A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  ‘What are you takin’? Who are you deliverin’ to?’

  But Mr. Lott was in the cellar, stuffing loose coin in his pocket, rummaging down the top of his trousers and under his shirt to make sure that the belt which contained a fortune was safely in place.

  ‘Hrumph…He-he.’

  He made little noises of pleasure.

  At nine o’clock Bill Clarke, the lorry man, arrived.

  Bill was a large, muscular man, brimming over with good health, blessed with a nice wife and three children, and in his spare time he was a pigeon flyer.

  ‘Won a second in Saturday’s race from Cherbourg,’ he said to Lott’s daughter as he entered the shop. Miss Lott raised her eyes from Nights of Desire, ogled Bill, and eyed him up and down with hungry admiration. Bill wasn’t having any.

  ‘Boss in?’

  ‘In the cellar…’

  Lott and Bill drove the lorry, but Mrs. Lott had given strict instructions since the affair at Lowestoft that her husband hadn’t to take the wheel again. They trundled along in silence for a while. They hadn’t much in common. Bill talked a bit about his pigeons, and then they reached a farm where they had a couple of sacks of pig meal to deliver. They unloaded and Ishmael Lott gave Bill the delivery note to take to the farmhouse for signature. When Bill had disappeared in the farm kitchen, Lou started the engine, drove through the gates a bit unsteadily, and reached the highway before his driver had realised he was gone. Keeping a steady twenty miles an hour, for Lott wasn’t going to have trouble with the police on such a day, he took the road to the coast again, the same road he’d taken once before. The early morning air braced him and, as he reached the countryside, he accelerated and topped fifty. He kept it up steadily, following carefully prepared routes with the precision gained from long juggling with, figures on his graphs. He started to shout and sing to himself in a harsh, shrill tenor, without tune, first Annie Laurie and then, tiddly-om-pom-pom, the Gallop from William Tell which was just right for the rattle of the lorry.

  He ate buns from a bag in his pocket, to keep off hunger, without slackening speed. He skirted Cambridge, struck the main road at Thetford and ran through Bungay and Beetles to within three miles of Lowestoft where, turning down a deserted by-lane, he parked the lorry. Ishmael Lott was like an insect with a set pattern of behaviour. On his last escapade he’d hidden the vehicle in exactly the same spot. He was unable to break habits once he’d formed them. He pretended as he did things a second or a third time, that this was the first time, and tried, in a fantastic way, to imagine that time had stood still between an event and its repetition later. He hated to think he was growing older, that Mrs. Lott was stealing away by the imprisonment she imposed on him, the remaining active years of his life.

  Mr. Lott unearthed his kitbag, felt again at his waist to make sure the belt of money was safe, and danced a little jig. He wondered if, when he got to France, he might find a nice little girl to love and mind him, like the ones in Bohemian Life and Madame Bovary, which he’d bought for twopence on a book barrow, and which had stimulated him to make France his place of refuge. ‘So long!’ he said to the lorry. He read the name on the panel of the door. ‘Isaac Lott & Son. Corn Merchants, Helstonbury, Mids.’ For a brief moment he thought kindly of his old dad, and thought of himself as a parson. The Rev. Ishmael Lott! He roared with laughter, swung his kitbag over his shoulder, and strode off to the main road.

  It was nearly tea-time when Lott reached the quayside at Lowestoft. He made straight for a shop labelled ‘Ephraim Conk, chandler. Est. 1876.’ There was nothing in the grimy windows, but when Lott opened the door, a smell of tar, paraffin and damp stone met him. The place was full of old junk. Anchors, chains, ropes of all sizes, oils, paint, riding lamps, oilskins…A little weasel of a man was sitting repairing a pair of boots. He grunted as he hacked the leather into the shape of a sole.

  ‘‘E’s down at the quay,’ he said with difficulty, for his mouth was full of shoe nails.

  ‘Is she ready?’

  ‘Don’t ask me…’

  Mr. Lott almost ran to the waterside and to a second-hand speedboat moored there. She badly wanted a coat of paint, and her brass was tarnished, but she was seaworthy and her engine was in fine tune. A large mass of stooping hindquarters straightened itself and revealed a little fat man with staring eyes and a round, ruddy face.

  ‘I was waitin’ for yer. She’s ready. All topped-up an’ ready. Grub, petrol, ile, water, whisky… the whole bloody lot, as promised. Sure you can ‘andle ‘er? She’s a rare turn o’ speed when full out.’

  Mr. Lott flung his kitbag aboard, clumsily flung himself after it, and intimated to Mr. Conk that his presence was no longer required.

  ‘Awright. I’m off. Want me to give ‘er a start…?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but cranked up the engine, which he’d already warmed up. Mr. Lott in ecstasy threw his cloth cap over the side, took a yachting cap from his bag and slipped it jauntily on his head. It was a bit too large and, with his old grey suit, made him look like a shabby loafer instead of the owner of the boat, the name of which had once been painted on the stern, but had almost weathered away.

  M RGAR T. LOW ST FT.

  Without so much as a good-bye to Mr. Conk, who had disembarked and stood eyeing him dubiously, Mr. Lott, with a flourish, gently eased the boat from her moorings and began an uncertain course to the open sea. A few idlers watched him, laughing and commenting caustically among themselves on his navigation. There was little in the way of Mr. Lott and the Margaret. Only a yacht rounding Penketh Point many miles to the north…

  *

  Peter Dodd stopped his car opposite the Home Counties Bank. ‘Wait here and I’ll be back…’ he said to Peg Boone and bounded out and through the great swing doors. Peg waited. Emotion, the quick sequence of events, and the faint stirrings of fear had left her numb. She hardly realised that she and Peter were on the run. He was back. ‘Got it.’

  He slid the car skilfully through the traffic and, as soon as the main stream of it thinned out, accelerated rapidly, keeping up a steady seventy, taking almost the same route as that along which Ishmael Lott was pursuing his lumbering, eager progress. Peter felt he didn’t care as his foot trod the accelerator. If they came to grief, so much the worse. Bad luck had dogged him; a little more, and finis might be expected.

  Peg Boone, who in her panic flight had thought only of herself and even abandoned her daughter, brooded as the miles passed. They had burned their boats! There could be no turning back. Henceforth their lives were together, and they held each other in the thrall of their wickedness and the secret they shared. She pressed her body closer to Peter’s.

  ‘Don’t. I’ve no time now. Speed’s what counts…’

  He snarled it and she recoiled angrily.

  In his pocket was the note Joan Jump had given him, authorising him to try out the Betsy Jane. Like hell he’d try her out! He planned to make for the French coast, provision the boat, and take on sufficient fuel for her auxiliary motor. Then it might mean France again, near the Spanish border, or Spain itself. Later, South America, and he’d have to find a job, because his mother’s money wouldn’t last for ever.

  The night before, he’d moved the boat from Lowestoft to Lumley’s Cove, twenty miles to the north. A quiet little spot, three miles from anywhere. If the police started to watch the ports, they wouldn’t think of Lumley’s. The previous evening he had presented Miss Jump’s note to Mr. Caleb Conk, who had charge of the Betsy Jane. Caleb was the brother of Ephraim Conk, but they were not on speaking terms on account of a family schism about their Uncle Joe’s Will. Caleb, with enough money from Peter in his pocket to buy a barrel of ale, was not disposed to enquire very much about what he proposed to do with the boat. He knew Peter well.

  ‘Have you brought your passport?’ asked Peter of Peg abruptly.

  ‘No. I never had one…’

  He gave her one glance and she knew he despised her. She had bound him madly by her
beauty and sensuality, tested them too far, and now…

  Peter was in a dark mood. The monotony of the journey half hypnotised him. His mind worked as his body sat glued at the wheel. Since first he met Peg Boone, she had held him in bondage. The madness of desire, the pains of jealousy, the perpetual spurring of the wish to show her that, compared with other admirers, there was no limit to what he would do for her…

  It was as if, for the first time, he was pausing to think in the wild career he and this woman had pursued since fate threw them together.

  He remembered the night in the dark at Brande. His father had, on hearing his and Peg’s proposal, slapped him across the mouth with the back of his hand. Peter hadn’t hit back. He had felt like he had done when Harry Dodd chastised him as a boy. Then Peg Boone had butted in and…

  In future he would be for ever on the run, scratching for a living, honestly or dishonestly, a fugitive till the day he died. As the road flew past, he remembered the kindness of old Pharaoh, the man he’d killed to save his own neck. And his own flesh and blood Peg had killed to save hers…

  Peter found he was thinking only of himself. In his mind’s eye he was a solitary wanderer; Peg Boone had no part in it. They sat uneasily side by side. Peg was sure that as soon as this flight was over and they were settled quietly somewhere, safe alike from justice and curiosity, she could enchant him again and regain her hold over him. She smiled a lazy, voluptuous smile at her own thoughts and Peter caught it and his mood turned darker. He wished she were dead! From then on, his thoughts turned to death; not his own, but Peg’s…

  The Betsy Jane was at Lumley’s waiting for them. Peter had spent a lot of time aboard her when old Pharaoh was alive. That made things worse. He’d been fond of the old man, but Pharaoh’s straight accusation that either he or the Boones had killed Harry Dodd…He couldn’t let that pass. Especially when Pharaoh had tried to call a dock constable after Peter had haltingly endeavoured to explain…

  Fifteen miles from Lowestoft, the road to Lumley’s Cove showed almost like a cart-track, and Peter quickly turned left.

  The way was through flat country, with ponds covered in reeds and drainage dykes cutting the fields. Birds rose, crying wildly as the car roared along. They passed between hedges, broken here and there by tumbledown gates; cattle looked up from their chewing at the thin grass. At length the hedges vanished, giving place to flat marshland through which the road ran like a causeway. There was nobody about and the only signs of life were the smoking chimneys of a distant farm. A sign pointing ahead indicated that in the holiday season trippers might sometimes visit the place. BEACH CAFE. TEAS. OPEN. They were nearing the coast. The tumbledown wooden shed advertised by the sign belied it, for it was closed down, the windows boarded, and the pot from the brick chimney lying broken on the threshold. The apology for a shore was really the estuary of a small river of brackish water flowing from the drains and ditches inland. The tide was in, and the Betsy Jane, forlorn and tied to a post, was bobbing in the wind.

  Peter Dodd ran the car to the dilapidated hut, parked it inconspicuously, and got out. Peg Boone followed. They stood for a moment.

  ‘What is it, Peter?’

  She distrusted his mood, but thought he was contemplating turning back, whereas he was eager to be alone as soon as possible in the forthcoming adventure. He turned and looked back like one saying good-bye to something he didn’t want to leave.

  ‘Come on…’

  They descended to the shore and Peter climbed aboard the Betsy Jane. It was as much as he could do to lend a hand to his companion to help her from the small stone jetty. This had at one time been a landing-place for pleasure boats, and the original owner of the now tumbledown bungalow cafe had erected a stone pier and bollard to enable fairly large craft to moor close in.

  ‘Sit there…’

  He indicated the tiller seat, and Peg obeyed without a word, giving him a questioning look. He cast off and started the auxiliary motor after an effort or two. The boat slid from the little harbour, down the estuary, and into the open sea…

  Roe, the detective-sergeant detailed to keep Peter Dodd in sight, had followed the M.G. car, telephoning progress to headquarters along the way. His first news came from Thetford. Littlejohn received it from the Cambridge police.

  ‘As we thought. He’s heading for Lowestoft. He’s planning a getaway in the Betsy Jane. Where he hopes to go, I can’t think, but we’ve got to stop him…’

  A fast car ran Littlejohn and Cromwell to Lowestoft. Roe and his companion in the police car had to stop and change a wheel twenty miles from Lowestoft, but they were quite easy about it.

  ‘They’ve run right into the arms of the Lowestoft police. This road doesn’t lead anywhere else…’

  But the Lowestoft men arrived at the harbour to find the Betsy Jane missing. Mr. Conk scratched his head in answer to their enquiries.

  ‘‘E tuck ‘er out last night and ‘asn’t come back yet. Guess he was wantin’ to give ‘er a proper run. Like as not, ‘e’s landed up at Lynn, I shouldn’t be surprised…’

  The local sergeant was annoyed by Mr. Conk’s flippancy. He regarded Caleb as a loafer, and his contempt for official questions irritated him.

  ‘Rubbish! Dodd was back in Cambridge this morning. How can he be in Lynn? Have you been hiring her out on the side?’

  Mr. Conk was outraged. His face grew purple and he looked ready to burst.

  No, I ‘aven’t let ‘er out on the Q.T. It’s like the ruddy perlice to suggest sich a thing. If you’d get on with the job, stiddy theorisin’…The Betsy Jane ain’t back, and I don’t know nothin’ o’ where she is…’

  ‘What’s that…?’

  The officer pointed to a small spot on the horizon, which in fact was Mr. Ishmael Lott in search of France.

  ‘A ruddy little fool as bought a motor-boat off my brother, Ephraim, and’s takin’ a ‘oliday, by all account, tryin’ to drownd hisself coastin’ around…’

  Far out, Mr. Lott was still pursuing an erratic course for what he thought was the Continent of Europe. He took from his bag a small brass telescope, drew out the segments, applied it to his eye, like a caricature of Lord Nelson, and searched ahead for the promised land. Suddenly he paused, shook his head, glued himself to the eyepiece again, and shouted aloud to nobody in particular. ‘Hey…Hey…You mustn’t…Hey…’

  There was, ahead of him, a yacht which had rounded Penketh Point and, to the naked eye, looked like a graceful tiny toy. But in the lens of Mr. Lott’s telescope a grim drama was being revealed. One minute all was peaceful; the next two agitated figures were visible. One was a woman and the other a man. They were struggling and the woman’s hair had fallen and flowed over her shoulders as they fought. Mr. Lott adjusted his telescope and got a clearer view. The man had the woman by the throat and was choking the life out of her. They rocked about and then, with a desperate heave, the man flung the girl from him. She reeled backwards, aided by the lurch of the boat, hit the water with a splash, and sank without a struggle.

  Mr. Lott tore his eye from his glass and looked around. At first he had felt tempted to interfere, and then the consequences of such a rash act were fully borne upon him. He’d planned to make a show of sailing for Lynn. He’d told Mr. Ephraim Conk he hoped to get there before dark, and Mr. Conk had laughed. Once out of sight of land, however, he’d make for France and cheat them. In his tinpot way, he fancied France was just over the skyline. At all costs he mustn’t become involved…And then a sight caught him which took his heart down to his boots. He was being followed by a fast launch which threw up a great feather in its wake. He screwed his glass in his eye with trembling hands. Police! He could see their uniforms plainly. Mrs. Lott had found out and set them on his track! He forgot the boat ahead and its grim significance. He opened the throttle of the Margaret at full. She almost jumped out of the water and zigzagged her way ahead, now to Spain, now to Norway…

  Peter Dodd, free from the encumbrance of his evil genius, al
tered course. Then he spotted the Margaret, making straight for him with corkscrew motions, her skipper waving him frantically aside, tinkering in the engine, rushing to the wheel, vainly trying to regain control.

  Dodd yelled, Lott yelled, but somehow panic had reduced Ishmael to a series of crackpot movements which only added to the danger. His boat leapt like a torpedo in the direction of the Betsy Jane.

  ‘Steer clear, you idiot!’

  The pair of them recognised each other for a brief moment, and then, with all the wide ocean to go at, the Margaret hit the Betsy Jane full broadside. The yacht shook and heeled like a wounded bird, took a full wash of water and lay on her side. Peter Dodd, flung clear, floundered, rose, floundered again and sank. Ishmael Lou had no time to be bothered with him. He sat in his boat amid the wreckage, watching the water slowly rise in her and feeling her gently sinking beneath him. He couldn’t swim. His wife and daughter seemed very dear and far away by now, and had he had anyone to offer it to, he would have unbelted his fortune and bartered it for a few more years of life. He said his prayers aloud in a whining voice, and promised many things to the gods in exchange for rescue. His craft slid from under him as he wrestled with Providence, and he went down, yelling for help, flailing the air, swallowing water with every gulp and protest. He rose again, his thin arms beating the water. His yachting cap was still on his head. A boat-hook from the police launch caught his collar and hands were stretched out to him.

  ‘I… I… He pushed ‘er. overboard…I didn’t…

  ‘Yes, we know…’

  But Mr. Lott was unconscious and past hearing. He spewed water like a small hydrant as they pumped his lungs dry. The next day Mrs. Lott and daughter arrived in Lowestoft to take him home in an ambulance.

  ‘‘E must ‘ave gone off ‘is head. Mad!’ said Mrs. Lott when they told her. ‘Stole ‘is own lorry and lost his memory. I can’t think wot’s got in ‘im…’

  Mr. Lott, dressed in somebody’s flannels and sweater several sizes too large for him, smiling benignly, with his belt and its contents intact under his ill-fitting clothes, was turning over his next getaway. It included another boat from Lowestoft and a lorry parked in the same lane. His mind ran on tramlines and he couldn’t get off them.