A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  This time Mrs. Dodd was weeping openly. Littlejohn let her calm down.

  ‘I told him I would welcome his return,’ she said at length. ‘I suggested to him that we should re-marry. I also told him that we had our lives to live, that we needed each other, and that the children were old enough to fend for themselves. In any case, if they didn’t like it, they would have to put up with it. We told Peter and asked him to keep it a secret…’

  ‘When did you plan to get married again, Mrs. Dodd?’

  ‘We hadn’t fixed it. Harry said he had one or two things to settle and provision to make for Miss Nicholls. He said it would take him a short time to arrange matters…’

  ‘And only your son, Peter, knew of the re-marriage?’

  ‘I understand so. You must ask him whether or not he let out the secret.’

  ‘Does Mr. Peter live here?’

  ‘He has a flat in town, but many of his things are here. He has gone with Aspinall to the inquest today.’

  ‘So he told me. By the way, did you know, Mrs. Dodd, of some new steel process in which your husband was interested?’

  ‘Yes. He told me of it most enthusiastically. It seems that he and a friend had been doing some research in a little workshop they’d fitted up. I said that when he came back, he could take it down to the works, if he wished…’

  ‘You still control them?’

  ‘Nominally. They were my father’s, of course. I retained the nominal controlling interest, although Winfield is my nominee. He is chairman, and has made the business prosper. Still, if Harry had discovered means of improving processes, he ought to have the right to use them for the benefit of the family concern…’

  ‘Did Mr. Winfield Dodd know of this?’

  ‘Of course not. He wouldn’t have taken kindly to it. Harry talked of floating a rival company of his own, but if he had returned to me, I’m sure he would have reconsidered it.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with Mr. Dodd’s brother, madam?’

  ‘William, you mean? No. William, as you will doubtless know, if you read his speeches, despises people like me, the parasites, the grinders-down of the suffering poor. I also despise William. Not because he wants the money of the rich to give to the poor, but because he is an office-seeker, a time-server. He doesn’t want our money. All he wants is to shout about it to earn himself votes. We never agreed.’

  ‘Did Harry and William get on well?’

  ‘No. When Harry and I married, William was astounded. He never thought Harry would marry his employer’s daughter and enter the firm. Harry always rather laughed at his brother’s ways. Froth and hot air, he used to call them. When the divorce occurred, however, it was William’s turn to look down on Harry. You see, William was, by then, a rising politician. He was elected for a manufacturing town in the north, where rigid nonconformity on one side and strong Roman Catholicism on the other, get the candidate in. Harry, from being the despised owner of capital, became the skeleton in the Dodd closet, the spectre which, by his public appearance in the columns of the more disreputable newspapers, as a libertine and divorced person, might cost William many votes. William was furious. He even came here and tried to patch it up. He and Harry quarrelled and, I believe, never met again.’

  ‘Mr. Dodd’s father is alive?’

  Mrs. Dodd looked Littlejohn in the face.

  ‘Yes. That is another family scandal. He is in an asylum!’

  ‘Why a scandal, Mrs. Dodd?’

  ‘Because he is not mad.’

  ‘Who put him there, then?’

  ‘William. I grant Harry’s father was a bit eccentric. Harry got many of his traits from his father. His love of working-men and their company; his genuine modesty and humility; his inability to tolerate snobbishness and cant. That was what made Mr. Walter Dodd, Harry’s father, follow William around, heckling him at meetings.’

  Littlejohn could not repress a smile.

  ‘Yes, it is funny, isn’t it, Inspector? Father heckling son. But, until he took to politics, William was the idle-Jack of the family. He was a lazy-bones who caused his parents a lot of trouble and heart-burning. His mother even had to go out cleaning, because William wouldn’t work when his father was ill. Harry, of course, was the younger and was at school at the time. He gave up and got a job…Then William got in politics. He had the gift of the gab, of course, and that went a long way. It was then that his father proved a great stumbling-block. Far from being proud of his son, he disliked his politics, his party, and his efforts to get something for nothing. He finally took to heckling William at meetings. When William talked of workers, his father would ask him what he knew about work. In the middle of a heart-rending harangue about the toiling masses, a voice William was now getting to know well would ask what William was doing whilst his dead mother was toiling…The old man had grown to hate his elder son. It became a battle between them, and William won. He used his influence to have his father certified insane and put away in a quiet asylum in the country.’

  ‘And your husband used to sneak him out and take him off for little outings in his car…’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘We found out at the asylum. Did Mr. Dodd tell you of it?’

  ‘Yes. When he returned here, Harry was going to get his father out and offer him a home with us. Meanwhile, until he was declared sane again, he wasn’t allowed out of the asylum. But Harry, in his rather adventurous way, used to sneak the old man out and give him a treat.

  ‘And one day, when Mr. Walter Dodd, Harry, and a friend called Comfort, who owned the car they were driving in, were on one of their jaunts, the car was driven from the road. Comfort was killed, Mr. Walter, badly shaken, ran back to the asylum, and Mr. Harry pretended that he and Comfort alone were the passengers.’

  ‘He told me. Harry was sure that accident was deliberately done. He didn’t know whether it was he, his father, or Mr. Comfort they were after, but he gave his father money to get a taxi and get back to the asylum at once. He was afraid someone might be after his father, and felt he would be safer in the asylum…’

  ‘But who could be after him?’

  ‘Shall we say William?’

  ‘William, who looks like being in high office if his party gets in at the next election and whose father, if he got around his meetings might, to say the least of it, affect his majority at the polls?’

  ‘Yes. That might be it.’

  ‘Do you know that Mr. Walter Dodd has escaped from Gayford Asylum and is at large?’

  Mrs. Dodd rose and clutched her throat. Her pale complexion grew the colour of parchment.

  ‘No! He is at large?’

  ‘Yes. Are you sure he is sane, because, if he isn’t, might he not have something to do with his son’s death?’

  ‘He was never violent. A most peaceful man…’

  ‘Until upset by people like his son, William?’

  ‘That is so…’

  ‘And then, he’d do queer things?’

  ‘But not kill…Not Harry…He loved Harry. Harry was his only friend.’

  ‘Hadn’t he even his grandchildren to turn to…or you?’

  ‘He and I got on very well. Not intimately, though. The children had little to do with him. He grew out of their lives very early in our marriage. Harry kept in touch.’

  ‘Where did Mr. Walter live?’

  ‘Not far from here. Gale Cottage, Helton. It’s the house of a former tanner, but the tanyard has gone and only the house remains. It’s empty now, since Mr. Dodd went to the asylum. His furniture was left there…You don’t mean he might…?’

  ‘I certainly do. Where else could he go?’

  ‘Then someone ought to go there. He might be ill, or…’

  ‘Or in danger? Why should he be in danger?’

  ‘I can’t think. Surely William would not harm him.’

  ‘I don’t know. We must see. By the way, did Mr. Harry say why he wanted the family Bible?’

  ‘No…I think he was so excited at o
ur meeting again that it slipped his mind. Why?’

  ‘Was there something between Harry and his father that might make him want the family tree, or something?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Where is the Bible? Did you get it back?’

  ‘Yes. He handed it back to me. I put it in its old place. Would you like to see it, Inspector?’

  She rose and left the room before Littlejohn could answer, and returned carrying a large volume, leather bound, with the backs old and faded and dog-eared.

  ‘Here it is. I haven’t looked at it since I brought it back.’

  Littlejohn took the book and opened it.

  The fly-leaves had been all removed.

  ‘But someone’s torn out all the entries ! Why should Harry do that?’

  ‘Are you sure he did do it?’

  ‘Who else?’

  She looked anxiously in Littlejohn’s face. She was worn out and bewildered by the course of events.

  ‘Did you examine it when it came back?’

  ‘I’m sorry…I didn’t…’

  ‘Do you remember any of the entries?’

  ‘I did once, but it’s so long since.’

  ‘How long did Harry Dodd keep this?’

  ‘About a week. I took it one week and he returned it the next.’

  ‘And he didn’t say anything about tearing portions of it out?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I think I must be going now, Mrs. Dodd. Thank you for being so helpful. I’ll have to call again, probably, to see Mr. Peter. My colleague is driving to Cambridge to meet me, and we’ll call at Helton and take a look at Gale Cottage…’

  It was dusk when Littlejohn and Cromwell met at the Cambridge police station. The sergeant had brought the car.

  ‘Helton? Where’s that, please?’

  They told Littlejohn how to get there. It was on the way back to Helstonbury. They had little difficulty in finding it.

  Gale Cottage stood, as Mrs. Dodd had said, on the site of an old country tannery. The house was ringed by tall dark trees, obviously at one time planted to shield it from the works behind. Now, gloomy and overgrown, they made complete night of the late dusk. The car ran up the neglected drive and drew up at the front door. The building stood four-square in its plot of elms and poplars. The door was heavy beneath a semi-circular canopy; the large sash windows were dirty, and inside shutters covered all on the ground floor. The whole place was tumbledown and neglected, probably awaiting the demolishers when the local authorities would let them begin.

  Littlejohn beat on the door with his fist. The sound echoed through the house.

  Cromwell, sitting at the wheel, felt his spine crawl. In the Metropolitan Police Choir, of which he was an enthusiastic if indifferent baritone member, they were just polishing up a new piece called The Listeners, a poem by Walter de la Mare.

  But only a host of phantom listeners

  That dwelt in the lone house then

  Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

  To that voice from the world of men…

  Cromwell looked through the dark foliage of the trees. A half-moon seemed to be struggling through them to get at him.

  Littlejohn’s blows on the door made him leap in his seat.

  ‘Nobody at home?’ he asked, and then thought what a silly question it was.

  ‘I don’t like it…’

  Littlejohn stood back and looked at the upper windows.

  ‘Is that a light up there?’

  Cromwell climbed out of the car. The moon was making a silver reflection on the windows overhead, but, it seemed, one of them was illuminated from behind.

  ‘Let’s force the door. It shouldn’t be much of a job. The wood’s old and rotten, and the lock’ll most likely give.’

  They put their shoulders to the door and, after three heaves, it flew open with a harsh, tearing sound. Not only the lock, but a bolt and a chain ripped the wood off their screws and clattered behind the panels.

  The hall was dusty and damp, and the furniture, just visible in the gloom, stood heavy and sombre at the foot of the stairs. At the end of the passage, a door, agitated by the draught of the open one at the front, began to swing on its hinges, creaking and banging. Cromwell switched on a torch and they could see where someone had entered or gone, leaving the door off the latch.

  ‘Let’s go up…’

  Their feet rattled on the uncarpeted stairs. At the top, a dark landing with open doors giving upon it, and, through some of the openings, moonlight was shining. The door on the left hand at the front, that of the illuminated room, was closed. Hastily they opened it and entered.

  It had probably, at one time, been the best bedroom, but was now cold and damp, with the furniture shabby and grey from neglect. A large four-poster stood in the middle, with disordered bedclothes, soiled and in holes from lack of use. A bare electric bulb glowed down full on the bed, illuminating its contents mercilessly.

  ‘There’s… there’s…’

  Cromwell stood speechless on the threshold.

  ‘Yes. There’s someone in it…’

  Littlejohn took a step, seized the pillows with both hands, and flung them aside. Beneath, with wide-open eyes and livid lips, stared a bearded face. It was utterly transformed by terror, but it sufficiently resembled the other victim of the case to be identified.

  It was old Walter Dodd, and somebody had smothered him with the pillows of his own bed!

  9—The Benevolent Parrot

  Helton was under the county police, and they were soon on the spot. The sergeant who arrived in response to Cromwell’s alarm from a call-box, was quite overcome to find two Scotland Yard men there.

  ‘What had I better do first?’ he asked deferentially, like a general practitioner who, having opened up a body on the operating-table, suddenly finds a renowned surgeon at his elbow.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell had already been through the house and found little to help them. It had apparently been deserted since Walter Dodd had been certified insane and removed to the asylum. It looked as if nobody had cared to take any other trouble than to lock it up and leave the contents to moulder away.

  The furniture was old and dirty, and there were moths in the curtains and upholstery. Dust lay over everything, except the solitary bedroom occupied by the old man since his escape. He had unearthed blankets and pillows and made himself a shake-down in his hiding-place. The kitchen, too, had been used. Tins of food, fresh bread and margarine, tea and sugar; even milk and daily newspapers.

  ‘Somebody must have been looking after him,’ said Cromwell.

  ‘I wonder who it was. Mrs. Harry Dodd was surprised when she knew he’d escaped…’

  ‘But who could have wanted to kill an old, harmless buffer like Walter Dodd, sir?’

  ‘The same applies to Harry Dodd as well, Cromwell. They were somebody’s unlucky pair. Old Walter must have been here since he fled from the asylum.’

  There was nothing in the drawers of any help. The papers had all been cleared away by someone, and most of them were empty.

  Lastly, Littlejohn turned over Walter Dodd’s clothes.

  The old man was lying in his shirt and trousers, as though expecting an alarm, even in the night. He had placed a few bits of silver and some coppers on the table at the side of the bed; the forlorn contents of his trousers’ pockets. His coat and vest were draped over the back of the only chair in the room. The Inspector went through the pockets. There was little in them. A pipe and a pathetically empty pouch. Matches. A knife with two broken blades. A wallet with a pound note in it and a picture of a woman taken long ago; presumably Walter Dodd’s wife. Finally, two penny stamps and a piece of paper torn from a notebook with an address scribbled on it. ‘The Aching Man Inn, Helton, Midshire.’

  Littlejohn instructed the local sergeant, and left him in charge after asking him about The Aching Man.

  ‘It’s on the main road, sir. Turn right from here, follow the lane to the high road. It’s
what you might call a secondary road now, sir, though once it was the highway to Bath. That’s why the pub’s called The Aching Man, on account of invalids on their ways to Bath stoppin’ there for a rest…’

  The sergeant paused for breath after his recital.

  ‘Very interesting, Sergeant. Who runs the inn?’

  ‘A chap called Boone…Sid Boone, and his sister, Margaret, known locally as Peg. A queer couple they are, and we keep an eye on them. We once suspected they were up to the neck in the black market, but we could never bring it home. Too clever, they are…’

  ‘Is it their own place?’

  ‘No; they’re tenants. Hoods, of Leicester, own it.’

  Littlejohn and Cromwell exchanged glances.

  ‘We’d better make a call there.’

  ‘You don’t suspect those two, sir?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. I’m a bit curious about them.’

  They found The Aching Man as described by the sergeant. On the gable of stone, the name shone from a sign made of reflectors which caught the headlamps of the car.

  THE ACHING MAN. HOODS’ PRIME ALES.

  There were one or two cars parked outside, and lights shone from the two rooms on the front. The detectives entered.

  There was nothing pretentious about the inn. A small porch, a glass door, followed by a dark corridor from which the stairs rose. On each side of the passage a door, glass panelled. Voices sounded in both rooms; shouting and a lot of laughing. Littlejohn opened the door on the right. It was a large room with a bar at one end and a leather upholstered seat running round the walls. A few iron tables with marble tops and some cane chairs. The place was brightly lit. A number of countrymen were sitting and chatting, and at one end four men were playing darts. They all looked up at the newcomers and then froze, almost instinctively recognising them as police.

  Behind the bar, a handsome woman was standing talking to a customer who hung over the counter. She was tall, well-built and full-breasted, with black hair and an oval, pale face. The hair was worn long and gathered in a bun in the nape of the neck. A slender neck, with the head held proudly. The dark eyes were wide-set, the nose aquiline and delicately chiselled. The mouth large and shapely, with full, sensual lips. All the men in the room were terribly aware of her presence, like a pack of rivals, anxious to please her, bragging to gain her attention and favours, and her calm self-possession rebuffed them all. She looked with contempt at the man she was serving, who couldn’t take his eyes from her face. Her eyes sought those of Littlejohn and held them for a minute. It was as if she had been waiting for something, and now it had arrived. They understood one another immediately.