‘Nobody said you could.’
He was dark and strongly built with a handlebar moustache and sleek hair. The kind the schoolboys would think the world of, especially if he showed great prowess at games, which, judging from his physique, was probably the case.
Littlejohn understood, however, why Marie Ann Blair hadn’t fallen for Humphries in spite of his attentions. He thought a lot of himself. Worshipped by the boys in the gymnasium and on the playing fields, he expected everybody else to do the same. Added to this, Humphries was lacking in sense of humour. He took himself too seriously.
‘How did you come to take on this job ?’
‘It was going and I thought, as it coincided with school vacation, it would bring me in some nice pocket-money and get me a good holiday as well. I stood a good chance with being in Bolchester. The Trust always hires a courier, you know.’
He looked straight at you, but his eyes didn’t stay still. Just a little bit shifty, especially now, when he wasn’t quite telling everything. He’d joined the party to be near Marie Ann Blair. That was obvious. And Marie Ann was flattered by his attentions, but that was all. There was perhaps some young doctor at Bolchester Hospital…
‘You liked Alderman Dawson?’
‘He was a governor of Bolchester School, where I’m on the staff.’
‘That’s hardly an answer.’
Humphries flushed. Not from shame, but in the same way he’d do at home if one of the youngsters ragged him or doubted his prowess.
‘What do you want me to say? He’s well-liked in the town and he’s a popular man on the governing body of the school. “Give the boys a half holiday,” so to speak. I don’t have much to do with him.’
‘You seem to have some reservations about him.’
‘Oh, my views don’t count for much. He was of the sort who buy popularity. Half holidays, school treats and such like, subscriptions to charities, board of the local hospital, Alderman, etcetera, etcetera…’
‘And yet?’
Humphries’ eyes began to gleam.
‘And yet… He’d bully the head of the school about something and nothing. He just had to be in the limelight all the time. He couldn’t stop showing off in front of a nice looking girl. He liked them young and pawed them about. The sort of man who’d put a pound in the collecting box for cruelty to animals and kick the next dog he met in the ribs because it happened to be in his way. All the same, wherever he went, you’d hear them all bleating “Isn’t Alderman Dawson nice?”, “Isn’t it just like Alderman Dawson to be so good?”’
He halted for breath. And then, having fully delivered himself in a burst of rage, he turned to the door to see if the Alderman’s niece had heard him. He looked relieved to find it closed.
‘You didn’t like the Alderman, did you, Mr. Humphries? Had it anything to do with his niece?’
Humphries almost ground his teeth.
‘No; and don’t you make insinuations. If I think Miss Blair is a fine girl, it’s my own damned business.’
‘It might be mine, too. Did Dawson object to your attentions?’
‘No. He never got a chance and I’ll trouble you…’
‘Were you present with Marriott when he visited Dawson on his death-bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you hear the conversation…The Vallouris business?’
‘No, I didn’t. Neither did Marriott, if you ask me. I wasn’t as near as Marriott, but, at the time, neither Marriott nor anybody else could have made out what Dawson was saying. He was too far gone.’
‘Thank you. That’s all.’
Humphries hesitated.
‘Well, sir?’
‘Sorry I lost my shirt a minute ago. I’m officially in charge here and I’m worried stiff. It isn’t helped by Marriott and that old baggage Beaumont trying to boss the show. I wish you good luck in your efforts.’
‘Thanks. I’d like to see Gauld now.’
‘The Beaumont’s outside on the rampage. She thinks she should be first in order of precedence. If you have Gauld in, it’ll set her back a bit. Wait till I tell her.’
‘You can tell her I won’t need her at all. I have it all down in the examining magistrate’s file.’
‘Oh, boy. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.’
Gauld made his way in to a loud accompaniment of Mrs. Beaumont’s disapproval, like a Greek chorus chanting-in a leading actor.
‘I shall report it to the Lord Lieutenant when I get home. I never heard…’
And the door closed.
‘Sit down, Mr. Gauld. You were in all night when the crime was committed?’
‘Yes.’
Tall, well built, and normally exuding vitality, Gauld must have been good at his job and among his own sort. Perhaps at the works, he was hearty and a bit coarse-grained and plebeian. Here, where he had to mind his P’s and Q’s with people like Mrs. Beaumont and to please Mary Hannon, he was out of his element.
‘How did you come to be mixed up with this lot, Mr. Gauld?’
Gauld jerked his head in surprise and his red hair seemed to stand on end.
‘I won the draw. I’d never been abroad before, except in the forces in the war. Then it was only Northern Ireland. I’d a right to the tickets. But it seems working men aren’t welcome among this gang of snobs. I’m not good enough for them.’
A man with an inferiority complex. Without any but an elementary education and self-educated after that. But when it came to skill with his hands, he could soon show his superiority. Yet Mrs. Beaumont probably looked down her nose at him and the little drunken Marriott patronised him.
‘You won two tickets?’
‘Yes, but my wife wouldn’t come. Her mother’s not well and she made that an excuse, but really she wanted to stay behind because in three weeks she’s taking part in a play and would have had to give it up if she’d come with me.’
‘You’re enjoying this trip?’
He twisted his large useful hands and shuffled from one foot to the other.
‘I can’t say that I am. I’m like a fish out of water. The only working man in the lot. The Curries are decent enough and so is Sheldon, if his wife would let him be. She fancies herself a cut above me. But I’ll show her one day! Marriott thinks he’s doing me a favour somehow. As for Mrs. Beaumont; she actually said in front of the lot, that Turnpike would have been glad to know that the poor were getting their share of his bounty. And she looked at me and smiled. The only one I feel at home with is Miss Hannon…Mary Hannon. She’s a lady and we knew one another before this. We were at a university extension course together.’
‘What about Dawson?’
Gauld was breathing heavily after his outburst. He’d been nursing his grievances for days and now he’d boiled over to the large homely Inspector from Scotland Yard. Gauld’s father had been a policeman; a constable who’d pounded the beat all his life and died just when his pension was due.
‘Dawson…I only knew him as a local bigwig. Or mainly that. Our political party’s working itself into gradual control of the council at Bolchester, and when we’ve got it, Dawson and his likes will go out neck and crop. They think they own the town, instead of which they’re the servants of those who elected them. To see the local papers, you’d think Dawson was the cat’s whisker. Opening bazaars and Sunday School sales of work; talking about the need for a religious revival; and even preaching in churches when there’s something big on and they can draw a crowd to spout to. It makes me sick…’
He thumped the table.
‘Do you know that even before his wife died, Dawson was carrying-on with other women…’
Then he stopped. He must have remembered his own feelings for Mary Hannon.
‘…His wife was one of the best. Everybody liked her and she made Dawson what he was in town life.’
It sounded a bit mixed up and ambiguous, but then Gauld’s emotions were confused. The holiday feeling, a strange country, the company of a lot of people trying to patroni
se or snub him because he wore overalls at his work. Then, Mary Hannon, under the romantic Riviera sun, played the gracious lady and got him all moonstruck.
‘You were in all night when Dawson was stabbed?’
‘Yes; anybody’ll tell you that. I was having a drink with Marriott from eleven to twelve; before that we’d just been chatting together. We were all a bit tired…’
Littlejohn looked straight at Gauld and spoke slowly. ‘Had you any grudge against Dawson?’
‘I told you, I wasn’t anywhere near him when he met his accident. I’d no grudge against him really, except that I objected to his hypocrisy. He’s the largest coal-merchant in Bolchester and poses as a public benefactor. They ought to see some of the good he’s done himself in business with coal contracts by being on the council. But he saw to it that they couldn’t pin a thing on him…’
M. Joliclerc’s assistant had excelled himself this time. He’d got it down as Sheldoh!
SHELDOH, Jeremy. 60. Retired tea-planter.
Darjeeling, The Close, Bolchester.
And his wife,
SHELDOH, Irene. 41. Married.
That explained quite a lot. If Irene Sheldon had given the correct age, she probably thought she’d married an old man, had the right to bully him for the sacrifice, and seek a few diversions into the bargain. She came in with her husband, for whom Littlejohn sent next.
‘I’d like a word with your husband alone, please, Mrs. Sheldon.’
Her jaw dropped. This was something new! As a rule she was the spokesman.
Mrs. Sheldon wore large crescent shaped ear-rings, a black flared skirt, and a nylon blouse through which her underclothing and the uncovered parts of her arms and chest were visible. She was heavily made-up and entered with a gust of exotic scent. She gesticulated nervously with her painted nails. Some men would find her very attractive; especially the middle-aged ones the younger women wouldn’t look at.
‘But we are in this together, Inspector. I’m sure you’ll allow me to stay with my husband.’
She gave him an arch smile.
‘Later, madam. I want him alone at the moment.’
She showed a flush beneath her paint and banged from the room without even a glare for the two men.
‘You must excuse her, Inspector. She’s highly strung and you’ll admit, sir, this damned business has been a bit of an ordeal for her.’
‘That’s why I asked her to go. No sense in upsetting the ladies.’
‘Damn good of you. What can I do for you, Inspector? Damn’ relief to have a decent police officer about the place. The fellah who came up yesterday…Jolliboy, or somethin’ silly…was a bounder. Shelterin’ behind his authority and bullyin’ the women shockin’ly.’
‘You were all in Bagatelle except Dawson on the night he was killed. I know that Humphries and Miss Blair went for a stroll. The rest, you can vouch for, sir?’
‘Certainly. Vouch for ‘em all. Wife and I retired at eleven, but they were all here then. Little woman was tired after the journey, so didn’t wish to keep her up, or wake her if I went up later.’
‘You knew Dawson well, sir?’
‘Yes, moderately well. Matter of fact, he used to come up to our place now and then for a drink. Friend of the wife’s when they were younger. Bit quiet for Mrs. Sheldon just livin’ alone with me. Dawson used to buck her up a bit. Talkin’ of old times and such. Decent enough chap, except…’
There it was again. Dawson, a good fellow, charitable, public spirited, local preacher and bazaar opener…Except…Always some sort of qualification.
‘Except what, sir?’
‘Funny sense of humour. Got the idea he sometimes laughed at me. I know I’m a bit of a queer fellah. Spent a lot of time alone workin’ in India and a bit set in my ways. Once caught him winking at my wife behind my back. Irene, of course, wasn’t amused. Loyal to me…’
His bald head might be empty of thoughts or jammed full of dark forebodings and secrets, but his kindly face showed solicitude for his wife and he was anxious to get her out of the whole sorry business.
‘Sorry I brought the little girl on this silly jaunt. But we won the ballot and Dawson came and said it would be a pity to lose the chance. He’d bought the ticket off a fellah who couldn’t go. I’d rather have brought my wife myself, just the pair of us, later, but she seemed set on it. Hope you’ll see she’s not bothered.’
A big man to allow himself to be bullied by his bitter little wife. He must have been someone to reckon with when he was bossing around in India. Now, he stood anxiously there, dressed in a neat tweed suit, and the whole spoiled by the silly black tie his wife had made him put on.
‘She’s not very strong and I’d go to extremes to save her from trouble.’
‘I’ll do my best to help you, sir.’
‘Appreciate it, Inspector. Want to call the little woman in now?’
‘No, sir. In view of what you say, we’ll not bother her.’ She was outside waiting for him and as their steps receded in the passage, Littlejohn could hear odd words.
‘Never so humiliated. And you allow me to be insulted…Don’t care for my feelings…I’ll never forget…’
There only remained the Hannons and the Curries, and they had alibis. And, of course, Alf Fowles, né Alfred, as the dossier said. He’d better have a word with them as well. But first…
He rang up his wife and talked with her.
‘I’m only working on the surface here. If one of the party did it, the truth will lie in Bolchester. I’d better go. I could get the 2.50 plane early tomorrow morning. I’d be in Bolchester before noon. Then, I’ll try to get back within two days if I’m successful.’
‘You’d better come back here as soon as you can and get a bit of sleep, then. I’ll ring up Var airport and get your tickets from Nice.’
‘If you’ve any trouble, let me know. Dorange will be able to pull some strings, I’m sure, even if they have to chuck somebody from the plane to accommodate me.’
He rang up Joliclerc and told him of his plans. The magistrate was almost tearful in his gratitude. He’d tell Dorange. So far, nothing had developed in connection with the murder of Sammy. The stoker and the waiter from the casino and the prostitute from Sammy’s had been freed without giving much help.
When it was over, Marriott entered.
‘Mrs. Bewmont’s in a rare tantrum. She says you’re avoiding her. She’s threatening to take it up in ‘igh quarters when we get back. Says you’re deliberately prolonging the case.’
‘Perhaps you’ll tell her then, that I’ve other business which will keep me away from you all for another couple of days.’
Marriott chuckled.
‘I’d like to see her face when I tell her. Here; I brought you a drink of Pernodd. Buck you up. Say when…’
He poured in the iced water.
‘And now I’d like to speak to the Curries please…’ Nothing about his trip to Bolchester. He thought it best to keep the lot of them in the dark.
6 - Dossier Dawson
Martin Currie was a strange type, difficult to classify. Littlejohn found himself trying to guess what his job was before he looked it up in the dossier. Average; that was it. No predominant features at all. Neither young nor old, handsome nor ugly, tall nor small. The sort you’d forget. A nonentity.
CURRIE, Martin. 52. Manager of Building Society, Bolchester.
When Littlejohn saw Currie’s profession, it all tied up. A nice, courteous fellow, one you could trust, and yet he had to be all things to all men to get business and because he served such a varied lot of clients and was responsible to his directors for every one of them.
He was neatly dressed in a flannel suit and had got himself a black tie in keeping with events.
‘Was Dawson a director of the Bolchester Building Society, Mr. Currie?’
‘Yes. They’re mostly local men.’
A pleasant voice. In fact, a pleasant chap. Thin face, large ears and nondescript grey eyes. You’d pass him
any day in the street and never give him a second look. His wife was with him, but she was different.
CURRIE, Isabel. 46. Married, née Shakeshaft.
She was small, well-built, vivacious and didn’t by any means look her age. Her husband was far from a nonentity to her; she obviously thought the world of him. A happily married couple, content with each other and the son who’d been born late in their lives. Then, they’d drawn a winning ticket for the Bagatelle trip and here they were, reluctantly up to their necks in a murder case. They were facing it as they probably faced any other crisis in life. If they were in it together, they were confident of coming through.
‘Did you like Mr. Dawson?’
The Curries looked at one another understandingly. They’d expected this one.
‘To be candid, Inspector, I’ve no reason for liking him, but I’m sorry he’s dead. He was highly respected in our town and, if I hadn’t had a glaring example of how he carried on, I’d probably have thought him a fine fellow, like most of the others do.’
Mrs. Currie simply nodded in confirmation. Littlejohn found himself wondering if this dark, vivid, attractive little woman had stimulated the Alderman to make passes at her, as he seemed accustomed to doing whenever he got a chance. But it wasn’t that…
‘You see, I’ve been with the Building Society ever since I left school. I rose to be assistant manager and expected to get the head job when my boss retired, which he did three years ago. Dawson was a prominent director and he always said he’d see me right. “You’re sure to get it, Martin,” he must have said a dozen times or more.’
‘He told me, as well,’ chipped in Mrs. Currie. ‘We just couldn’t understand…’
‘You’re getting on a bit too fast with the tale, mother. Let me tell it.’
‘Yes, do.’
‘Unknown to me, Dawson tried to get another of his protégés the job over my head. To my face he was as nice as pie; behind my back he was trying to do me down. Luckily, two of the other directors liked me, supported me, and carried the day for me. One of them told me after, that Dawson had said I wasn’t good enough for the post. Short of go, he said. I never liked him after that, however much he tried to play the friend to me. I was loyal to him as a director, but I couldn’t trust him out of my sight.’
Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 8
