Henry Hooper, The Nurseries, Brande.
Wilfred Shepherd, Palatine Cafe, Helstonbury.
Ishmael Lott, 78 Sheep Street, Helstonbury.’
Littlejohn consulted his notebook.
‘Cresswell and Hooper seem to be two of Dodd’s bosom pals. They spend the evenings with him at The Bear in Brande.’
‘They’re very keen on the Free Fishers. Probably they introduced Harry Dodd to the society.’
‘And we also know Lott, the man who sells parrot seed. Who would be likely to send the wreath?’
‘I couldn’t say? Does it matter?’
Littlejohn smiled at Judkin.
‘Just one of those little things…’
Cromwell looked across at the Inspector. He felt an inward glow when he saw the glint in Littlejohn’s eyes. It was usually there when the first faint scent of the quarry came his way.
‘I wonder what he’s at?’ thought Cromwell.
‘I’ll see Cresswell and Hooper at The Bear tonight. Meanwhile it’s interesting that Harry Dodd felt the same as you about his second name, Judkin. It was Villiers. He thought it sounded a bit too highfalutin and suppressed it when he could. He was hardly likely to use it at the Free Fishers, was he?’
‘No. But that’s not important, is it?’
‘It may be. It’s the only thing that’s a bit queer in all this case. The Dodd family all have alibis, which, by the way, I’d like you to get checked, if you will. That puts the family out of it, if they’re genuine. The Nicholls women and their Uncle Fred are hardly likely to have killed the goose that laid the golden eggs; so we can put them out of the first line. The Boones have alibis, as well, of a kind. Pharaoh’s dead, and so is Walter Dodd. That leaves Harry’s pals and Mrs. Dodd without proper investigation and with possible motives. The pals at The Bear will probably be able to say they were all together when Harry left them, and Mrs. Dodd says she was sick in bed. There we are. We’ve got to find some other trail.’
He passed across slips of paper bearing the family alibis and those of Peg and Sid Boone.
‘Could your men just look into those?’
‘Of course. They might break one or the other of them. Then you can bring in your big guns again.’
After evening dinner at The Bear, Littlejohn and Cromwell made their ways to the Snug, which they had already asked Mr. Mallard to keep select for one evening and admit only the little gang who drank in the old days with Harry Dodd. Five men sat round the fire, their glasses on a table and on the mantelpiece, and they all looked up with challenging glances as the intruders entered. This was the way they cold-shouldered any strangers who tried to butt-in on their little nightly party.
‘The gentlemen from Scotland Yard, gents. H’Inspectors Littlejohn an’ Cromwell,’ announced Mr. Mallard by way of introduction. Littlejohn’s eye caught that of Cromwell, and he smiled faintly. Inspector Cromwell! Littlejohn wished it were true. His faithful hound had long deserved it.
They were cordially received, and the members of the gang bought them drinks.
‘You’re very welcome. Anybody tryin’ to bring Harry’s murderer to justice is a friend of ours,’ said the one called Gambles. He was the village joiner and undertaker and a churchwarden. As such, he was the spokesman. A stocky, heavy fellow of around sixty. He had red-rimmed eyes, a large moustache and he did most of the talking. He had a habit of apologetically coughing behind his hand.
You couldn’t mistake Shadwell, the garage man. He couldn’t get the oil out of his fingernails and hands. A tall, spare man with a folded melancholy face and large nose. He hardly ever spoke. He liked hearing other people talk, and he thought Gambles was an oracle. He looked at the Scotland Yard men dubiously, as though his conscience might have been troubling him. He was the most honest and friendly man in Brande.
Henry and Charlie Hooper, a couple of bachelors, were little earthy men, almost alike. They had thin tanned faces, large moustaches and big horny hands from their work on the soil. They made a lot of money from growing tomatoes and chrysanthemums. They also did a comic turn at village concerts, in which Henry cracked jokes and Charlie was his stooge. In private life they looked anything but comedians.
And there was Cresswell, who managed the local bank, a sub-branch to the large office in Helstonbury. Cresswell had, after long being pursued by a wealthy customer, married her, and now he was independent and happy. He wondered why he’d struggled so long against Mrs. Cresswell’s blandishments. He was a medium-built, strong-looking man with a craggy face, and he wore tweeds and a cap, even to the office. His boss in Helstonbury objected to the horsy clothes during business, hut Cresswell threatened to resign and take away his wife’s large balances if his personal tastes weren’t indulged, so no more was said.
Mr. Gambles was obviously in the chair. The other three villagers held him in reverence, and Mr. Cresswell was too comfortable to struggle for position.
‘We’ll ‘elp to the utmost of our abilities. Won’t we?’
There were murmurs of consent.
It was like an informal inquest. Even the casual Cresswell sat up and began to take notice.
‘I’ve heard the story of how Harry Dodd left you all on the night he was murdered, and went home. You were all here when it happened?’
Mr. Gambles solemnly rose, walked to the fire, twisted a spill of paper and lit his pipe. He was heavy in the beam and walked like a large duck. He slowly ejected tobacco smoke.
‘Yes. I appeared at the inquest and testified to same. Also the police took our h’alibis. We must have been all together when it happened. We’d stayed behind to settle a little argument.’
‘Did Harry Dodd talk much about himself when you were all here sitting by the fire?
Mr. Gambles looked round to find if anybody wanted to answer, but they left him to it. The Hooper brothers had lit and were smoking small cheroots which filled the air with a rancid smell.
‘Not about his private and personal affairs. We never pumped him about ‘em. It would ‘ave been unkind after what he’d gone through. We talked about what you might call the current events of the village and district. Crops, fishin’, local deaths, scandal…Often enough, we’d jest sit quiet, smoking, enjoyin’ the company at the end of the ‘ard day’s work.’
‘What was Harry Dodd’s real name? Henry or Harry?’
Nobody spoke. Mr. Gambles seemed to think it was his duty to answer for them all.
‘Harry, as far as we knew.’
‘Had he a second name? This is a semi-official enquiry, you see, and my colleague will be taking notes.’
Cromwell put down his beer mug and pulled out his little black book to confirm it.
‘Not that we’d know.’
They all grunted assent, and Cresswell rose to order some more drinks.
‘Decent chap, Cresswell,’ said Mr. Gambles behind the bank man’s back, as though somehow somebody had been doubting it.
‘Are any of you members of the Free Fishers at Helstonbury?’
Henry Hooper gurgled with pleasure round his foul cheroot. He was happy to oblige.
‘Yes. I am,’ he said. ‘So’s Cresswell.’
‘What am I? ‘said Cresswell, returning with more beer mugs on a tray.
‘A member of the Free Fishers.’
‘What of it?’
Littlejohn took his beer and passed along one to Cromwell. ‘I saw you’d sent a wreath to the funeral today.’
Hooper beamed again.
‘We always do. We didn’t send a representative, though. With Harry’s family havin’ severed, so to speak, dimplomatic relationships, well…’
Henry Hooper lolled back in his seat and thrust his thumbs in his armpits. He was proud of his outburst at which Gambles gaped with astonishment. Charlie, his brother, prodded Henry in the ribs and giggled. There’d be something about dimplomatic relationships in their next lot of back-chat at the village concert!
‘Who sent the wreath?’
‘It’ll o’be
Lott’s turn on duty. We always appoint four stewards annually, see? Then, one of them takes a week on duty and the rest off, we follow one another on weekly rotas. It’s with the idea of dispensing necessary charity and doin’ things like sendin’ wreaths or letters of condolence. See what I mean? Cresswell and me are on this year, with two Helstonbury chaps called Lott and Shepherd.’
He took a great swig of beer to lubricate himself.
‘Was Harry Dodd a friend of Lott’s?’
Mr. Gambles rushed in to take the lead once more.
‘Not that we’d know. Lott’s a funny little chap. Proper ‘enpecked. His wife makes his life one long ‘ell. He went bust and filed his petition many years ago, since when she’s held the purse-strings and run the business. She seems to do well, but Ishmael gets little of it.’
‘He minds the shop, does he, whilst she runs the firm?’
‘Well, not exackly. He used to be in the shop all the time. But lately I’ve seen him runnin’ round the countryside on their corn lorries. They buy a lot of produce from farms, you know. When Lott’s father had the firm, it did well.’
‘Did Harry Dodd ever talk about his money to you?’
Littlejohn looked round. They were all giving Cresswell his head as the banker of the party, but he was not impressed.
‘He didn’t bank with me. I think he kept his account at the Old Bank, Helstonbury. I’d cash him a cheque now and again, but nothing more.’
Shadwell started to make signs of wanting to speak. He looked excitedly round as though asking permission, and then gave tongue.
‘Bit of a financier, was Harry…’
Nothing more came.
‘Well?’
Mr. Gambles sounded annoyed.
‘Well? ‘Ow?’
‘It’s this way.’ Mr. Shadwell closed his eyes solemnly. ‘He’d call at my place for petrol and talk like one of these big shots as makes money speculatin’ in the city.’
‘Well?’
It was like drawing blood from a stone. Mr. Shadwell opened both eyes and looked annoyed at being rushed.
‘Well…You fellows know I’m a bit short of ready for extendin’ my premises. I earn a nice livin’, but people keep sayin’ I ought to put in a sort of showroom and lock-ups for people’s cars as haven’t garages of their own. I don’t know…It’s a bit risky, I reckon. You see there’s not as much money about as there was, and what with people not buying cars and…’
Mr. Gambles made swimming gestures.
‘Hey, Shadwell. We don’t want all the pros and antis about it. What the gentleman wants is, how was Harry Dodd like a financier? How was he, Shadwell? Tell us plain and simple.’
Shadwell looked hurt. His large Adam’s apple rose and fell.
‘I was tryin’ to. I asked Harry what I’d better do. He was a knowledgeable sort, was Harry. I thought his advice ‘ud he sound. He thought I ought to spread myself a bit. I asked ‘ow. Build and get a mortgage, was what he said. But I said, no. My old dad had a mortgage on his farm all his life. Proper millstone, it were. Round ‘is neck till he died. I don’t hold with mortgages. Pay your way’s my motter.’
Gambles rose, waddled to his friend, and caressed him on the shoulder to cool him down and show they all understood and sympathised.
‘We agree, Shadwell. But wot’s that to do with it? Tell the gentleman about ‘Arry.’
‘I was going to. When I told Harry I objected, like, to mortgages, on principle, he ups and says, speculate in the Stock Exchange, then. Speculate, he says. And he tells me there’s money in it. In fact, he’s made a packet himself. If I’d like to try, he could put me on a cert.’
Littlejohn looked at Cromwell and they exchanged eloquent glances.
So that was it! Harry Dodd made a bit on the side by playing the stock markets. They’d never thought of that! But this ran into thousands. He must have been lucky.
Gambles’ eyes were wide open, and the two Hoopers looked at Shadwell in admiration.
‘Mug’s game unless you’ve got a packet to fall back on,’ remarked Cresswell, who was secure in the speculating he did with his wife’s capital, because there was plenty of it.
‘Oh, I told Harry that, but he argued about it. Said he’d made a nice little pile. “I’d lend you a bit, Shadwell,” he says, “because I got confidence in you, but I’ll be wantin’ ready cash any time now, so you have a try yourself.” An’ he gave me a list of things to put my money in for a rise in price. I never did, though, and I regret it, because from what I see in the papers now, Harry was right. They went up a lot after he told me about ‘em. That’s why I think Harry was quite a good financier.’
‘How long’s that since?’
‘On and off over twelve months. Last time he tipped me some was about six weeks ago. I ought to have put money in ‘em. But, I never had any luck. If I invested in ‘em, they’d be sure to go down just because it’s me.’
‘Did you keep the lists?’
‘Yes. I got ‘em at home. I can pop over if you’d like to see them.’
‘I would, very much.’
Shadwell rose like something projected from a spring. He was so anxious to help that he couldn’t get home quickly enough.
‘Good sort,’ said Mr. Gambles in his running commentary. ‘Proper good sort, is Shadwell. No bisness man, though. Not a better man with his ‘ands anywhere, but when it comes to bisness, he’s like a child. Kingsley there does his books, don’t you, Kingsley?’
Cresswell nodded agreement.
‘Dodd was right. It’s a good business, and a good man like Shadwell could double it if he’d extend. But he’s afraid of laying out money. He’s a family, you see, and he wants to do well by them. He won’t risk a loss…’
Shadwell was back, panting from his efforts. He held in his oil-stained hand a number of bits of paper on which names of well-known shares, mainly industrials, were printed in pencil. Littlejohn eyed the printing closely.
‘Who did this; you or Harry Dodd?’
‘Dodd wrote ‘em down. I’m usually mucked up with oil when he calls… or rather did call.’
He seemed to find it difficult to think of Harry Dodd never coming back to them.
The little party were watching with anxious admiration.
‘May I keep these?’
‘Of course. I won’t want ‘em. Stocks and shares is nothing in my line.’
Shadwell had withheld one slip. He evidently wanted to comment on it. He held it out to Littlejohn.
‘That’s the last he tipped me. Watch those, he told me. They’ll fall, then rise again. And sure enough, they did. Only today they went up tuppence.’
Littlejohn looked at the piece of paper. Then he slapped his knee.
‘A break at last!’ he said.
The recommended investment was Freifontein Mines!
14—The Watcher Under the Lamp
There was a hush in the Snug as Harry Dodd’s friends waited for Littlejohn to speak again, but he put the slip of paper in his pocket without a word more about it.
‘You all remember the road accident in which Dodd was involved. His friend, Comfort, was killed…’
Mr. Gambles coughed behind his hand and sat up in his chair.
‘We do. We was all very sorry for Harry about it. We knew, of course, that he was just taking his old dad for an airing. Willie Dodd had had the old chap shut up in an asylum, and Harry had made up his mind to get him out. Meanwhile, he gave his father as good a time as he could. That affair shook Harry…’
‘Had he any idea who caused the accident?’
‘No, but he said it was deliberate. The road was bad and it was easy to make anybody skid. But Harry was frightened by it. “Somebody’s got it in for me,” he said. “I’d better set my affairs in order.” That’s how he took it.’
The rest nodded. ‘Aye…That’s it.’
‘He had no idea…?’
‘He said it was a saloon, and he couldn’t make out who drove it. It was a grey saloon.’
‘We can’t seem to get any further than that. It’s a mystery to me. Did any of you see any suspicious characters around?’
Nobody could help there, either. In fact, Harry Dodd hadn’t taken any of them into his confidence. He’d just enjoyed their company over a glass of beer at The Bear in the evenings when he was bored with his women and wanted a change.
The clock in the bar struck eight, and simultaneously the telephone rang somewhere in the back of the pub. Mr. Mallard appeared in the Snug looking very important.
‘The Super of the ‘Elstonbury police is wantin’ a word, sir.’
It was Judkin on to tell him that Miss Jump had been through Mr. Pharaoh’s box at the bank and had found one or two items of interest. The original Will seemed to have gone from the safe with other papers, but in the deed box was a copy. Dodd had left a number of interesting legacies, and a few of the papers referred to him as well.
‘I can’t talk over the phone. Arc you free to come here?’
Excusing themselves, the two Scotland Yard men left in the police car for Helstonbury. The country road gradually grew more and more lined with suburban properties, passed the railway station, and then took on a drab, slummy appearance. The streets in this quarter were gas-lit, with workshops and tenements bordering the main road. Passing Lott’s corn-stores, they observed a light coming through the grating of the cellar.
‘Looks as if Ishmael’s having an all-night session with his graphs. We’ll park the car and then, if you’ll wait for me at the police station, I’d just like to go back and have a little talk with Lott. I won’t be long.’
From the car park, back in his tracks, Littlejohn walked the length of the better part of Sheep Street. It was well lit by electric sodium lamps. The shops were closed, but here and there the lights were full on, displaying their wares with illuminations controlled by time-switches. Through the empty, mesh-protected window of a large jeweller’s, the great safe at the back of the shop with a spot-light trained on the door for the police to see. The red neon sign of the picture house, with one letter missing, blazed with diabolical radiance. EMP RE. The beery, hoarse voice of the man in a braided uniform assured the world that there were seats in all parts. A few people were going in and a few more coming out. The streets were almost deserted. Lights shone from the windows of hotels, in one of which you could see Freemasons moving about in evening dress. Somewhere, somebody was singing to the accompaniment of a tinny piano. “Because God made you mine…”And then a burst of applause. Groups of youths strolled about the streets, whistling after passing girls, boasting to one another, laughing coarsely. Far ahead, traffic lights monotonously changed from green to red and red to green, directing traffic that didn’t exist.
A Knife For Harry Dodd Page 17
