A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  Having satisfied himself that the file was as it should be, Judkin handed it over to Littlejohn.

  ‘I’m afraid it means starting from scratch,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There’s not a thing to guide us. The knife wasn’t found, as you’ll see, although our men are on the look-out for it if it happened to be thrown away.’

  ‘It won’t be the first time we’ve started with nothing,’ said Littlejohn.

  ‘Well…I don’t want you to think I’m washing my hands of all this. Far from it. But we’ve got top-level instruction that you’re to run the case, and anything I can do to help, call on me.’

  Peter Dodd’s fast car drew up with a screech of brakes, and the owner and Cromwell emerged. Cromwell’s bowler hat was wedged tightly on his head, and he had a relieved expression on his face. He followed Dodd unsteadily into the police station, a look of comic puzzlement taking the place of relief, as he tried to make out where he was being led.

  ‘Is this the police station…?’

  ‘Temporary premises…’

  ‘Excuse me…’

  It was P.C. Drane waiting in the hall to show them to the Superintendent’s office.

  ‘I really ought not to be here,’ said Peter Dodd, after introductions had been gone through. ‘But I wanted to clear matters up about the inquest. I hope there’ll be no fuss.’

  Judkin raised his eyebrows.

  ‘No fuss! Your father was murdered, Mr. Dodd. That’s not the kind of thing that can be hushed up, you know. The press’ll be round here like bees tomorrow.’

  ‘All I mean is, can we get father’s body quietly away, and buried in the family vault. We don’t want the Nicholls women…’

  ‘No fear of that. They’ve no standing. But you’ll have to await the Coroner’s pleasure, of course.’

  ‘I know that…’

  Peter Dodd was like a schoolboy trying to see clearly through a problem. You wouldn’t have thought he was a lawyer.

  ‘Shall I go and see the Coroner, then?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. His office is the first on the left, round the corner of this building. You’ll see it on the window. His name’s Mr. Dommett, and he’s just back from holidays. If you could start the conversation by saying you like Sidmouth, you’ll find it eases things a bit. He goes there every year, and it’s good policy always to agree with his views.’

  ‘Right; I’ll remember. Well, thanks. I’ll be down for the inquest tomorrow.’

  Alone at last, the three police officers began to compare notes. Cromwell’s information added considerably to the file on the Superintendent’s desk.

  ‘The motive could be anything,’ said Littlejohn at length. ‘It could be a case of sordid crime of passion. We’ve only got the word of the two women as to what they did last night. On the other hand, it might be a family affair. If Harry Dodd was likely to make things up with his wife, the family fortunes might suffer. The sons and daughter might find the money they expected to inherit diverted elsewhere by the return of father. Furthermore, the return of the reprobate might be a blow to them socially. Also Willie Dodd, faced with a General Election, might find a skeleton in the cupboard, like his brother, suddenly released on his constituents at the right time, would, to say the least of it, considerably reduce his majority.’

  ‘But why now? Willie Dodd got in at the last election, in spite of the fact that his brother was, what his Nonconformist supporters would call “Living in sin” with another woman.’

  ‘I was just thinking about the little chap like a bookie, mentioned to Cromwell by the landlord. He might have been a creditor of Dodd’s, or a divorce detective, or he might have been a snooper, sent by Willie’s political opponents to open up a scandal, just before the election. Willie isn’t just an ordinary M.P., remember. He’s one of the big noises of the party now, and has great aspirations. A reprobate brother, at a time like this, might not suit his book at all.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do, then, Littlejohn?’

  Cromwell was watching the drilling constables with wide eyes. An Inspector had just entered the yard, and was giving the sergeant some instructions. The bobbies continued running round at the double, like a watch wound up. Then Peter Dodd appeared with a tall, thin, stooping elderly man, with a dark waxed moustache and a flannel suit and a light grey hat. Two chubby little men in bowlers accompanied the tall man.

  ‘By the way, Peter Dodd seems to have talked old Dommett round pretty quickly. I see they’re going to the mortuary to look at the body. That’s Dommett, the tall chap…’

  Judkin indicated the group in the yard. The policemen kept on cantering round and round.

  ‘In the first place, I think we ought to get to know more about the little man who looked like a bookie. What was he after? We’ll try to find out when and where he came from, and if he stayed anywhere. Then there’s this metal cap from the beer bottle. What was Dodd doing in the region of Leicester? Is there some rendezvous he keeps with a friend or associate, and if so, what’s it all about?’

  ‘I’ll put some men on it…’

  ‘I’d be glad if you’d leave that to Cromwell and me. It might kill two birds with one stone if we saw the background of what was going on, instead of just getting a report. We’ll start right away, although I’d like to be at the inquest tomorrow as well.’

  ‘Of course. Anything else?’

  Judkin closed the file and put it away.

  ‘I’d like to know what happens to Harry Dodd’s body, and when the funeral’s taking place. I think one of us ought to be there.’

  Cromwell looked up hopefully.

  ‘Excuse me…’

  It was Drane again, polite as ever.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. It’s Mr. Dommett. He wants to see you, Superintendent. He’s just been to view the body, and says he wants to tell you something.’

  ‘Well, show him in then.’

  Mr. Dommett entered, accompanied by his two tubby men, like a bodyguard. Peter Dodd was hanging on the fringe.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Had a good holiday?’

  Mr. Dommett’s pale, cadaverous face looked as though another vacation and some sunshine would do him good.

  ‘Very good, thanks. Very little sun and some rain, but I always say Sidmouth’s good, in any weather…’

  He looked round to see if anybody was going to challenge his statement. He was a bad-tempered man, especially in the presence of policemen. His daughter had eloped with a constable, and the sight of uniforms brought back unpleasant memories. There had been reconciliations, of course, but it had been the first time in his life that he’d said no, and been defied.

  ‘This is Inspector Littlejohn…’

  ‘We’ve met a time or two before…How do you do…?’

  He extended a bony hand to Littlejohn and Cromwell.

  ‘I called to tell you that I’ve seen the dead man before.’

  ‘No doubt you have, sir. He lived in Brande, of course, and came to Helstonbury regularly,’ smiled Judkin.

  ‘No, no, no…’

  Mr. Dommett rolled his head from side to side with impatience

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean at an inquest, somewhere, recently. I’m just trying to think, if you’ll only let me…’

  He held up his hand for silence. They all stood spellbound, whilst Mr. Dommett’s apparatus of recollection started to function. Drane coughed apologetically behind his hand. Life was, to him, one long, polite apology.

  ‘I’ve got it…’

  That broke the spell. Everybody looked relieved, and the two tubby men, the bodyguard, beamed with delight. Their pleasure was short-lived, for Mr. Dommett turned on them.

  ‘You two were there. Why didn’t you help me? What’s the use of keeping a dog and barking yourself…?’

  The bodyguard reeled back a pace, as though Mr. Dommett had struck them across their mouths.

  ‘It was at the inquest on that fellow…what was his name…? Conflict, was it? You were both there…The man who was killed in a
car at Wayland Cross…’

  ‘Comfort,’ said both the tubby men at once.

  ‘Comfort. That’s it. Dodd was a witness at the inquest.’

  ‘Did he see the accident, Mr. Dommett? ‘asked Littlejohn, anxious to be getting on with it.

  ‘No. He was in it. Don’t you two remember? Dodd and Comfort were in a car together, and it overturned. Dodd got away with a scratch or two and a bit of concussion. But Comfort, who was driving, had the wheel driven into his organs and died…’

  ‘Accidental death, sir?’

  Mr. Dommett looked annoyed at this attempt to hustle him.

  ‘All in good time…It was not accidental death. An open verdict…They were driven from the road by a high-speed car travelling in the same direction. The police at Geldby, that’s the Wayland Cross area, tried to trace the car without success. They did, however, find out the circumstances of the accident, or the murder, if you wish to call it such…’

  Mr. Dommett paused peevishly for dramatic effect. He liked making people wait.

  Hitherto, Mr. Dommett’s bodyguard, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, had stood there, silently concurring by nods and smiles. Now, however, Tweedledum could bear it no longer.

  ‘Mr. Dommett always thought that Mr. Henry Dodd was terrified at the inquest,’ he burst out in a high-pitched tenor voice.

  Mr. Dommett turned angrily.

  ‘Did anybody ask you, Blackadder?’ he snapped acidly, and he screwed his eyebrows up until they met in an angry line above his nose.

  ‘Shhhh!’ said Tweedledee to his partner, who blushed, apologised and stepped back a pace to hide his confusion.

  ‘As I was saying when I was interrupted…Let us get it straight and in sequence!’

  Littlejohn didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. Behind Dommett’s back, Cromwell was making faces of resignation.

  ‘…Dodd was badly shaken by the accident, and pretended he didn’t know how it happened. But the police, by tracing the lines on the tar macadam, suspected things weren’t quite straight. They broadcast for anyone who was on the road at that hour. Two men came forward. We had them at the inquest. They stated they noticed Comfort’s car moving at quite a reasonable speed. Thirty miles an hour, I think it was. Wasn’t it, Blackadder?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ whispered Tweedledum.

  ‘Both the witnesses testified to passing Comfort’s car, and also stated that another large car appeared to be tailing it. They overtook both and each noticed the strange behaviour of the larger car. They thought the two cars were out for a run together…’

  ‘I see,’ said Littlejohn, more to encourage Mr. Dommett than anything else. Cromwell was watching the cobbled yard in which the constables had now finished their drills, and were entering what looked like a shower-bath in an outbuilding…

  ‘The Geldby police carefully examined the road, and saw that the Comfort car had been crowded off at a particularly dangerous gradient and corner, had crashed through a hedge, and toppled down an incline and overturned.’

  ‘And Dodd was virtually unhurt?’

  ‘I said so. The police and the B.B.C. have done all they can to trace the car responsible, but it seems to have vanished. At the inquest, Dodd was obviously afraid of something.’

  ‘Yes. He said he remembered nothing. He pleaded he was confused and suffering from shock. He stated he didn’t notice the car crowding them off. He said it all happened in a second and before he realised it.’

  ‘What makes you think he was afraid? ‘asked Littlejohn.

  Mr. Dommett’s eyebrows drew together. He wasn’t used to having his opinions challenged.

  ‘I’ve been Coroner for nearly thirty years, and I reckon I can size-up witnesses, Mr. Inspector. Dodd was afraid. Shock! Confusion! Rubbish! He knew what had happened, I’ll be bound, but was shielding someone of whom he must have been afraid. In other words, all the circumstances pointed to the fact that somebody tried to kill either Dodd or Comfort. It was a deliberate attempt to overturn the car and slay the occupants.’

  ‘Would it be possible to see the records of the inquest, sir? It might help us considerably if we could go over the ground again.’

  Tweedledee and Tweedledum gasped, for the records were very sacred to Mr. Dommett. But Mr. Dommett had just returned from holidays and, as yet, his nerves were tolerably good.

  ‘I’ll send them round…’

  ‘Shall I go for them now, sir?’ asked Blackadder ingratiatingly.

  ‘What’s the hurry? ‘asked Mr. Dommett. ‘I’ll let you have them in court tomorrow. The inquest will be at 10.30. And now I’ll bid you good-day…’

  Gathering his bodyguard, he left them. The room seemed empty after the little army had gone.

  ‘He’s a very awkward man to get on with,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Which makes more work for us. Who, I wonder, was Mr. Comfort? What were he and Dodd doing together, and of whom was Dodd afraid? Also, was it Dodd or Comfort they were after?’

  Judkin sighed.

  ‘It’s always the same. Dommett dislikes policemen. I’ll just ring up Geldby and see what they’ve got to say.’ He took up the phone and put through a call.

  ‘They’ve promised to send the file with all the details of the case. It’s fifteen miles away, and the stuff will be here in less than half an hour. Is there anything we can do in the meantime?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Dodd was in the habit of visiting Helstonbury. Did any of your constables know him? If not by name, then let them see the body, and tell you if any of them know him and if they’ve seen him around town doing anything.’

  ‘I’ll do that right away.’

  Judkin rang the bell and Drane entered.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said as he passed Cromwell.

  ‘Certainly…’

  Judkin told Drane what he wanted.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but we all knew Mr. Dodd. We all knew his old car and his two women. Bit of a joke, sir, if you’ll pardon me.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Drane, don’t make life one long excuse! What do you know of Dodd?’

  ‘I can go fully into it with the men as they come in, but we were only talking about them in the canteen this morning. They usually went to the pictures when they arrived on market day. And we were smiling about the women trailing him round Woolworths’…a man like Dodd.’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘He was as regular as clockwork. They’d get in after ten, the women would do their shopping and Dodd would go for a drink to The Dog and Partridge. P.C. Abbott is generally there on duty because of the cars going in and out the car-park at The Dog. Dodd would have his drink and a yarn or two with the farmers and such. Then he’d go and meet the women and they’d have lunch at the Anne Boleyn tea-rooms. After that, the women would go to a matinée at the movies. If it was any good, Dodd would go too. If not, he’d walk round town, have another drink, meet them out, and take them home.’

  ‘He seems to have been an exemplary lodger,’ said Judkin. Drane tittered and exploded.

  ‘Excuse me… Lodger…That’s a good one.’

  Judkin glared at him.

  ‘What would you call him?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Nothing else then, Drane?’

  ‘One thing, but it’s nothing really. Abbott said that he always went into the shop in Sheep Street, the one where they sell birds, white mice and suchlike, and bought a packet of parrot seed. Funny Abbott remembering that, but he said it was one of those things…’

  Judkin looked at Littlejohn.

  ‘Did you see any parrots at what was it called…?’

  ‘Mon Abri? No, I didn’t. Now what would he want with bird seed?’

  ‘Perhaps he ate it himself,’ put in Cromwell.

  Drane seemed unable to take a joke or laugh without choking. He made a speedy exit, coughing and spluttering and shouting ‘Excuse me…’

  Outside, a black police car drove up, and a road scout in police uniform jumped out and hurried in the police stati
on carrying a briefcase.

  ‘This’ll be from Geldby...’

  They had sent over the scout who had conducted the road enquiry after the accident. An intelligent and brisk young man, who knew what he was talking about. He gave them a full account of the investigation, but it amounted to little more than Mr. Dommett had already told them.

  The file was another matter, however. It contained good photographs of the overturned car, and the victim, Comfort, had been taken dressed and undressed, on the spot where the accident occurred and in the morgue. He was a medium-sized, slender man with a grey moustache and thin grey hair brushed from a bald forehead. He wore a check suit.

  ‘The landlord of the inn at Brande said there was a man who looked like a bookie and enquired about Dodd. I wonder if this might be him. I’ll borrow this, if you don’t mind, and try it out on Mallard,’ asked Cromwell.

  ‘The Chief said to keep the file till you’d finished with it,’ said the patrol officer.

  No need for Dommett’s record of evidence on the following day; it was all here in the Geldby police file. Dodd’s evasiveness, and a pencil note at the side by someone, that Dodd had seemed uneasy and afraid, as though he might know more than he said he did. Details of the offending car, such as they were—grey, Letchworth saloon, number unknown, two occupants—had been widely circulated without any results.

  Comfort’s wife had given evidence of identification. He was a publican. They kept The Bell at Cold Kirby, not far from Market Harborough. Mrs. Comfort knew Mr. Dodd quite well. He came to the village to fish in the mere there. He and her husband were friends. Sometimes, when things were slack, they’d go for a jaunt together. She didn’t know where they’d been when Comfort met his death. Dodd had called in the morning of the day of the accident, and they’d gone off. They had both seemed very cheerful and were in good form…They were both quite sober when they left and both were steady men…

  Then followed details of police findings and a practically certain case against somebody who had hustled Comfort’s car off the road and into the ditch. Nothing else of use at the time.

  ‘Just one thing more,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Is The Bell, at Cold Kirby, a Hoods’ house?’