she played one of the pieces Miss Macready strums over and over again, on a tape-recorder for me. A dreary thing that gave me the willies… Will I be seeing you soon, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be right along to Willesden police station. See you there. By the way, what’s the tune the beatnik played for you?’

  ‘Didn’t know you were interested in that sort of music. I think it was called Paris, Ma Tristesse. She even offered to lend me the recording. … Are you there, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, Cromwell. I’ll tell you what to do. Take the little girl at her word. Borrow the recording and, if she’s not needing it to-night, ask her to lend you her tape-machine, too.’

  Chapter 12

  Mr. Barnes is Bored

  Littlejohn looked at his watch. Four o’clock.

  ‘I’m on my way to see Sammy Barnes again, now. The garage will still be open, I think. Call there, old chap, and find out where Trodd, the foreman, lives, if he isn’t on duty. Bring him in and meet me at around five o’clock at Macready’s place. Telephone Chatham, too, and tell them I’d be obliged if they’d call at Medley Street and send Peeples over here. If he’s out with the kids, they’d better find him. He can’t have gone far. He hasn’t a car. …’

  They were back at Willesden and Cromwell had reported in full about his afternoon’s work. He also had with him a tape recorder and a tape which included among other masterpieces, Paris, Ma Tristesse.

  ‘Shall I play it over for you, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll bother. I take your word for it.’

  ‘It’s a recording of a disc by the Existentialists. The girl, called Mayoh, was delighted to lend it. She calls them “the exentialists”.’

  Sackville Street was busier and noisier than usual. The traffic was heavy and there was a football match going-on in the recreation ground. The pavement cheek-by-jowl with the wall of the recreation ground, was a sort of Sunday promenade and girls in their best clothes and with fantastic hair-styles were strolling from one end of it to the other, to the wolf whistles and hoots of gangs of teddy-boys. The drizzle had ceased, but looked ready to start again any minute.’

  The Sycamores was as drab and neglected as ever. Littlejohn wondered if Barnes and his wife might have gone on another of their jaunts in the car, but after he’d beaten two tattoos with the heavy knocker, Mrs. Barnes appeared. She seemed surprised to see him, but had no chance to express it. Her husband’s loud voice came from somewhere upstairs.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Superintendent Littlejohn.’

  ‘Well, what are you keeping him standin’ on the steps for? Ask him in.’

  She seemed unable to do anything right for Barnes.

  Sammy Barnes met him at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Come in, Super. Very sociable of you to pay us a Sunday call. Lucky to find us in. My wife didn’t feel up to a run out to-day. She’s not so well. That’s right, isn’t it, love?’

  Mrs. Barnes seemed unimpressed by the term of endearment. Judging from the look she gave him, she and her husband had been having a row. She hurried off to the rear quarters behind the stairs.

  ‘Come in the lounge and make yourself comfortable. It’s not much of a place, but then I’m only a working man, Super.’

  He pushed open the door and they were in the same dismal room where they’d met before.

  ‘What about a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Now don’t come the old tale about being on duty. You ought to be resting on Sunday. Seven days a week’s good for nobody, including policemen.’

  Barnes seemed very pleased with himself for some reason. He was dressed in his best suit, reefer jacket and trousers in nautical blue, and a pink shirt without a tie.

  ‘Sit down. I suppose we’re in for another session. And whether you’re drinking or not,
I am. …’

  He rolled to the door.

  ‘Ada,’ he bawled. ‘Bring the whisky and some soda. The big glasses.’

  Mrs. Barnes entered and without a word, spread the glasses and bottles, and then silently made her exit.

  ‘She’s a bit under the weather. I’ve been tickin’ her off about doin’ all her own housework. She can afford help, but all day and every day, God send Sunday, too, she’s brushin’, dustin’, polishin’ and cookin’ meals. It gets on my nerves. …’

  He poured out drinks.

  ‘Help yourself to soda. You’ll drink with me, I know, seein’ that it’s Sunday. Good health.’

  Barnes took a good swig and put down his glass. Then he leaned back in his chair voluptuously.

  ‘Nice to have a drink and a rest, isn’t it? How are you gcttin’ on with this case? Bit of a corker, isn’t it? I suppose you’ve called with some more questions. Well, fire away. You’re not drinkin’. …’

  ‘Mr. Barnes, I’d like your account of what happened on the night Etienne Jourin was murdered.’

  If Littlejohn had expected to spring a surprise on Barnes, he was mistaken. Instead, Barnes laughed loudly, showing all his teeth and the inside of his mouth, as well.

  ‘Well, that beats the band! The police are stumped and are having to ask Sammy Barnes to do their work for them.’

  He unfastened his jacket, revealing his heavy paunch and a belt holding-up his trousers. Then, he rose, took the jacket off and hung it on the back of a chair.

  ‘It’s a bit hot in here. Take yours off, too, if you like.’

  He took another drink.

  ‘A bit excitin’, isn’t it? Frenchmen bein’ murdered on our doorsteps and to add a bit of spice to the case, Grace Macready mixed up in it. Fascinatin’ bit of homework, isn’t she? Very accomplished, too.’

  ‘A good neighbour of yours, Mr. Barnes. In fact, both the doctor and his sister are on visiting terms here, aren’t they?’

  Barnes grinned.

  ‘What are you gettin’ at, now?’

  ‘Last time I called, I noticed you were entertaining the two of them in the room across the passage.’

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you? You’re right.’

  ‘Comparing notes?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Let’s stop fencing, Mr. Barnes. I know that Jourin was in your garage, wounded, on the night he died. He’d been stripped of all his possessions, including the diamonds, and was carried across to Peeples’ house for medical attention by Dr. Macready.’

  ‘Anything more you know?’

  Barnes was now sitting forward in his chair, his little eyes fixed on Littlejohn’s face. He was trying to grin still, but it was a poor effort now.

  ‘Yes. If it hadn’t been so tragic later, it would have been a bit comic, Super. He was picked up, stabbed, outside my garage, brought in, and then the commotion started. Somebody went across for Macready, who didn’t want to attend to him. He wanted another doctor, till I reminded him that Jourin was known to be his enemy and he might have to take the rap for the crime. You see, it had somehow got around the neighbourhood that Grace had been hitting the high spots with a Frenchman on her last holidays there and the doctor had been over and brought her home. He told me himself what he’d do to the Frenchie if he ever met him again. And he meant it, too.’

  Littlejohn sipped his whisky.

  ‘Have you a ’phone here, Mr. Barnes?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the hall. Want to use it? It’s all yours.’

  He found the instrument and put through a call to Willesden police.

  ‘Any reply from Paris yet about my Cannes enquiry?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It came through just after you’d left. Sergeant Cromwell said he’d tell you. There was no robbery reported at the time the two you mentioned were in Cannes. But they registered as husband and wife at the Carlton. It seems they were, too. The reason the reply to your enquiry’s been so long is that the police called at the hotel to check it. At the time Jourin and the woman were there, her brother arrived, too, in a stew. There was a row between him and Jourin. It was reported to the management. One of the porters overheard Macready say to Jourin, “I don’t care if she is checked-in as your wife. I won’t have her mixed-up in your business”. Something like that, sir.’

  ‘Thank you very much. …’

  Barnes had refilled his glass and recovered his composure.

  ‘All right, Super?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Now let’s take it up where we left off, Mr. Barnes. Who killed Jourin? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. And I said I didn’t know, and you can ask me till doomsday and the answer’ll still be the same. I don’t know.’

  ‘What were you doing in Chatham yesterday, Mr. Barnes? I thought you were off to Eastbourne.’

  ‘I changed my mind. The day wasn’t so good. Who told you where we were?’

  ‘We have our sources of information, you know. You had Peeples with you. No doubt you thought he’d like to see his family. The family you told to clear out, so that Jourin could have the house to himself.’

  ‘What of it? I told you the doctor said the garage was hardly the place to nurse a badly wounded man in, so I asked Peeples to clear his family and we’d move the Frenchie there. Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Except that you ought to have notified the police and had Jourin moved to hospital where he could have received first-rate attention.’

  ‘I told you what it would have meant for Macready. …’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me what it would have meant for you. Had you brought in the police, Jourin would have been identified and there would have been questions about what happened to the proceeds of the robbery at Melun. What did you do with the diamonds, Mr. Barnes?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I see now why you’re here again. You’re wantin’ a mug to pin the murder on. Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. All I know about it, is that I was sent for because there had been a wounded man picked up in the road opposite my garage and they didn’t know what to do about it. I told them to carry him inside and on my way, I slipped in for Macready. I then arranged for him to be taken to Peeples’ place. That’s all.’

  ‘And after he died, did you drive out the dairy runabout and take him to the canal and dispose of the body?’

  ‘I’d nothing to do with that. When I got to my place next mornin’, they said Jourin had died in the night and the body had vanished. I knew Macready had removed it.’

  ‘He says he didn’t. The wounded man tried to get away from Peeples’ house, started a pulmonary haemorrhage, and died in July Street. Then, after an interruption by a passer-by, who went on without a word about it, the body was removed. Macready says it wasn’t his doing.’

  ‘He’s a liar, then. That’s what I get for being his friend. I agreed not to speak to a soul about what had happened and so did Trodd, who was the only other one at the garage. Macready said he’d attend to the wounded Frenchie till he was fit to travel again and get away. I agreed to stay mum. This is what I get. He’s trying to put the blame for the stabbing on me.’

  ‘You and the doctor don’t seem to have synchronised your stories properly, Mr. Barnes, although I’m sure you rehearsed them well enough the night he and his sister were here. The doctor told me that Jourin’s lung was punctured and he hadn’t a ghost of a chance of survival, even in hospital.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me that. I suppose he kept quiet about it to get me to agree to his proposal. I tell you, you can’t pin anything on me, except that I helped fix up the wounded man decently. No crime in that, is there?’

  ‘We’ll attend to that later. We’ll go round and visit the doctor together, Mr. Barnes, and see if we can’t get a proper arrangement of the story.’

  ‘No need to be sarcastic about it. I did my best. If I’d known what would be the result, I’d have had the chap in hospital right away and be damned to Macready.’

>   ‘And be damned to the diamonds, as well?’

  ‘I know nothing about any diamonds. I don’t know why you keep harping on diamonds. You can’t prove anything except the truth I’ve told you.’

  ‘We’d better confirm that with the doctor, too, when we visit him.’

  ‘It’s Sunday and I’m not going out. I’ve a right to my rest and privacy, without the damned police coming in and spoilin’ it.’

  Sammy Barnes had already drunk three stiff whiskies and his eyes were beginning to sparkle and his cheeks grow red.

  ‘I really don’t know why you’ve called, Super., if not by way of bein’ sociable. Is there anythin’ more you want to talk about? If not, I must be gettin’ along to my meal. Then, I’m off to the garage to count and enter the day’s takings. Or, perhaps you’d like to stay for a meal with us… ?’

  His eyes twinkled. He thought he was in the clear and was almost exultant.

  ‘I suppose that, being a friend of the Macready’s, you’ll know that this murder in July Street has made Miss Macready a widow. …’

  Barnes struggled from the depths of his armchair and sat upright.

  ‘Really, Super., I think the strain of the case is drivin’ you up the wall. Grace isn’t married.’

  ‘Yes, she is, Mr. Barnes. She’s Mrs. Etienne Jourin. And don’t tell me you don’t know it. Don’t tell me either that you didn’t know what Jourin was doing here on the night he was stabbed, because you’re up to your neck in this case, like the rest of the July Street gang. You were all in it on the night Jourin died; carrying him in the garage and concealing him in your private office; transferring him across to Peeples’ place; removing the body and chucking it in the canal after Jourin died; and then getting your heads together to conceal the crime and your shares in it. I know most of what happened. Except who stabbed Jourin. Before the night’s out, I’m going to know that, too.’