Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  The officials were in dinner suits and made a big fuss of M. Joliclerc. Oui, M. le juge. Non, M. le juge. Mais certainement, M. le juge…Joliclerc had them running round like a lot of small boys. Eventually they brought in the kitchen-hand who’d found Dawson’s body. A small, wiry chap, like an Italian, with a pale face and dark eager eyes. A decent workman of the type whom foreign visitors frequently mistake for an apache ready to slit their throats for a franc or two. He was dressed in ill-fitting dungarees and had dirty hands and a streak of soot across his cheek.

  ‘He looks after the boilers.’

  The sub-manager of the casino thought some explanation was necessary. It was obvious that the workman wasn’t at his ease on the public side of the place after opening time. He tried to appear familiar with it, but it didn’t quite come off.

  ‘You found the body of William Dawson last night?’

  ‘Yes, M. le juge.’

  M. Joliclerc started a real interrogation again and showed Littlejohn how they did it. The man who looked after the boilers slowly degenerated from a cocky, almost insolent swagger to a frightened whimper. He thought M. Joliclerc was trying to pin it on him just because he’d found the body.

  ‘I didn’t do it, M. le juge.’

  His breath smelled strongly of garlic and wine. He’d just been eating his evening meal before stoking-up for the night.

  Having reduced his victim to a decent state of respect for authority, the examining magistrate turned him over to Littlejohn.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jean Bassino, Monsieur le Commissaire de Scotland Yard.’

  That was how Joliclerc had introduced Littlejohn and everybody started to give the Chief Inspector his long-winded title.

  ‘How long had you been out of doors when you came upon the body, Jean?’

  ‘I walked right out of my boiler-house into the open air, lit a cigarette, and stumbled over the body.’

  ‘Do you always go that way?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le…’

  ‘Plain monsieur will do, Jean. Why do you go that way?’

  ‘There’s often a breeze from the sea. I go under the wall to light my cigarette.’

  ‘Was anyone else about? Did you hear footsteps or a car starting?’

  ‘There were cars passing on the road, but none about where I was. There was nobody else there and I didn’t hear anyone around.’

  ‘And you got help right away. That would be eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. My usual time for taking the air.’

  ‘Has there been much talk about the crime among your friends? It will have caused a sensation and a lot of talk, Jean. What is said about it among the natives round here?’

  Bassino looked at the examining magistrate and then at Littlejohn. He was the kind who doesn’t like getting in the hands of the police. The sooner his business with them was finished, the better he’d feel.

  ‘Nothing much has been said…’

  Littlejohn turned to Joliclerc.

  ‘Will you excuse us a minute? I would like to see just where Bassino went last night. I won’t keep you waiting long.’

  And before Joliclerc could reply he had taken the stoker by the arm and was leading him back to where he’d come from. The door closed between them and the rest.

  ‘Now, Jean, what are they saying about the crime? You can tell me and I won’t tell the magistrate.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I’m not the French police. I want to know, and if you tell me, you won’t suffer for it.’

  He took a thousand franc note from his pocket and flicked it with his finger to make it rustle. Bassino’s eyes glowed with cupidity.

  ‘I don’t want to get mixed-up in a police investigation, monsieur. It is not a good thing. They either fix you, or else one’s friends suspect one of becoming informer and involving them as well. If you won’t…’

  ‘I’ll say nothing.’

  The note changed hands.

  ‘All I know is, that Sammy at the bar opposite stands at the door of his place most of the night, greeting customers and friends. I ran over to Sammy’s as soon as I found the body to telephone for the police and help. The head waiter here said that afterwards, Sammy said he’d seen someone come from near where I found the body and start running like mad in the direction of the main Nice road.’

  ‘That’s in the opposite direction from the way back to the Croisette?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Why wasn’t the magistrate told this?’

  ‘The head waiter passed it round later that Sammy didn’t want it to be told. He didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘I see.’

  Probably Sammy had good reasons for keeping the police away!

  ‘You won’t say anything. It’s as much as my job’s worth to run afoul of the head waiter.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll see you don’t get implicated. Anything else?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  It was dark when they got outside. All the illuminations were on and a chorus of frogs was croaking. You could hear them from all over the place, like a lot of ducks. The last of the daylight hung in a thin rim over the Esterel range and on the other side of the casino, the lights of Juan-les-Pins and Cap d’Antibes shining over the water and the Antibes lighthouse winking in and out.

  Monsieur Joliclerc took Littlejohn back to his jeep near the town casino, which was closed for the summer. Lamps bobbed over the harbour and across the forest of masts and the coloured neon signs of the expensive restaurants on the quayside shone red and blue.

  ‘Any time you need me, please telephone. You can get me at the town hall,’ said the magistrate. Dawson had probably said the same thing over and over again back home in Bolchester.

  All the noise of the day had died down and now it was quiet and peaceful. People strolling round before dinner, lovers embracing in the dark spots under the trees, dance-bands and little orchestras starting to tune-up. Overhead a plane droned its way to Nice airport. Last night it probably all seemed the same to William Dawson.

  At Juan-les-Pins Littlejohn found a taxi waiting at the gate of La Reserve. Inside, little Marriott was talking to Mrs. Littlejohn in the lounge.

  ‘I thought I’d get a taxi and come for you both, Inspector. Bagatelle might be a bit hard to find in the dark. It’s not an hotel, you know. It was the villa of a wealthy ironmaster of Bolchester. ‘E had one at Lucerne, in Switzerland, as well. When he died, he left them in trust for natives of our town and neighbourhood, to spend cheap but ‘omely holidays there for the purpose of gettin’ to know foreigners in the interests of peace. Good idea, eh? The two villas is run by the Turnpike Trust Association. That was the name of our benefactor. Benjamin Turnpike. The T.T.A…You’ll enjoy it tonight. ‘Ome from ‘ome, as you might say.’

  Mr. Marriott breathed a blast of Dubonnet over Littlejohn in his enthusiasm.

  So, it wasn’t teetotal after all!

  Littlejohn felt so tired after the day’s efforts that he didn’t even smile about it.

  4 - Round Dozen

  ‘It was good of you to come, Inspector. We’ve no right to be spoiling your holiday, but we’re all desperate. You know what it is. A foreign land and all that. They look at you as if you weren’t telling the truth.’

  Littlejohn couldn’t get rid of the woman. Marriott had introduced her as Mrs. Beaumont. Small, fat, and sixty or thereabouts, with a thin black moustache, clear, blue pop-eyes, a button nose, and rouged pink cheeks which hung like little bags from her cheekbones. Her hair was quite white and she’d had a blue rinse because she was going on holiday. She wore a long, billowing blue gown and a lot of bangles and gold chains. She seemed to think that Littlejohn had come specially for her peace of mind and before he’d been there ten minutes, he knew all about her. Her husband had been a dentist in Bolchester, he’d been dead ten years, and he’d been the first to drive a motorcar in the town. She fished a photograph out of her bag to prove it. A man
standing beside a crock of a car, swathed in mackintosh driving clothes and nothing else showing but whiskers and goggles.

  The Littlejohns had driven from Juan-les-Pins to Bagatelle and as soon as the front door of the villa had opened to admit them, it had felt like being in a stewpond. People milling round trying to prove they’d nothing to do with Dawson’s death. Mrs. Beaumont had taken charge of them at once and elbowed Marriott out of the way.

  ‘I don’t know why that common little man, Marriott, keeps pushing himself to the fore, I’m sure. He was never fond of Alderman Dawson when he was alive. Now that the Alderman is dead, you would think they were bosom friends.’

  ‘They didn’t get on well together?’

  ‘They were political opponents on the council at Bolchester. Marriott was a councillor once and then when the war ended and Alderman Dawson came home, he put up against Marriott and defeated him. Marriott never got over it. I don’t know why he’s fussing round now, I’m sure.’

  ‘How came this touring party to be formed, Mrs. Beaumont?’

  ‘The late Benjamin Turnpike, a benefactor of our town, left two villas, here and in Switzerland, and the money in trust to keep them up for the benefit of the burgesses of Bolchester. That was after the first war. He said it would help people to understand one another in an international way.’

  She talked on and on, beginning fortissimo and ending pianissimo as her breath ran out; then she gulped in more air and started full blast again.

  ‘My late dear husband, John Stuart Beaumont, was one of the first trustees of the fund. Places, which number fifteen twice every summer, are balloted for. By letting the two guest-houses to tourist agents the rest of the year, the trust, with the aid of its investments, pays for the holidays. What that common little Marriott is doing here I don’t know, I’m sure.’

  She was always sure. It came over and over again, like the passing bell.

  ‘On the death of my husband, I was appointed a trustee in his place. My husband was Mr. Turnpike’s dentist. They were very good friends. They would turn in their graves if they knew Marriott was benefiting by the trust, I’m sure. Something for nothing, he’s after.’

  ‘The trustees accompany each trip?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Always one of us. As a rule, I come every summer. It is a bit tying, but one must do one’s best for the memory of the two good men who formed this benefaction before they passed on.’

  Mr. Marriott appeared waving a bottle.

  ‘Now then, you two, just time for what the French call an aprateeve before we start our meal. I bet you’ve never tasted anythin’ like this before, Inspector. Or you, Mrs. Bewmont. Just a little one, Mrs. Bewmont. ‘Armless, but nice. You let it down with water, so it’s quite ‘armless.’

  ‘No thank you, Mr. Marriott. You know I never touch.’

  ‘But this is Pernodd, Mrs. Bewmont. You let it down with water.’

  He stood pathetically there with his bottle.

  ‘What about you, Inspector? Tell Mrs. Bewmont it won’t do her any harm.’

  ‘Just a little one won’t.’

  He wondered what they’d say if he told them about the man who started to undress out of doors at Juan-les-Pins after potations of Pernod!

  ‘I never touch, Mr. Marriott, and I must ask you to remember again that the name is Bow- not Bewmont.’

  And with that she sailed away and collared Mrs. Littlejohn.

  ‘If you’ll excuse the word, that woman’s a proper bitch. Her husband drank himself to death to get away from her. She’s only here to get somethin’ for nothin’. She’s a Turnpike trustee and gets all paid for.’

  None of the other Turnpike beneficiaries seemed to be about.

  ‘The gong goes for the first time at half-past eight. Then they start comin’ down from dressin’ themselves and we start the meal about a quarter to nine. Funny time, but when in Rome, do as Rome does, eh?’

  ‘The winner of the ballot gets two tickets, my dear. A very wise idea, suggested to Mr. Turnpike by my late husband. It enables a man to bring his wife; a widow or unmarried woman to invite her companion. A very good scheme, I’m sure. I, myself, only have one ticket. I’m a trustee, you see, officially accompanying the tour to see that the terms of the trust are fulfilled.’

  Non-stop, Mrs. Beaumont, was pumping information into Mrs. Littlejohn, panting as she reached the end of her long tale, inflating herself, then off again. As she paused for breath, they could hear the frogs croaking in the pond in the garden of Bagatelle.

  ‘I’d sooner hear the frogs than old Bewmont,’ said Marriott out of the side of his mouth. ‘And, by the way, while we’re waitin’, I thought this would be useful.’

  He took from his pocket a double sheet of notepaper smoothed out into a large one.

  ‘This is a list of all of us on this trip…’

  William Dawson 2. Marie Ann Blair 3. Leslie Humphries

  4. Jeremy Sheldon 5. Irene Sheldon 6. F. J. Marriott

  7. Mary Hannon 8. Elizabeth Hannon 9. Mrs. Beaumont

  10. Jocelyn Mole 11. Lola Mole 12. Peter Currie

  13. Martin Currie 14. Isabel Currie 15. David Gauld

  ‘…I’ve put ‘em down by numbers, which represent their places in the charabanc, you see, and the large gap between say, two and three, represents the passage between the seats. The two on the left are doubles, and the one on the right, a single. It’s a luxury coach, with seats for fifteen and the driver in a separate cab at the front. Mr. and Mrs. Mole, an accountant and his wife, aren’t with us, but their places are held. She was taken ill the day before we left. We go on to Lucerne from here in three days’ time, and if Mrs. Mole’s better they’ll fly there and meet us then.’

  ‘Thirteen and the driver?’

  ‘Yes. Unlucky, wot? Now there are twelve of us, for the time being.’

  Outside, the night train thundered past in the dark. Through the French window they could see the neon signs of the hotels glowing on the promenade.

  ‘When did you start from Bolchester, Mr. Marriott?’

  ‘Last Saturday mornin’. Stayed the night at Dover, crossed by the ferry next mornin’, and spent another night at Lyons on the way here. Got here on Monday evenin’ and Dawson, as you know, sir, was stabbed a few hours after. It seems weeks since they first told us of the crime.’

  ‘Did Dawson leave the party much and go off on his own?’

  ‘No. It was late when we got ‘ere. Today, we’d planned a run to Nice and Monte Carlo and get back here for dinner. That’s why dinner’s later here than at home. Gives us a long day.’

  In the hall, the gong boomed and almost at once they could hear people descending the stairs as though they’d been sitting in their rooms waiting for the call.

  ‘You were all friends together. I mean, you all got on well? No quarrelling or differences?’

  Marriott was pouring out a third Pernod, adding the water, childishly watching the liquid turn cloudy.

  ‘You’ll have another, Inspector?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Mind if I do? It seems silly stuff. Tastes like the aniseed balls we used to suck when we were kids. But, somehow, it leaves you feelin’ good. Must be medicinal, eh?’

  Once again, Littlejohn could barely resist the tale of the man who thought he was in his bedroom, when all the time he was on the prom. at Juan!

  ‘You were sayin’? Did we all agree? Of course we did. We all came from the same town and knew one another. A ‘omely, compact little party in a special luxury coach, with all laid-on by the Trust. What more could we ask for?’

  ‘Did you like Dawson, sir?’

  ‘Eh? Me? Why not? Has Mrs. Bewmont been talkin’? She’s a trouble-causer, if you like. When they told me and one or two others she was coming, we said we’d chuck in our tickets if they didn’t find her a seat to herself. They put her in a single behind me. Too near, I admit, but she doesn’t interfere with me. You see, she’s hot temperance and disapproves of wine merchants
. All right by me. Suits me.’

  ‘Did you like Dawson?’

  Marriott regarded Littlejohn dubiously.

  ‘Didn’t have much to do with him. Matter of fact, a political opponent on the Bolchester Town Council. I’m not a councillor now, but we differed politically. That’s all. Ah…Here comes the belle of the ball. Come along, Miss Elizabeth, and have a li’l of this aniseed drink. Buck you up. Makes you feel fine.’

  There were two women, both around thirty, and sisters by the look of them. One was dark and the other fair; one was good looking and the other plain; one had a good figure and the other was chubby and a bit shapeless.

  But there was no mistaking their relationship, for one of their parents had made a proper job of passing on to them both exactly the same nose. Slightly concave, rather bulbous at the end, with wide nostrils like a horse.

  The dark, chubby, plain one was evidently the object of Mr. Marriott’s mild flirtation. The kind who would jump at the familiarity of the unattached wine seller. She was even prepared to put up with his white cap and sly insinuations during the excursions, in spite of the fact that she came from an old, well-bred family in Bolchester. She tittered and left her sister behind in her eagerness to please Marriott.

  ‘Miss Elizabeth Hannon, Inspector. This is Chief Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, Miss Elizabeth. He’ll soon have us all out of this mess.’

  Miss Mary Hannon didn’t mind her sister’s desertion, for behind her was a man at her beck and call. A tall, ginger-headed fellow, with large hands and feet and a craggy, heavy face with a livid scar down one cheek. His tired grey eyes lit up at the sight of the better-looking of the two sisters.

  ‘Can I get you a glass of sherry, Miss Mary?’

  Marriott was pouring out the drink for his lady friend. ‘This’ll do you good, Elizabeth.’

  She blushed at the use of her Christian name.

  ‘Watch it go cloudy as I pour in the water. Funny, eh? Drink it up, now. I see your sister’s got a new boyfriend now the Alderman’s out of the way.’

  It probably slipped out on account of the amount of anis Marriott had put away. Both he and Miss Hannon paused and stood silent for a minute. Then they tittered self-consciously.