Death in the Fearful Night (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “That won’t be enough. I never committed any crime and you can’t prove a thing. Your case is purely circumstantial and imaginary. You’ll make a fool of yourself. I’ve no time to argue any more with you. I’m going …”

  He thrust out his jaw and smiled aggressively.

  “Going to stop me?”

  “Yes. Walter Upshott, I arrest you for the murder of Marcia Fitzpayne and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence …”

  Upshott moved back a step in astonishment and Herle and Cromwell both rose. Cromwell had been thinking the case was a bit thin and Herle had been waiting for cast-iron proof and it hadn’t come. Perhaps, at this time of night, Littlejohn had hoped to wear down Upshott’s resistance and force a confession. No confession seemed likely. Upshott was gathering himself together and almost looking pleased with himself.

  “So, you want to try your luck, Littlejohn, and have a go at pinning it on me. Very well. Lock me up. You’ll see how it all ends.”

  Littlejohn turned to Herle.

  “Lock him up for the night.”

  Herle made a sign to the sergeant, who was still in the room, out of his depth, too, but dazzled by the majesty of the law. He longed for the day when he could caution and arrest a murderer.

  Upshott was led off, still making threats and swearing to bring about the downfall of Littlejohn.

  “You’re sure, sir?”

  Herle, although he doubted that Littlejohn had a clear-cut case, had grown much more respectful and subdued.

  “I hope to clear it all up shortly. Young James Checkland is coming from the infirmary, as soon as possible, to look after his mother, who needs him. I’ve asked her to send him across here immediately she can spare him. He’ll probably be able to help us.”

  Herle didn’t even ask, How? He had so much to ask about the affair that one question more or less didn’t matter.

  “I couldn’t finish the investigation with Upshott on our hands. Now we’re rid of him, we can clear up one or two doubtful points.”

  “Are we right in keeping him under arrest?”

  “It’s not safe to let him go. He seems to be a kind of Houdini in getting away from your men …”

  Herle winced.

  “And, more than ever, since he pulled a gun on us, it’s not right to put him back in circulation. What about the man who was keeping an eye on him tonight? Will he be off now?”

  “No. He’s on duty till 2.00 a.m. When we’d finally found Upshott again, he went off to Fenny Carleton police station. It’s under this one, and on Saturday night we usually have a plain-clothes man there. The local teddy-boys congregate at a dance-hall on Saturdays, so we give them an extra when we can spare one. Why?”

  “I’d like to speak to him.”

  “His name’s Walker. Constable Walker. A nice chap, in spite of tonight’s little slip.”

  Walker was in. When Herle told him Littlejohn wanted him, he stammered a bit. He thought he was in for a reprimand.

  “Is that you, Walker?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry about tonight’s mistake. I’m afraid there is no excuse …”

  “Forget it. We’ve got him safely in the cells. I want your help. What was he doing about 7 o’clock?”

  “As far as I remember, he was in the lounge with a crowd of others, standing cocktails before dinner.”

  “Did you keep an eye on him all the time?”

  “Well … I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not what you might call an expert at trailing people. It’s a bit embarrassing, like. You see, I couldn’t very well follow him about closely. I mean, when he was in the crowd round the bar drinking, I couldn’t just stand by his side and see he didn’t disappear, could I? I wasn’t expected to do that, was I?”

  He sounded strained and anxious.

  “Of course not. You let him out of your sight; is that it?”

  “He was among the crowd. There must have been twenty or more of them. There were a lot back from the football match, celebrating. Carleton beat Northampton, 3—1. I sat in the outside lounge and kept an eye on the crowd in case Upshott came out.”

  “Anything else unusual?”

  “There was a telephone call about seven o’clock. I kept the box in view and was ready in case he tried any tricks. We were caught that way before. He didn’t go out. Went back to the bar and drank along with the rest.”

  “And then did he come out to dinner?”

  “At about 8.00.”

  “Now think carefully, Walker. Is there another way out from the cocktail bar?”

  Heavy thinking at the other end.

  “Yes. Into the storeroom behind the bar. That’s the only other door in the place, except the one I was watching out into the hall.”

  “Is there an exit from the storeroom?”

  A pause.

  “Don’t hesitate, Walker. There’s no trouble brewing for you. As a matter of fact, you’re being a big help.”

  “Thank you, sir. There is a door from the storeroom leads to the alley behind the hotel. It’s where they unload some of the wines.”

  “Now, this is most important. Between seven and say half-past, did you see Upshott among the crowd? Think carefully.”

  “I couldn’t swear to it, sir. I was seeing that he didn’t leave the room and get away …”

  “Thank you, Walker. That will be all.”

  “Everything all right, I hope, sir.”

  “Of course. Thank you for helping us.”

  Walker hung up as bewildered as the rest of his colleagues.

  Meanwhile James Checkland had entered. He was pale and drawn, but nevertheless had the relaxed air of one who has been relieved of great anxiety.

  “How’s your father, Mr. James?”

  “Much better, sir. He has a very good chance of pulling round.”

  He looked questioningly at Littlejohn, as though wondering if he’d sent for him at this unearthly hour to enquire about the mayor’s health.

  Littlejohn took the revolver Upshott had used from his raincoat pocket and put it on the table.

  “Do you recognise that?”

  James Checkland winced.

  “It’s my father’s …”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  He picked it up. Then he pointed to two notches on the handle.

  “I recognise it by those. My father used to let me play with it when I was small. Unloaded, of course. I’d been to a film where an outlaw used to chisel notches on his gun for every man he shot. I did the same. Pretended I’d shot someone and cut a notch. When my father saw them, he took the gun away and locked it up. It was one he had in the first war. He was an officer in the Midshires.”

  “You have the revolver you found on the carpet beside the mayor’s body, Herle?”

  Herle, more bewildered than ever, crossed to a safe, opened it, and took out another gun, almost exactly like the first.

  Littlejohn examined it.

  “I suppose it was a general issue for the Midshires. Upshott must have been an officer as well.”

  “But what is all this about, sir? That’s not my father’s gun, but it was found by his body. You mean to say …?”

  “Yes. He didn’t shoot himself. He was shot … Bring Upshott in again, please.”

  “He’s asleep,” said the sergeant-in-charge apologetically.

  “Bring him in all the same.”

  Upshott, shoes unlaced, without collar, was led in. He was sulky this time.

  “Chalking up a heavy score, aren’t you, Littlejohn? Is this a new kind of third-degree? Keep waking-up a man to extract a confession. What do you want now? And be damned quick about it. I’m losing my beauty sleep.”

  “I forgot to finish the story, Upshott. We’ll all sit down again …”

  “I’m damned if I will. I’ll stand, and if you’re more than a couple of minutes I’m going back to my cell to bed.”

  “I forgot to ask you, why you shot Mr. Checkland tonight.�
��

  “Well, I’ll be damned! He’s thought up another!”

  He looked at the rest of them with a pitying look on his face.

  “Checkland rang you up about seven, asked you to come over to see him, arranged to let you in himself unknown to his family. So you gave the plain-clothes man the slip by mixing with the crowd in the cocktail-bar of the Barley Mow, creeping round the counter, and out into the street behind.”

  “This is getting very tedious, Littlejohn. I don’t need any bedtime stories, you know. My cell’s comfortable enough.”

  “You paid a visit to Mr. Checkland. You’d already called on him the night before. On that occasion, Upshott, you beat him up … Don’t deny it. You’re in better condition than he is and you gave him a punishing … Keep your temper, Mr. James. We’re going to give Mr. Upshott his dues, now. Mr. Checkland made out he’d had a fall. He didn’t wish to upset his wife or the fact to become public that his former rival for his wife’s hand had returned and thrashed him …”

  “Another fairy-tale …”

  Littlejohn seized Upshott’s right hand and twisted the fingers gently backwards. Upshott winced and almost screamed.

  “You were so vindictive that you knocked back your wrist and barked your knuckles in your efforts. You’re not much of a boxer, Upshott. Just a vicious swine! Luckily for the mayor you did injure your wrist. When you shot him, you fumbled the gun, because you couldn’t handle it properly on account of your injury. You fired too high and that saved his life. Be quiet! You’re not getting out of this one. Mr. Checkland had something to say to you. His wife had told him you’d obtained the letters and burned them. She was explaining your rendezvous at the Marquis of Granby. Mr. Checkland wondered about the letters. How had you come by them from Marcia Fitzpayne, the woman you said you never knew? He saw it all. You were the murderer of both Bracknell and Marcia. He accused you. This time, you couldn’t use your fists on him. He had his revolver on the desk and told you what he’d do if you tried any tricks. A pity he didn’t know you had your own gun in your pocket. You were quick to see that your revolvers were alike. The same issue, in fact, from the first war. You shot Checkland, took his gun away with you, and left your own with the body, looking as though it had slipped from his hand as he fell. I don’t know where you hid until you’d a chance to creep out by the window in the confusion. There were thick curtains, drawn, when we were there. Did you get away whilst Mr. James and his mother were out of the room? We’ll probably find traces of your descent from the window. Then you ran back to the Barley Mow, where your drinking companions probably thought your slipping out and in were some joke or other …”

  Littlejohn turned his back on Upshott.

  “Take him away. Perhaps he and his lawyer can get away with that one, too.”

  The trial of Walter Upshott caused quite a sensation at the Midshire Assizes. The jury chose to take the word of a string of reputable witnesses, including the mayor and mayoress of Carleton, against the denials of Upshott and the forensic eloquence of his lawyers. He was found guilty.

  Upshott was sentenced to life imprisonment. True to the nickname of Houdini, which Littlejohn had given him, he escaped twice from gaol, and was re-captured. In his third attempt, he fell from the high prison wall and broke his neck. It was a pity the hangman hadn’t been able to do it more painlessly for him long before.

  An extract from George Bellairs’

  Death in the Wasteland

  THE MAID wakened Littlejohn and told him he was wanted on the telephone. No peace for the wicked! He removed the newspaper which covered his face, eased himself out of the long lounge chair in which he had been extended, took a quick almost furtive swig from the glass of Pernod at his side, and followed the girl, down the long cool corridor like a cloister, to the instrument.

  ‘Allô!’

  An English voice answered.

  ‘Is that Superintendent Littlejohn?’

  Littlejohn and his wife were staying with his friend Dorange, of the Sûreté at Nice. Dorange, a bachelor, lived with his parents in their villa at Vence in the hills behind Antibes. His father was a wholesale grower of roses and carnations and their home stood in the midst of his gardens, bathed in the fragrance of flowers. Behind, the ground rose steadily to the barren forbidding peaks of the Basses-Alpes; ahead, it slowly descended to the Baie des Anges and the fabulous blue Mediterranean.

  It was August and the air vibrated with the heat. Grasshoppers and cicadas were chirping in the fields and cars and motor-bikes kept up an incessant hum along the distant roads.

  Littlejohn was on his own. His host was on duty in Nice; his father was in his rose-fields; and Mrs. Littlejohn and Dorange’s mother had gone on a shopping expedition to Antibes. Littlejohn had propped himself in a chair in the shade of the loggia, cursorily scanned a three-days-old English newspaper, and then spread it over his face and fallen asleep.

  ‘Is that Superintendent Littlejohn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name’s Waldo Keelagher …’

  No wonder the French maid hadn’t been able to pronounce the name! She’d called him Monsieur Kay, and then given it up.

  ‘My name’s Waldo Keelagher. You won’t know me, but I happen to be a cousin of Inspector Cromwell …’

  What next! Somebody on holiday who’d found himself at a loose end or else short of ready money. However, Littlejohn had heard of him. Cromwell had spoken of his cousin Waldo a time or two. He was a London stockbroker, who now and then gave Cromwell hot tips which didn’t come off. Impossible to forget a name like Waldo.

  ‘He’s mentioned you from time to time. You’re a stockbroker, aren’t you?’

  The voice grew full of eager relief.

  ‘That’s right. Thank God you’ve heard of me, and I don’t need to start proving that I’m genuine. I’m in a mess with the police in Cannes. I’m there now. My car’s been stolen. But that’s not the worst. My Great-Uncle George’s dead body was in it.’

  Littlejohn mopped his forehead with his free hand. Either he or Waldo must be suffering from the heat. Trundling his Great-Uncle George’s dead body around the Côte d’Azur in a car! It just wasn’t possible.

  ‘Say that again …’

  ‘I know you won’t believe me. It’s fantastic, but …’

  There was someone else on the line, too, to add to the confusion. It sounded, judging from the arithmetical conversation, like a maître d’hôtel of a large establishment arranging his rake-off with the local grocer.

  ‘Please hang-up. This line is engaged. Police.’

  Littlejohn smiled as he said it. He could imagine the receiver of the unknown intruder being very softly replaced. There was a click and they were free of him.

  ‘You were saying…?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir. But, you see, I’m on holiday here with my wife and we don’t know anybody. I’m in a fix. We were in a caravan. I ought to tell you that my Great-Uncle George insisted on coming with us, and died suddenly last night. We were miles from anywhere, and well … I thought we’d better bring the body to the nearest town and report it to the police. It seemed the best thing to do at the time, but now I have my doubts. I brought him to Cannes, parked the car near the police station, and my wife and I came in and told them about it. They wanted to see the body. When I went out to the car, it had been pinched and the body with it. I swear that’s the truth. The police here think I’m either mad, or playing a practical joke on them, or else perpetrating some hideous crime or fraud. They won’t believe the car was stolen …’

  No wonder! Littlejohn wondered if he were having a nightmare and would wake up when it grew too horrible to bear.

  A pause.

  ‘Excuse me. The policeman here’s saying something …’

  Littlejohn could overhear it. The quick-spoken French of the policeman was almost loud enough to be heard down in Vence. Then, Keelagher asking him in halting French to speak more slowly.

  ‘He says I’d better ask
you to come here and discuss the matter. He says he’s sorry to trouble you. He’s a friend of Commissaire Dorange and has met you before, but it’s a rather awkward matter to settle over the ’phone.’

  Awkward! If he hadn’t been Cromwell’s cousin …

  ‘All right. I’ll come. It will take me about an hour. How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I saw in the paper that you were in Vence staying with Commissaire Dorange. That’ll be Cromwell’s boss, I said to my wife …’

  Littlejohn might have known! The papers had got it and inserted it in the Comings and Goings column between a notice of the arrival of an oil magnate in his yacht and that of a film-star who’d run away with a conjurer’s wife.

  Superintendent Littlejohn and wife, of Schottland Yard, arrived yesterday, to stay at Les Charmettes, home of Commissaire Dorange at Vence …

  The trouble was, it was too hot altogether for undertaking a wild-goose chase after Great-Uncle George’s body. It was only out of affection for Cromwell, who, for some reason, always seemed proud of cousin Waldo and his Stock Exchange, that Littlejohn bestirred himself and took out the little Floride which was at his disposal and snaked his way down to Cannes. He was almost killed twice on the way. Once by a car with a large G.B. on the back, driven by an Englishman who seemed to have gone berserk and reverted to driving on the left. The other was by a Frenchman, driving at sixty and trying to make love at the same time.

  When he reached Cannes, he wished he’d stayed at home. The streets were packed with holidaymakers manipulating every possible kind of vehicle, one main street was blocked by a religious procession and, in the other, a milk lorry had apparently collapsed beneath its load of bottles and scattered milk and broken glass all over the shop.