Death Before Breakfast

by George Bellairs

  As if to deprive Littlejohn’s statement of the dramatic element, a fire-engine passed in the street, siren wailing, moving hell for leather.

  ‘There must be a fire somewhere,’ said Barnes. He was smiling again, now, puffing his little short-stemmed pipe with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘Have another drink.’

  ‘Not just now.’

  ‘I’m glad you called. Sunday’s a bit of a bore. In fact, it’s just hell. I don’t know what to do with myself if Ada doesn’t want to go out for a run.’

  ‘I suppose you called it off to-day because you were afraid to go far on account of the police. Isn’t that it?’

  Barnes shrugged.

  ‘You said that, not me.’

  There was a malicious smile on Barnes’s lips. His appearance seemed to have changed, hardened. He looked like a man who holds the best hand at cards.

  ‘You’ve had a wasted journey, Super., if you thought you were going to get anything out of me. I mind my own business. What Macready and sister do, or did, isn’t of any interest. It’s up to them to get out of the mess you say they’re in. But I must say, they’ve been a bit close with me not telling me it was Grace’s husband who was killed. Why isn’t she in mourning?’

  He laughed outright at the thought of it.

  ‘It would suit her, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose she cares. She’s probably found out the type of man Jourin was. A girl in every port. Grace is one of many, I think.’

  Mrs. Barnes entered timidly.

  ‘Shall I keep your tea warm?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ada, don’t bother me now! The Super’s trying to prove I committed a murder, and here you are, worryin’ about the stewed tripe and cowheel. Eat it all yourself.’

  Mrs. Barnes looked horrified and fled.

  Barnes was thoroughly down in the mouth now. His pipe had gone out and he was helping himself to another whisky.

  ‘You wouldn’t think, would you, that I once arranged to buy a house in the Thames valley? I’ve done well in business. There’s a few round here who think a lot of themselves that I could buy-up, lock stock and barrel. … Ada wouldn’t move. She said she was used to this neighbourhood. Look at it. …’

  He pointed savagely through the window, at the sad trees of the recreation ground overhanging the wall and dripping with moisture in the dusk. The teenagers were still about in little knots, the girls screaming and talking in shrill voices, the boys strutting about and pushing them around.

  ‘… And my only daughter married a scrap-iron merchant and lives in Stockwell.’

  He gave Littlejohn another savage look.

  ‘You needn’t think I’ve always been like this; fat and hardly able to move about for weight. I was young and slim once, and ambitious. I made up my mind that nobody was goin’ to push me around for need of money. And I set out and made money. What good has it done me? None. I’m here rotting within half a mile of where I was born.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Mr. Barnes?’

  Littlejohn knew very well, but Barnes would never confess. It was a polite form of third-degree that was going on. Barnes, bored to death in spite of the money he didn’t know how to spend, rotting on a Sunday afternoon, thinking what he might have done, and seeking a pal to tell all about it. Give him time and he’d say too much.

  ‘Why am I telling you? I’m telling you because you are the sort of chap I’d have talked intelligently to, the sort of man who’d have been my pal if things had gone as I intended. As it is, if I want to talk to anyone better than those I’m accustomed to mix with, the Admiral Rodney type, I’ve to call on the Macreadys for an hour. They’ve travelled and so have I. We can swap yarns about the places we’ve been to and seen, the people we’ve met. … Nobody around here has been farther than Margate for a trip and a meal of jellied eels. Sometimes I feel as if I’d suffocate.’

  He looked it too. Thoroughly browned-off and sorry for himself.

  ‘So, for a bit of excitement, you teamed-up with the Macreadys and their affairs. Is Grace as soft as she pretends to be, or is she as capable as you and Macready?’

  ‘She’s a very clever woman at painting and music. But somehow or other, she’s a bit queer mentally. …’

  ‘What they call arrested development? The mentality of a child who’s never grown-up?’

  ‘Who told you that? Nothing of the sort. Her brother told me that when she was in her early twenties, she had an unlucky love affair. She actually turned-up at her wedding, but the groom had run away with somebody else. She tried to drown herself. Never the same afterwards. As if the affair had done something to her brain, if you get what I mean.’

  ‘And then she fell for Jourin and married him.’

  ‘I know nothing about that. It came as quite a surprise when you told me.’

  But his smile was too heavy. He’d known all the time. He took another whisky and soda. His capacity seemed to have no limit.

  ‘Have another. We still seem to have a bit to talk about. Play the game, Super. Tell me who you suspect of killing Jourin.’

  ‘I don’t suspect anyone. I just don’t know. It might have been any of you.’

  ‘Any of us? And who would us be, if you don’t mind telling me?’

  Littlejohn slowly filled his pipe and lit it.

  ‘The Macreadys, because Jourin might have double-crossed them. Or, it might be you, because you don’t mean to tell me you didn’t know that when Jourin turned-up he was heavily loaded with jewellery he’d stolen in one of his latest efforts. Or maybe it was Peeples or Trodd, out to get rich quickly at Jourin’s expense. Or, perhaps, as you all seem to want me to believe, someone, an accomplice, followed and killed Jourin because he’d given him the slip and run off with the plunder. …’

  ‘It’s all very interesting. And you’ve got to decide which one of us did it. Well, I can’t help you.’

  He gave Littlejohn a defiant look and then cast his eyes round the room as though trying to find someone else to defy as well.

  ‘How long have you been blackmailing Macready?’

  Barnes looked Littlejohn full in the face. He had to force himself to do it. Then he pretended to be looking for the syphon again and fiddled with his glass.

  ‘Come off it, Super. Why should I be blackmailing Macready? Is this a new trick to trap me?’

  ‘Do you remember when he was comfortable and in practice down the road, how one night he approached you to repair a damaged wing on his car. …’

  Barnes’s eyes kept a furtive watch on Littlejohn, now. He was wondering how much the Superintendent knew. He seemed to be seeking a weak spot in Littlejohn’s armour.

  ‘I think you might be able to tell me the rest, Mr. Barnes.’

  ‘I remember repairing the wing. Yes. He’d been bumped in a car-park.’

  ‘That’s not what he told you. He thought he’d knocked down and killed a child through speeding on a dark road. Perhaps he had been bumped in the car-park, as you say. You probably guessed that at the time. However, you put things right to prevent the police making sure it was Macready who’d done it. You also fixed him an alibi. You paid a former employee, who was sick in bed, to say the doctor was with him at the time of the accident. That put Macready in your power. You humiliated him so much that he took to drink and almost ruined himself. He’d to give up practice to avoid disgrace.’

  ‘You can’t prove that. I admit I repaired the wing, but, as I said, it had been done in a car-park.’

  ‘And Peeples did the polishing. …’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘He’s an expert at it.’

  ‘It’s so long ago that I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Perhaps Peeples hasn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t it time you were going. My tea’s spoiling.’

  Barnes was frowning now, wondering where it was all leading.

  ‘Did you know that it wasn’t the doctor who killed the boy on the bicycle?’

  ‘ No. I know the po
lice thought it was. …’

  ‘And you helped him out.’

  ‘What would you have done for a friend?’

  ‘A friend who paid you quite a lot after it?’

  Barnes started to fume with rage now. Littlejohn seemed to have run him through all the gamut of his emotions during the interview. He looked at his watch. Five-fifteen. Cromwell would be waiting for him in July Street.

  ‘You might well look at your watch, Super. It’s time to go.’

  ‘I asked if you knew that it was proved later that the doctor didn’t kill the boy. Someone who had it on his conscience, confessed he did it. That put the doctor in the clear.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. It wasn’t in the papers.’

  Barnes rose and stretched himself. Littlejohn rose, too. Barnes then yawned and seemed pleased that Littlejohn was taking the hint.

  ‘I’ll see you to the door, then, Super., and then go and see if my tea’s still eatable. …’

  ‘I’m afraid your tea will have to wait a little longer, Mr. Barnes. You’re coming with me, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’ve no grounds for arrestin’ me.’

  ‘Perhaps not, Mr. Barnes. I wasn’t going to do that. We’re just off to pay a social call together. … on the Macreadys.’

  ‘I’m not comin’. I’m staying here and havin’ my tea.’

  ‘You either come to July Street with me, or we go to Divisional Headquarters at Willesden and thrash out matters there.’

  ‘What matters? I thought you’d wasted enough of my time already.’

  ‘We’re going to see how your story agrees with that of Dr. Macready. Ready, Mr. Barnes?’

  Barnes took his cap from the hallstand, slapped it on his head, and followed Littlejohn without another word.

  Chapter 13

  Chamber Concert

  Cromwell was waiting for them in the police car at the end of July Street. He seemed to be having trouble in keeping his passengers in order.

  Trodd, his narrow eyes looking narrower than ever, had been on the rampage, threatening what he would do to the Superintendent when he met him. He was wearing grey flannels, a sports coat, and an open-necked shirt. It might have been Spring instead of a miserable November day. A bachelor, Trodd had been enjoying himself with friends at a working-men’s club when Cromwell appeared on the scene. He had, at first, resisted Cromwell’s polite invitation, made in the privacy of the club vestibule, and Cromwell had had to get tough. Finally, he followed the sergeant, under protest, after explaining to his pals that he was assisting the police in a case and was so important that they couldn’t even leave him alone on Sunday. After they’d paid for a drink for him to celebrate this public service, Trodd got in the car and was borne off as if he’d been the mayor of the place.

  ‘I shall want a proper explanation of all this from your Super. And it had better be good. I’ve got my rights, you know.’

  When Trodd saw Sammy Barnes, now a bit puzzled and depressed by the mystery of what was going-on, but trying hard to bluff it out, he went off the boil and looked as disturbed and down in the mouth as his boss.

  As for Mr. Peeples, who had been hastily rushed from the pub where he was being entertained by his father-in-law, and sent by express post to Willesden, he was a complete wreck. His father-in-law had insisted on accompanying him to London and the police had insisted he shouldn’t. The police had won and Mr. Peeples was now wishing they hadn’t. He felt the need of some support. He hadn’t even had time to change out of his blazer, with a phoney coat-of-arms on the pocket, and his flannel bags.

  ‘I thought we were pals,’ he told Cromwell when they met.

  ‘So did I, until I heard how you spoofed me about the whooping-cough. Now you’re just an ordinary witness in the case. Come on.’

  Peeples didn’t understand what it was all about, until he saw Sammy Barnes. Then he thought the worst. His boss had been arrested! Peeples collapsed and when they got him in the doctor’s house, he was given brandy, and recovered.

  At first, Dr. Macready thought Peeples had been brought in as a patient. Perhaps a repetition of the Jourin affair.

  ‘Not again! ’ he said, but he changed his tune when he saw the police.

  ‘What is the meaning of all this? Can’t we be left in peace on Sunday, above all days.’

  Sunday seemed to have some special significance among the irreligious occupants of July Street. Perhaps they thought the law ceased to operate on the Sabbath, as Mrs. Jump used to call it piously but incorrectly.

  They all filed indoors as if driven along by an irresistable force. They hadn’t been invited, but they went in. They seemed to think it had all been arranged. A sort of free-for-all.

  Grace Macready emerged from the room behind. She looked from one to another of them, including Sammy Barnes, who removed his cap when he saw her.

  ‘Whatever’s happening? On Sunday, too!’

  Another Sabbatarian!

  Sammy Barnes seemed to have an immense respect for Grace Macready. He stood before her, apologetic, like a convert caught backsliding.

  ‘You’d better speak to the Super. It’s all his doin’. I don’t know what he’s up to.’

  There was the question of accommodating the lot of them. Peeples was being given a stimulant by the doctor, who apparently thought a retreat into his profession might give him time to take his bearings. In a crisis, he seemed to leave matters to his sister.

  ‘You’re not staying long, I hope. Perhaps you’ll tell me what all this is about, Mr. Barnes.’

  ‘I told you, Miss Grace, I don’t know. But I’m not staying long, I can assure you. I haven’t had my tea yet.’

  Cromwell and Littlejohn exchanged glances. Nobody seemed to realise they were involved in a murder case. It might have been an informal meeting of the shop stewards from the garage.

  ‘Do you mind if we use your sitting-room, Miss Macready? There are several matters to discuss about the case of Jourin’s death. Some important information has come to light.’

  She couldn’t refuse after that. Grace was as eager as the rest to know just how much the police had found out. They all looked uneasy and uncertain now.

  ‘You’d better all come in, then.’

  Cromwell, carrying his borrowed tape-recorder in a brown paper parcel, shepherded them in. Littlejohn held back and buttonholed the doctor. Macready gave him a startled look.

  ‘Dr. Macready. A day or two ago, your sister kindly showed me round this house. I missed seeing one room, however. The one behind the locked door at the head of the stairs. May I look inside it now, please?’

  Macready reared.

  ‘Certainly not. This isn’t a public house. It’s a private residence and I resent the free and impertinent way in which you are using it. You’re causing us great inconvenience. I think it outrageous for you to impose this mob upon us. You’ll have it to answer for. But when you ask to intrude further on my privacy and enter my study, where I keep my papers and do my work, I draw the line. The answer is No.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Please excuse me whilst I ask the driver of the police car to go back to district headquarters for a search warrant. I have an idea what the room contains. I insist on making sure.’

  Macready looked ready to burst and the veins stood out on his forehead. Then he changed his mind and started to wheedle.

  ‘I know you’re anxious to wind-up this case, Littlejohn. So am I. It is becoming a nuisance to us all. But there’s nothing, as I said, in there, except my private possessions, many of a sentimental nature. I beg of you. …’

  ‘I must insist, doctor. Will you go up and open the door?’

  Macready didn’t know which line to take next. Finally, he gave in.

  ‘Very well. But I shall see that a complaint about your conduct reaches the proper quarter. I have friends in the Cabinet.’

  He looked it, too. Elegant as a diplomat, in his Sunday clothes, in spite of all the rumpus and confusion.

 
At the head of the stairs, Macready hesitated a moment as though ready to resist again. Then he shrugged his shoulders, took out a key-chain from his trousers pocket, selected one from a bunch, and unlocked the door. As he stood aside for Littlejohn to enter, his self-confidence seemed to seep away and he looked like someone beaten.

  Inside, it was a workroom; no trace of a study, as such. Neat and orderly, with nothing much in sight, except a workbench with a small electric motor bolted to it, a powerful bench-light to illuminate the job, a drill, a lathe, and an expensive steel vice. There were cupboards on the wall above the bench. Littlejohn opened them one after another. They contained delicate tools of all kinds, from small flat hammers and drills to small steel chisels, files and tweezers. There were buffing-wheels to fit the lathe, cutting and polishing implements; even engraving tools. It was obvious from the fine and precision nature of the set-up that this was a complete jeweller’s equipment for dismantling, breaking-up, re-setting or transforming precious stones.

  ‘Was this equipment Jourin’s?’

  ‘It belonged to both of us.’

  Macready realised that the game was up. He answered in a tired, flat voice.

  ‘So, you are a jeweller, too.’

  ‘Jourin taught me. I used to be a good surgeon. I knew how to use my hands and delicate tools for fine work. It didn’t take me long to master this hobby.’

  ‘Hobby? Excuse me, doctor, profession. I understand that you were an accomplice of Jourin, engaged in transforming and making unrecognisable the booty he brought here. How did you dispose of it afterwards?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you, this was merely a hobby. … I … I. …’

  He didn’t know how to explain it. In fact, it was quite impossible to explain it at all.

  ‘I know all about you, doctor, so please don’t prevaricate. I know Jourin was your brother-in-law and that you and your sister were members of the gang who helped him dispose of the results of his thefts. Now, please answer the question. How did you dispose of the proceeds after you’d broken them up?’