Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘It’s to be a second-class funeral and it seems Sammy’s father, whose identity has suddenly been established, although all his life Sammy thought he was a bastard and had none, was buried in Antibes. So they’re taking Sammy to join him there. It will be on a grand scale, with a priest and everything. Whatever he missed in life, Sammy’s to make his exit like a proper Christian.’

  ‘I wanted a word with Georgette,’ said Littlejohn. The other two looked surprised and then Dorange grinned.

  ‘We’ll have to hurry, then, and race the hearse. Let’s go.’

  They left M. Joliclerc, who couldn’t contain his desire to see the petrol-cart at Bagatelle, and Dorange drove like a madman along the Croisette, hooting everybody out of his track, to Palm Beach.

  Palm Beach looked like an ant-heap. The casino was closed and so were all the cafés in the square, presumably out of respect for Sammy. Somebody had draped the doorway of Chez Sammy with incongruous black curtains fringed with silver, and a dusty laurel wreath had been nailed where they met at the top. The square itself was full to capacity with taxis and private cars of all shapes and sizes.

  The sun beat down on the scene and everything there seemed to shimmer and frizzle with the heat. When Dorange’s little car snaked its way through the rest, it created quite a stir. Half the underworld of Marseilles had turned up judging from some of the faces in the vehicles, and the unexpected arrival of the most famous and most feared detective on the Riviera caused some uneasiness and bad feeling.

  ‘It’s in damned bad taste and he ought at least to have kept off till we got rid of Sammy,’ said a dope-dealer in a large Cadillac. Sammy’s mother was sitting beside him holding a big wreath in one hand and a sopping handkerchief in the other.

  You’d have thought it was the funeral of a public benefactor. Instead of which, everybody had to be on the lookout for pickpockets, who, though friends of the deceased, couldn’t resist doing a bit of business on the side.

  Georgette was nowhere about, so Dorange had to pull up at the door of Chez Sammy and tell the gendarme, who was there to see that rival gangs behaved themselves, to find her. When she appeared, there was a sensation.

  The mistress of the late Sammy was on the arm of Bertie, owner of Auberge Bertie round the corner. She was draped in deep mourning with a crêpe veil almost dragging on the floor. Bertie was in black, as well. The hand of the dope-king sitting with Sammy’s mother, also hidden in a mass of crepe and black satin, flew to his chest-holster, but he decided to settle with Bertie after they’d buried Sammy.

  Dorange made no bones about dealing with Georgette. He drew her into one corner of the café where the rest couldn’t see them and told her to lift her veil. She had dark rings under her eyes and they suited her swarthy beauty. She treated Dorange with hostile reserve, but gave Littlejohn a lazy smile.

  ‘Well? Must it be now?’

  ‘Yes, Georgette, and get it over quickly before the hearse arrives. My colleague, Chief Inspector Littlejohn, wants a word with you.’

  Dorange put his hand on the chest of Bertie, who was starting to protest, and, with a quick shove, propelled him halfway down the room.

  Outside, a deep silence fell on the square. They were all hoping, especially Sammy’s mother, that they were going to haul off Georgette and accuse her of murder.

  Georgette indicated that she was prepared to listen to Littlejohn. She even flashed her fine eyes at him.

  ‘On the night Alderman Dawson was murdered…you remember it?’

  Georgette nodded.

  ‘Did Sammy go out? It was said in evidence that he stood at the door. Do you remember whether or not he went farther than that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you? In the back room or in bed with somebody?’

  Dorange was more to the point than Littlejohn.

  ‘I was eating supper at the time.’

  ‘How do you remember that? What was the time?’

  ‘Eleven. I always eat about then.’

  ‘And when Sammy was killed…You were indoors then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear any noise going on…the sound of a motor or a motorbike?’

  ‘No.’

  Bertie thereupon interrupted, waving his arms and thrusting his face in.

  ‘The hearse! The hearse! It’s here.’

  Dorange turned and almost spat on him.

  ‘Shut up and get out.’

  Littlejohn persisted and Georgette didn’t seem to mind. In fact, if she held up the funeral all day to the discomfiture of the lot from Marseilles, she didn’t care.

  ‘Was there anybody in the bar when it happened…say at eleven on both nights?’

  ‘Yes. I came in the bar for a bottle of lemonade, and both nights Dr. Molinard was here. He often calls. He takes a stroll along the Croisette as far as here, has a couple of Picons, and then walks back.’

  Dorange intervened again with his customary realism.

  ‘It’s not a constitutional for his health. He’s a pal of Georgette’s.’

  Shouts and scuffling from outside told that the hearse was actually entering the square.

  More taxis, more posh cars, more flowers, and more crooks began to line up in readiness. Sammy’s mother and the dope pedlar were trying to edge the Cadillac first behind the hearse, but a gang of Bertie’s tough-looking pals from the Cannes underworld beat them to it and one of them, a thin sallow-faced youth like a slug, entered the bar pugnaciously but lost all his stuffing when he saw Dorange.

  ‘What are you after, Bubu?’

  ‘We’re ready.’

  ‘Well, we’re not. Go and wait outside.’

  A crowd of strangers, many of them unsavoury and a few of them seeking sensation, had gathered in the square and added to the congestion. A reporter was questioning Sammy’s mother through the window of the car.

  ‘What’s the order of the service? Will there be music?’

  The scent of funeral flowers, human perfumes and sweat, and garlic on the breath of the onlookers rose in the hot air. A page-boy arrived with a huge bunch of roses in one hand and another of white lilies in the other, but it turned out they were for the casino and not Sammy.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Georgette lowered her veil, took Bertie’s arm, and stepped into the square. Noises of sympathy, rage, and disgust rose as she appeared. The man in the next café, who was having a shave, thrust his head through an upper window to see what was going on, smiled through the lather, and then shut himself in with a bang. The vehicles began to jockey for position; two more gendarmes started to direct the traffic.

  A coffin fit for a king, followed by a motley collection of vehicles filled with riff-raff eager to assert their claims and their friendships. One by one they disappeared round the corner and made for the main road to Antibes.

  ‘Want to join them?’

  ‘No, thanks, Dorange.’

  ‘Well, just excuse me a minute. I’d better telephone Antibes and let them know what’s hitting them. There might be a few gang scuffles in church or at the graveside.’

  The square was almost empty. The neighbouring cafés were pulling down their shutters and the spectators were disappearing inside for drinks. Bassino, the stoker who’d found Dawson’s body, was standing almost on the exact spot where Sammy had been stabbed. He wore a blue shirt and blue canvas trousers and kept an eye on Sammy’s bar lest Dorange appeared. He’d had enough of Dorange.

  Littlejohn made a sign to Bassino that he wanted him. The man hesitated and then came halfway to meet the Chief Inspector.

  ‘On the night you found Dawson’s body did you hear any sound like that of a motorbike or a small car?’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’

  ‘Where’s the head waiter?’

  ‘At home. He’s got to sleep in the day. They keep him up nearly till dawn.’

  The worried eyes searched Littlejohn’s face. Bassino hoped they weren’t going to haul him in a
gain.

  ‘Did he ever tell you why Sammy told him to keep his mouth shut about events on the night you found Dawson? Now hurry, before Inspector Dorange comes and makes you talk.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to my job. All I know is, and I can say it now that Sammy’s kicked the bucket, all I can say is, Sammy seemed to know who did it. He must have got a look or something at the man who stabbed whatsisname. Don’t say I said so, but I think Sammy was putting the squeeze on when he got croaked. And now I’ve got to go. I’ll get the sack.’

  He almost ran as he heard footsteps in the café. Dorange only saw his heels vanishing round the corner of the casino gardens.

  ‘Bassino?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he after?’

  ‘I was asking him about Sammy and if he heard if Sammy saw who stabbed Dawson.’

  ‘I could have told you that. The head waiter there told us when we questioned him. With Sammy being dead, he’d nothing to fear. I let Antibes know. They’re standing-by with a squad of men. There’s already been a bit of bother there. It seems that three of Sammy’s pals called to see that all was right and proper. The sexton at the church was out fishing and they couldn’t get anybody who’d toll the bell. One of them tried to do it himself and got a broken head. Entangled himself in the rope and it pulled him up to the beam.’

  ‘What’s all the fuss about, though? You’d think Sammy was a public benefactor.’

  ‘It’s his mother who’s done it. She used to be a Madame in Marseilles till they made it illegal. Now she’s in the dope trade. When she heard Georgette had inherited or helped herself to all Sammy’s possessions, she turned up in force, just to show she’s not to be trifled with. So Bertie, who’s taken over Sammy’s interest in Georgette, whistled-up his own supporters. It’s ended up in a grand funeral, but what’ll happen afterwards is anybody’s guess. There may be a few hospital or even mortuary cases if we don’t watch them.’

  DR. MOLINARD. GENERAL MEDICINE.

  ACCOUCHEMENTS.

  CONSULTATIONS BY APPOINTMENT.

  The consulting-rooms were on the second floor of a block in the Rue d’Antibes. Dorange accompanied Littlejohn.

  ‘I’ll leave it to you,’ he said. ‘But if I’m there, there won’t be any nonsense.’

  Molinard was evidently one of the better-class doctors. The waiting room was comfortably furnished, with a thick carpet on the floor and modern pictures of the local school of artists on the walls. There was a nurse in uniform to attend to callers.

  ‘Have you an appointment?’

  ‘No. Tell him it’s the police and we’re in a hurry.’

  The nurse, a good-looking young brunette, hastily looked at the only other occupant of the room, a middle-aged woman who would have liked to look younger and was probably a psychopathic case, to make sure she hadn’t overheard.

  ‘Will you sit down? Dr. Molinard is engaged at present.’ Dorange remained standing.

  ‘Tell him at once that we’re here and to hurry.’

  It didn’t take long, and then the nurse showed out a puffy-faced, middle-aged man with a black eye.

  ‘How d’y’do, Gustave…Lily slugged you again?’ Dorange said it with a chuckle to the emerging patient, who then seemed in a bigger hurry than ever to get out of sight. ‘He’s too fond of the young ones and his wife doesn’t like it,’ he explained to Littlejohn.

  ‘Dr. Molinard will see you now.’

  A large, bright consulting room, with leather upholstery, a fine antique desk, a thick carpet, half a side filled with books. Cabinets of instruments, an inspection couch, a wash basin. More modern pictures on the walls.

  The doctor was standing with his back to the empty fire grate, straightening his pearl-grey tie. He wore formal clothes; black jacket, grey trousers, and shiny, patent leather shoes.

  A tall slim man, with the look of an Italian. Aquiline features and sallow face. Long, tapering, restless fingers and a habit of rocking on his feet. The first thing you noticed was the livid scar from the corner of his left eye to the edge of his nose. The disfigurement was a legacy from the Gestapo, who’d done it in his own consulting room after questioning him about some allied airmen they thought he knew about.

  ‘Good day, Dorange.’

  A suave bedside voice, fruity, and well-lubricated. Obviously, Molinard was a great favourite with his women patients. He watched the nurse clear up the files on his desk and take away the soiled towel from the washbowl with an inquisitive smile, and as she left the room, his hooded dark eyes caressed her shapely figure and slim ankles.

  Dorange introduced Littlejohn and told the doctor what they wanted.

  ‘You were a regular customer at Chez Sammy, doctor?’

  As he said it, Littlejohn could well imagine the doctor’s roving eye searching the place for Georgette’s attractive arrival and eyeing all the girls who hung round the casino and called at Sammy’s for a drink because it was cheaper there.

  ‘I used to take a walk along the Croisette most evenings and call there for an apéritif on the way home. I spend a lot of time indoors, as you doubtless can guess, and that is my favourite walk. Sammy’s is a kind of halfway house for me. I often take the dog.’

  Molinard was uneasy. There wasn’t much to show it, for he had himself well under control. But the pulse which throbbed in the wound near his eye was beating too fast.

  ‘You were there, I believe, about eleven on the night the Englishman, Dawson, was stabbed near the casino…and again when Sammy himself was killed.’

  ‘Yes. Do sit down. Perhaps you’ll take a drink with me?’ They all sat down, but the police officers wouldn’t drink. ‘Mind if I do? I’ve had a busy day and an emergency even over lunch.’

  He poured himself a glass of whisky and started to sip it neat. He was trying to make up his mind what his visitors were after and what risk he ran.

  ‘You weren’t called on to give medical attention at the time, then?’

  ‘No. I wondered why, in the case of the Englishman, because I must have been in Sammy’s when the body was discovered. Instead, they rang up the hospital from the casino. I had, of course, left when Sammy’s body was found.’

  Dorange intervened.

  ‘Probably Sammy didn’t want you to start asking questions about Dawson. He knew quite a lot about it, but didn’t want asking…’

  ‘But surely, Sammy didn’t…?’

  ‘No. But he knew who’d done it.’

  ‘You amaze me, Dorange.’

  ‘Tell me, doctor,’ said Littlejohn, ‘was Sammy at the door at eleven on the night Dawson was killed?’

  ‘It was a hot night, I remember. He was at the door for a while. Then he took a stroll along the pavement. I heard him greeting somebody…’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Eleven, or thereabouts. I know, because, as a rule, I’m regular in my stroll and usually leave Sammy’s at eleven. The night the Englishman was stabbed, I looked for Sammy to wish him goodnight but he wasn’t at the door. He was somewhere outside, not far away.’

  ‘What about the night Sammy died?’

  ‘He wasn’t in when I arrived and I spent some time talking with Georgette. His manageress, you know.’

  Dorange smiled and didn’t trouble to hide it. Molinard hastily turned a feline glance upon him and as hastily removed it.

  ‘Now, doctor, I want you to think carefully about the next question.’

  The pulse on Molinard’s wound had been slackening in speed. Now, Littlejohn watched it accelerate. The doctor took a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his lips, and in an effort to make it look automatic, also gently mopped his brow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You say the front door was open?’

  ‘It was a hot night and the air was heavy. Besides, it’s rarely closed.’

  ‘You were at the counter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you by any chance hear the sound of a vehicle pulling up or driving away whilst you were there?�
��

  ‘Let me think.’

  The tension in the brows died away and the beat of the pulse slowed down. Molinard was obviously relieved.

  ‘What kind of a vehicle would it be?’

  ‘I’d rather not put a leading question. Think.’

  ‘The night Sammy died, I can’t think of it. You see, I was talking with Georgette until I left. But the Englishman…yes…I think I did hear something. It wasn’t a car, because there are so many passing there. I think it was the start of a motorcycle. That’s right. Throwing my mind back, I’ve a vague idea I noticed it. I thought casually about it. You see, there are plenty of them about in the day. They come that road and round by the sea to the main highway again; it’s a pleasant run. But at night, it leads nowhere and the type of people who go to the casino at Palm Beach then don’t go on motorbikes. It’s a rather unusual noise in that part so late.’

  He gripped his chin in his fingers and then nodded.

  ‘Yes; it was a motorcycle I heard.’

  ‘And that’s all you can remember of the two evenings in question? You just heard a motorbike…’

  Dorange had butted in with asperity.

  ‘What else am I expected to say?’

  ‘Do you remember anybody else drinking with you at Sammy’s, or hanging around or calling in?’

  ‘There were one or two people there, but I didn’t know them.’

  ‘No more regular customers like yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are they very busy at that time of night?’

  ‘Not around eleven. The casuals have gone and there’s only an odd one or two or a caller from over at the casino.’

  The pulse was hard at it again. Molinard wondered what was coming next from Dorange.

  ‘You say you were talking with Georgette at eleven on the night Sammy was murdered?’

  ‘Yes. Do you doubt my word, Dorange?’

  ‘Not at all, doctor. Where were you talking to her?’

  ‘At the bar.’

  ‘Think again.’

  Instead of growing angry, Molinard looked afraid. He mopped his brow again and drank the remainder of his whisky in a gulp.

  ‘When they came to break the news about Sammy’s death to Georgette, she was in bed. And someone, presumably a man, climbed out of the window of her bedroom and beat it.’