Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  Littlejohn’s glance wandered round the café. A youth and a girl eating ices on the next table, but more interested in each other than in their food. He kept caressing her, kissing her bare arms and neck, and then taking another mouthful of ice-cream. On the pavement a father was trying to take a snapshot of his family of three with a Kodak. The youngest boy, a child of about five, wouldn’t keep still and his father eventually boxed his ears in a rage.

  ‘If you don’t think Sheldon committed the crimes, who did?’

  Dorange had left the subject of contention until the lunch was over. Now they were back again. Who killed William Dawson?

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Then why… ?’

  ‘But I think I’ll know before morning.’

  Dorange slowly flicked the ash from his cheroot. He looked tired and his face was drawn and anxious. The head of the Sûreté at Nice had given him the rounds of the kitchen that morning. In fact, he’d told Dorange that his confidence in Littlejohn had been foolish and that the English detective was working against the French police to get his fellow-countrymen out of a jam.

  ‘Can’t you tell me whom you suspect, Littlejohn?’

  ‘If I tell you, it adds to your responsibility; if I keep my own counsel for a few more hours, I can give you a proper tale, I think.’

  Suddenly a gendarme from the police office appeared round the corner, anxiously peering in the cafés on the waterfront. When his eyes fell on Dorange he almost broke into a run. The two Inspectors were on their feet in a minute and hurried to meet him.

  Mrs. Beaumont had vanished from Bagatelle!

  The man on duty, watching the excursionists at Bagatelle, had been taken completely off his guard. The party had lunched without Mrs. Beaumont, who’d had a tray taken to her room. She’d said she was too upset by the funeral.

  After lunch the motor-coach had drawn up at the front gate. They were having a drive to Nice to take their minds off things and to do some shopping. Mrs. Beaumont had said she didn’t want to stay in alone and had agreed to join them after resting a little.

  The party had been sitting waiting in the coach for five minutes, when somebody had suggested that Mrs. Beaumont was perhaps asleep or had forgotten the arrangement. Marie Ann Blair had gone to her room to remind her. The place was empty and Mrs. Beaumont nowhere to be seen. Not only that, her luggage had gone as well.

  Dorange gave Littlejohn a disappointed look as they both set out for the town hall. The police had already got busy. All round Cannes gendarmes were combing the roads, stopping all cars, watching all stations and the airport.

  And in the midst of it all, the telephone rang and Haddock came on with his report for Littlejohn. It all seemed irrelevant and unimportant amid the present unpleasantness.

  Mrs. Beaumont, Dawson and Marriott used Fowlers Bank; Sheldon, the North and South; the Curries and the Hannons, the Building Society which did bank work; and Gauld banked with the Home Counties, which Miss Blair used as well. Humphries didn’t seem to have a bank account, at least in Bolchester.

  Haddock patiently ploughed his way through it all, whilst Dorange paced impatiently to and fro in the small office. He was anxious to get to Bagatelle as soon as possible.

  ‘And I might add, sir, that the sooner Mr. Marriott gets back the better. His creditors have been round to the police station, asking if he’s absconded or something. We’ve had to explain and reassure them, but they say he’s kept them waiting long enough and it can’t go on much longer.’

  Marriott had already told Littlejohn all about wanting to get back in view of his business. Everything seemed to be happening at once!

  ‘Did you manage to find out who got the torn note from Fowlers?’

  ‘No, sir. They paid out so much about that time and, of course, didn’t take the numbers of small soiled notes.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Haddock…’

  M. Joliclerc wasn’t in his office. On hearing the news of Mrs. Beaumont’s flight, he’d stormed out, leaving a nasty message for Dorange. There had been another murder in a bistro at Mandelieu, and the Parquet had therefore transferred itself to something a bit easier than the Dawson affair, and on which it could practise its usual technique.

  All the way to Bagatelle, police were stopping astonished holiday-makers and others and examining their cars and papers. There seemed to be police everywhere. There were two detectives at the gate of the villa when the Inspectors got there.

  All the English trippers were indoors and another detective was trying to keep them in order until his superiors arrived. This was difficult, because his English was halting and queer. The first thing Littlejohn noticed was Alf Fowles, sitting between two gendarmes, looking like a condemned man. He rose as the Chief Inspector entered, but the policemen seized him and sat him down hard in his seat again.

  Fowles had lost none of his effrontery. He was smoking a cigarette.

  ‘How come?’ he shouted at Littlejohn. ‘These Frenchies don’t unnerstand a word of wot I’m sayin’. Marriott’s told ‘em in their own lingo that it was me got the taxi for Mrs. Bewmont. Wot’s wrong in that? I didn’t do no conjurin’ tricks with ‘er and vanish ‘er. She done that herself…’

  Marriott was scuttering here and there and clutched Littlejohn by the arm.

  ‘This is a damn nightmare, Chief Inspector. They’re goin’ to drive us all stark, starin’ mad. Mrs. Bewmont’s the first to go off her rocker, and she’ll not be the last, if this goes on.’

  Littlejohn calmed him and eventually got a proper tale.

  During lunch, it seemed, Mrs. Beaumont had caught Fowles coming from his room and asked him to get her a taxi at the back door. Fowles, thinking nothing was amiss, had telephoned the garage he used and where they spoke English and the cab had arrived ten minutes later. After seeing it arrive, Fowles had gone for his own lunch in the kitchen. And that was all.

  Nobody had seen Mrs. Beaumont leave. Presumably she’d used the stairs from the first floor; the flight which went down the outer wall and ended in the garden. Thence, it was easy to the back entrance.

  ‘She’s bin a bit queer of late, and Miss Blair, who occupies the next room, tells us she ‘eard her pacin’ up and down her bedroom in the night. The whole business ‘as got on top of her. And she won’t be the only one at this rate.’

  Marriott was working himself up almost into a fit of hysterics. The rest were standing helplessly around like a lot of trapped animals.

  ‘Oughtn’t we to get a lawyer, or something? The way things are, we’ll be here till kingdom come,’ said Currie, and the rest muttered agreement.

  Dorange went from one to the other, asking the same questions.

  Had anyone seen Mrs. Beaumont go? Had she left any message, made any threats, dropped any hints? The answer was always the same: no.

  There was nothing for it but to wait for the police to pick up the fugitive.

  ‘Meanwhile, nobody will leave this house. You will all remain indoors, and two of my men will see that you obey these instructions. Call it house-arrest, if you like. It will remain so until we find the murderer of William Dawson, Sammy, and Henri.’

  ‘But we can’t stay penned up here. We’ll all go off our heads.’

  Marriott was acting as spokesman again and shrill in his complaints.

  Dorange shrugged his shoulders, made no reply, and left the room, seizing Littlejohn by the arm and taking him along with him.

  ‘Was the person you suspected Mrs. Beaumont?’

  ‘No. She didn’t do it. Can you see her quietly killing three people and driving them off on a motor-cart and hiding them?’

  ‘I don’t know her well enough. In my experience there seem to be no limits to what a furious woman will do.’

  ‘There are mechanical limits. I’m sure she doesn’t know a thing about motor-bikes.’

  ‘Assuming the petrol-cart was used.’

  ‘I’m sure it was. But I’m also sure of another thing. Mrs. Beaumont has either g
uessed or stumbled upon the murderer, and she’s scared to death thinking she’ll be the next. She’s been under the weather, nervously, of late and this flight is simply a sort of reaction to a form of claustrophobia.’

  ‘Whatever it is, she’ll get into trouble for it. I can’t leave this to you, Littlejohn. I’m sorry, but this has gone far enough. I take over from here. You can be with me, of course, but the whole case is now my responsibility. By order of the Prefect.’

  It was four o’clock and the heat of the day was almost unbearable. Outside, the roads were still alive with police watching all the cars, stopping them, asking questions. Other-wise, life was going on as usual. Bathers coming and going, a squad of workmen building a villa opposite, and the distant sea alive with people trying to keep cool and enjoy themselves.

  ‘Are you coming back with me, Littlejohn?’

  ‘No. I think I’ll get back to Juan-les-Pins. I haven’t seen my wife all day. She’ll wonder what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ll ring you if we find Mrs. Beaumont and send a car to bring you to the police station. She will, of course, be detained for questioning.’

  The Chief Inspector had only time to take a cup of tea with his wife and tell her of the day’s events when Dorange was on the line.

  Mrs. Beaumont had been run to earth at Var airport. She was trying to book a ticket home to London. She hadn’t been in any way contrite about her behaviour. In fact, she’d pitched into the police hot and strong for detaining her and the rest of the party for so long. After all, she’d said, it wasn’t as if they were criminals on the run. The police would know where to find them if they wanted them at any time later. In Bolchester, of course. Where did the police think they were going? Somewhere else in France, after the way they’d been treated?

  Dorange had had it all from the officers at Var, and reeled it off to Littlejohn. He even laughed at Mrs. Beaumont’s fighting spirit. He sounded relieved and more like his old self. Littlejohn wondered if they were going to charge Mrs. Beaumont with the crimes, after all, and then call it a day and let the rest go home.

  ‘I’ll send the car, as promised, Littlejohn. You’ll be here almost as soon as the lady, who has just left Nice, under escort, of course.’

  They were bringing Mrs. Beaumont into the police station when Littlejohn arrived there. There had been some delay, due to formalities at the airport. She looked very self-possessed. Sitting upright, dignified and calm, just as though she were on a sightseeing tour or an educational visit to the town hall.

  Littlejohn gave her a reproachful glance as they entered the Inspector’s room together; she smiled back at him.

  ‘You may sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, M. Dorange.’

  Dorange sat in the swivel-chair behind the desk and Littlejohn and Mrs. Beaumont faced him on the other side, like a couple of allies.

  A rectangle of bright sunshine shone through the window and lit up the scene like a limelight. It fell fully on Mrs. Beaumont’s face and Littlejohn couldn’t help admiring the calmness there. It was as if she were being brought to account for some minor prank, instead of running away from a murder case.

  She wore a tweed costume and a green felt hat of a good style. Dressed as she was, instead of the usual billowing frocks in which the Chief Inspector had always seen her before, she looked younger and slimmer. She wore nylon stockings and brown brogue shoes with flat heels. Her legs and ankles were substantially middle-aged.

  Under the costume coat, a plain green finely-knitted jumper, and in the lapel, an old cameo brooch. She had a gold bracelet on her wrist, and on her fingers two fine diamond rings as well as her wedding ring.

  The secretary was sitting at his little table, all ready to start another file. This time Dossier Beaumont.

  ‘Well, madam?’

  It seemed as if they had all been waiting for someone to start the ball rolling. Now Dorange began with an almost smiling question, such as one asks to a child who hasn’t misbehaved too badly.

  ‘What do you mean, Inspector? Am I supposed to give a full account of my present plight and escapades?’

  ‘It will be better if you make a statement first. Then we can question you later.’

  Mrs. Beaumont took it quite casually, placed her large leather handbag on the floor beside her, and cleared her throat.

  ‘Please don’t think I was running away because I am guilty.’

  She paused.

  ‘Do you and that young man…?’

  She indicated the secretary, now busy taking down her words in shorthand.

  ‘Do you and that young man understand English properly?’ Dorange smiled pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, I think we do. M. Monnet, the secretary, is, as you have already learned by experience, a trained interpreter. We get so many English people here. As for myself, I get along, madam. I can follow you. In any case, if we have difficulty, Chief Inspector Littlejohn will help us.’

  ‘That is all right, then. I was saying, I wasn’t running away at all. I was simply going back to London to hire, or whatever you call it, some lawyer, acquainted with your strange French ways of doing things, and bring him back with me.’

  ‘I wish you had told us. We may not have such men here on the Riviera, but there are plenty in Paris. We could have got you one without all this fuss. Are you sure that is the only reason?’

  Mrs. Beaumont bridled.

  ‘What other could there be?’

  ‘Could it be that you have a guilty conscience, madam? Could it be that you held a grudge against your compatriot, Dawson, and in rage vented your spleen against him with a knife? And then…please don’t interrupt…and then, having been seen in your crime, you had to save yourself by more crimes?’

  Mrs. Beaumont drew in a loud rush of air, almost like an angry sob.

  ‘I never heard anything so stupid in my life! Why should I want to murder Dawson? I’d nothing against him.’

  ‘Not even some affair at home, some insult, some injury which, when you were brought closely together on a trip, such as you are now enjoying, was intensified so much?’

  ‘I wish to hear no more silly theories. If this is the way you carry on an investigation, it’s no wonder we all look like remaining here for ever!’

  One felt somehow, that Mrs. Beaumont was used to facing the police. She was quite at ease, with a touch of contempt in her expression.

  ‘You have caused us a lot of trouble. We have had police out on all roads and stations, searching for you. And all because of a whim, an impatience which you could not control.’

  ‘I have told you, the way you have conducted this investigation is very trying to one’s nerves.’

  Dorange took it all in very good humour.

  ‘Then, may I ask, madam, how you would have conducted it yourself?’

  ‘I am not a policeman.’

  ‘I can quite see that. Hitherto, we have hardly conducted the case at all. We have asked very polite questions, given you and your fellow-travellers every consideration, and even allowed your English Chief Inspector here to do most of the work, in spite of the fact that he is on a holiday. From now on, madam, we are taking a firm hand ourselves. I can assure you that all but the guilty one will soon be on the way home. So don’t try to leave Bagatelle again without my personal permission.’

  ‘You mean to say…?’

  ‘You are at liberty to go back to Bagatelle, madam.’

  Dorange rose and bowed to her.

  ‘I must say this is very generous of you and doesn’t go unappreciated. I must agree I behaved impulsively, but believe me, I thought it in the best interests.’

  ‘Please leave us to judge in future which are the best interests. By the way, do you drive a car, madam?’

  ‘No, I do not. My late husband was very interested in motor-cars during his lifetime, but I have never wished to drive them myself. When I need a car, I hire one with a chauffeur.’

  ‘You have never driven a motorcycle?’

  Mrs. Beaumont’s
eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped.

  ‘Good gracious! One of those awful things! You must think me mad, young man. Certainly not!’

  She drew on her gloves and gathered up her bag.

  ‘Please tell me before you leave us, have you any views of your own about these crimes? Do you suspect anyone?’

  ‘No. I cannot say that I do.’

  ‘You were not leaving France to get away from anyone? I mean, you were not fleeing in fear of your own life from the one who has already murdered three people?’

  There was a pause. Then she shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course, I am. Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Yes. But the pause you took before you replied. It suggested doubt.’

  ‘Well, there’s no doubt, Inspector. May I go now? I am very tired.’

  ‘The car will take you back to Bagatelle. Bon jour, Madame.’

  ‘Bon jour, M. le Commissaire.’

  Littlejohn, alter seeing Mrs. Beaumont to her car, returned to Dorange.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, Dorange?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I still think she’s quite innocent of any crime, but I’m sure she knows more than she’s told us.’

  ‘I agree. That is why I’ve let her go home. Now the ball is with you, to use your own idiom. You must find out what she is concealing.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Has what has happened altered your views, changed the theory you have in mind?’

  ‘No. I can’t say it has. In fact, it’s strengthened it. I think Mrs. Beaumont is afraid of someone and was bolting, not out of guilt, but in fear of her life. If she’s right, we’d better keep a close eye on her. We don’t want another murder on our hands.’

  Dorange threw up his arms.

  ‘God forbid! It would certainly be the end of me, and I should then join my father, growing roses and carnations.’

  It reminded him of the flower in his own coat, which he examined, straightened, patted affectionately, as if it were a pet of some kind.

  ‘I’ll drop off at Bagatelle again on my way to Juan…’

  ‘The car is at your disposal. Till ten o’clock in the morning then, mon ami.’