Cromwell arrived back and hurriedly consulted with Littlejohn. He was panting from his exertions.
“Also my colleague has just brought me this.”
Littlejohn stretched out his hand and Cromwell placed in it an old-fashioned army revolver.
“This is your revolver, I believe. It has, I see, been reloaded, but has recently been fired. The bullet extracted from the leg of Plumtree tallies with those fired by this weapon, although the usual tests haven’t yet been made.”
Samuel Pochin clawed across at the revolver, which Littlejohn put quietly in his own pocket.
“How did you get that? Give it to me. You’ve stolen it and are trying to catch me out.”
“Sergeant Cromwell has been across to search your house. He found it in what must be its usual place, I think; the writing-desk in the bedroom. You were so confident we didn’t suspect you, that you took no precautions.”
“You had no right to search my house. You’d no warrant. I shall take this up in the proper quarter.”
Littlejohn rose.
“Meanwhile, you are under arrest, sir. Samuel Pochin, I …”
Sam wasn’t even going to wait for a caution. Wild eyed, he charged for the door and fled into the square before anyone realised what had happened. Vincent tried to follow, but the Chief Constable held him back.
Outside, it was a race between Pochin and Littlejohn. Sam’s legs seemed to fly like those of a well-trained athlete and he reached his own door well ahead of his opponent. The light shone over the fanlight and the frenzied man had opened the door with his key and slammed it loudly before Littlejohn reached the steps. A frightened cat fled hither and thither trying to avoid the confusion. Cromwell and a policeman followed, and then the Chief Constable, who’d left Vincent in charge of the doctor, whose professional help he needed, too, for his brother’s plight had left him in a state of collapse.
The door of the Pochin house was a stout one and resisted all assaults, and Littlejohn ordered the constable to smash a window with his truncheon. They needn’t have bothered, and might just as well have rung the bell. The housekeeper let them in. An elderly woman, with her hair in a pigtail down her back and without her false teeth.
“Whatever’s all this? As if we hadn’t enough bother as it is.”
“Where’s Mr. Samuel?”
“He’s in the bathroom making awful moanin’ noises. I can’t get in to him. The door’s locked. I’m just on my way for the doctor.”
They rushed past her and soon heard the sounds of the soft moaning themselves. They forced the bathroom door. Sam had cut his throat with his razor.
And that was the end of it. Sam left no confession in writing, but he had told his mother how and why he’d killed Beharrell. It almost tallied with Littlejohn’s deductions.
“He was always mad about Vincent, you see. Vincent was a sickly boy and Sam lavished on him the affection he might have shown for his own son, if he’d been fortunate enough to have one. The only trouble was, that after Vincent grew better and able to look after himself, it still went on and on … I never wanted either of them to marry. Their father … their uncle Willie … I’ve had enough. Sam was always a good man, only the family blood was in him. He told me all he’d done. He seemed to need somebody to confess to, although he thought it was right because he’d protected Vincent from trouble again. It was always the same … I promised that unless someone else looked like being blamed, I’d keep his secret. But he never told me about killing Watson. That’s just it. The first affair must have driven him over the line. Well … I’m glad it’s over and he’s in God’s peace. You might think it’s very wrong of me … But I’ve had enough.”
After his brother’s domination ended and the formalities of the Upper Square horrors were over, Vincent Pochin seemed to take on a new lease of life. He took his mother to Switzerland for a holiday and they both returned looking much better, although Mrs. Pochin curtailed the holiday by a week or so and brought Vincent home. Otherwise, he looked like getting himself engaged to a wealthy young widow who was staying at their hotel in Vitznau.
Plumtree soon returned to the bosom of his family. They, too, were changed. His wife regretted bitterly those nights when she used to fall asleep and leave him telling his adventures unheard and in the dark. “What would I ’ave done if he’d been took?” she said when he was declared out of danger as soon as they examined him in hospital. And whilst he was convalescent in bed at home, the whole family would gather round and listen to his full account of the Beharrell crime. Even Roland, the clever one who was going to be a scientist—whatever he meant by that—remained humble and uncritical. As the climax drew near, however, Plumtree’s voice would trail away, and he would fall asleep, exhausted by his own eloquence.
Littlejohn and Cromwell, returning to London, saw Hope and his wife on the train. The unhappy pair were still not on speaking terms but, with the Riviera in sight, Hope had hopes.
An extract from George Bellairs’
Murder Makes Mistakes
“LAST week-end she stewed some rhubarb and I’m sure she put the tops in as well. They’re poisonous, you know. She didn’t eat any herself. I was very ill after it....”
Littlejohn politely scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper and looked up at the woman sitting on the other side of his desk. Someone from quite another world; a world of half a century ago. An old brown fur coat, a black hat decorated with battered roses, an imitation crocodile-skin handbag, an umbrella...and black boots.
A little, oval-faced, elderly woman, with bright, busy eyes which reminded you of a mouse. His colleagues called her Littlejohn’s favourite client. She came regularly to tell him that her step-sister, with whom she lived, was trying to poison her to get her money.
“If I were you, I would think of setting-up house on my own. You’ll have a bit of peace then, Miss Hankey.”
The woman cackled.
“I can’t afford. I’ve nearly gone through my little bit of money. Agnes is going to have a shock if she succeeds in making away with me.”
Miss Hankey had called four times before at quarterly intervals, asked for Littlejohn, and told him the same tale. He wondered how long it would be before they quietly removed her to a home for the persecuted and he never saw her again. It often happened that way. Scotland Yard had a regular clientele of them. Poor souls who were either going to be murdered or who fancied they were murderers themselves.
It was April. What they call a ‘soft’ day in Ireland, and the breeze blowing through the open window was gentle and warm. The noise of traffic and the hooting of river craft wafted in. Holiday-makers and trippers had already begun to appear on the Embankment, the trees of which were three weeks ahead of their seasonal schedule. The invasion for the week-end’s soccer cup-tie at Wembley had started and men in mufflers and rosettes of the contending colours were plainly to be seen among the passers-by on the pavements below.
“Would it be possible for you to call at our house one day? Not officially, of course. I could say you were a distant relative from overseas....”
Telephone.
“Please excuse me.”
Littlejohn tried to keep the relief from his voice.
“Mrs. Cromwell to speak to you, sir.”
Cromwell was away on a few days’ leave. His Uncle Richard, who lived somewhere in Cheshire, had died and the sergeant was one of his executors.
“Hello!”
“Is that Superintendent Littlejohn?”
“Yes. Who’s speaking?”
“Dorothy Cromwell....”
He didn’t recognize her voice. Usually gay and carefree, in spite of the responsibilities of a husband, three little girls, and a flat in Shepherd Market, she now sounded utterly crushed and lifeless.
“I’m so glad you’re in. It’s my husband....”
She seemed as though she didn’t know where to begin.
“What is it, Dorothy?”
“He’s been shot.”
; Life seemed to stand still for a moment, like a cinema film breaking down. Miss Hankey, sitting opposite and trying to make out what was being said, the sunny morning, the familiar things in the room, the noises of the streets below. Everything seemed to vanish, except the great twist of fear, like a cold hand gripping him inside.
“...The Cheshire County police have just phoned. It seems it happened last night and they’ve only just found out who he is. He’s dangerously ill in hospital. I... I....”
“I’ll come right over. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Keep your chin up, Dorothy.”
He was only half aware of disposing of Miss Hankey to a subordinate and of ordering an official car. Mrs. Cromwell met him at the door. She gave him an imploring look, as though begging him to do something, and then burst into tears.
Inside the flat, all was neat and tidy. A suit-case packed, a hat on the table, and a coat hanging ready across the arm of a chair.
“What happened, Dorothy?”
She dried her eyes and straightened her rich auburn hair in an instinctive gesture.
“Uncle Richard lived at Rushton Inferior and it seems somebody shot Bob in the dark last night in the street. He must have lain there a long time.”
She could hardly control her voice and sobbed at the thought what had happened.
“He must have taken a walk after supper and he’d changed into his old sports coat and left all his papers in his other jacket. When he was found they rushed him off to the infirmary and he was only identified when Uncle Richard’s widow missed him this morning. The bullet hit him in the head and they later moved him to Manchester Royal Infirmary for an operation.”
“You’ve packed ready for off?”
“I’m getting the noon train from Euston.”
“I’ll come with you. I’ll telephone the Yard and tell them, and ask my wife to pack and send a bag of things to the station.”
It was like a dream. His wife, Letty, meeting him at Euston with the suit-case, the journey north, the strain and lack of news, the long silences between himself and Cromwell’s wife, who had usually had so much to say to each other, the endless drab journey by taxi to the great hospital. The long corridors, the atmosphere of sickness, anxiety, isolation from the world.
“Neuro-surgical ward. I’ll take you there.”
A kindly little nurse with bright lipstick, and wavy blonde hair under a coy cap, led the way. More long corridors, open here and there to the fresh air and the refreshing patches of lawn visible. Nurses and sisters coming and going like worker bees. Students, their stethoscopes round their necks, trying to look like doctors, technicians, consultants, orderlies wheeling beds and trolleys. The hospital cats strolling about or sunning themselves.... Finally, the department of brain surgery. The nurse halted in front of the operating theatre itself and went to find the sister.
Littlejohn writhed with impatience. The calm fortitude of Mrs. Cromwell made him feel a bit ashamed of his own feelings, but he couldn’t help it. On and off, Cromwell and he had been close colleagues for fifteen years and he had taught the sergeant all he knew. He was more like a brother than a subordinate. And to be shot in the night, irresponsibly, by someone who could have borne him no grudge, and in cold blood....
“They think he’ll be all right. The bullet missed the vital spots and the surgeon has removed it. He’s been two hours in the theatre.”
The sister hurried off again, leaving them standing helplessly waiting for more news. Someone led the way to a small room and brought them tea. It was still like living in a dream. Everyone was very kind. No silly sentiment; just practical sympathy and confidence.
A buxom elderly nurse took the dirty cups away on a tray.
“He’ll be all right.... The best brain surgeons in the country are looking after him.”
She mentioned two great names with pride and intimated that the specialists in question could do just as they liked with her brain without causing her the least anxiety.
Littlejohn and Mrs. Cromwell exchanged brief words and phrases, hardly realizing they were speaking, their eyes and ears concentrated on the closed swing doors which divided them from the skilled, healing work of surgery. The sister reappeared, just to tell them it would soon be over.
“Smoke if you like. It’s all right here.”
Littlejohn took out his case and lit their cigarettes. It seemed futile, but it was something to do.
Then the sound of something important stirring, a trolley being wheeled away, the doors of the theatre flapping to. The two in the waiting-room stood still, holding their breath. Two surgeons arrived, clad in white, removing their rubber gloves. A tall elderly man with a kindly clever face and his companion, younger, heavier, with a homely efficient manner and a smile which gave you confidence as soon as you saw him.
The elder of the two did the talking.
“No reason why he shouldn’t recover. It will take a long time. After all, brain injuries are that way. He’ll need great care, but we’ll look well after him.”
He gently patted Mrs. Cromwell’s arm.
“Be brave. It will be all right.”
He turned to Littlejohn.
“Superintendent Littlejohn? I’ve heard of you.”
They shook hands.
“This is a bad business. Nobody seems to know quite how it happened. But he’s very lucky It was done with a small weapon, I’d say, judging from the bullet....”
He dropped a small wad of cotton-wool in Littlejohn’s hand. It contained a piece of lead little larger than a fair-sized pill.
The younger surgeon turned over the bullet with his forefinger.
“The revolver must almost have been a toy. A pop-gun. I extracted more bullets than I can count during the war, but I’ve never seen one so small. Almost made for a lady’s handbag....”
“I’d better take this with me, sir. I don’t suppose my friend has spoken since this happened?”
“No. He was unconscious when they found him and, until the situation was relieved by operation, was likely to remain so.”
“It will be some time before he’s able to speak?”
“We shall have to see. A few days, at least. He’s had a bad shock and in these cases one can’t take risks. We’ll let you know. He’s in bed now. You can take a peep at him, if you wish.”
Cromwell was asleep, his head swathed in a turban of bandages. He looked like a corpse, pale, drawn, hardly breathing. Littlejohn remembered when last he had seen him at the Yard, smiling and ruddy, talking about his Uncle Richard, who had married a girl more than thirty years his junior and had suffered from duodenal ulcers ever after. In fact, he’d died from them. And someone had shot Cromwell in cold blood, almost murdered him. It was bad enough when the victim was a stranger. Now, Littlejohn felt like finding the criminal and shooting him himself.
The younger surgeon was back, dressed in his outdoor clothes.
“I’d like just another word with you, Superintendent.”
They went to the waiting-room again.
“I wanted to ask you if by any chance your colleague has suffered from coronary thrombosis, or anything such....”
Littlejohn almost laughed.
“Why, no. He was the healthiest man alive before this happened. He took great care of himself.”
The Superintendent recollected Cromwell’s many little fads about his health. Morning exercises, yoga, patent foods like Strengtho, little tablets and medicines which he carried about with him. In the past he’d teased him about it. Now, it didn’t seem funny at all.
“Why do you ask, sir?”
“I don’t know whether or not they’ve told you, but Mr. Cromwell was wearing an old sports coat when he was shot. It seems he’d left his ordinary jacket in his bedroom where he was staying. There was nothing in the pockets of his coat except a pipe, pouch and matches, and this....”
The surgeon produced a plain envelope and from it shook two small white tablets into the palm of his hand.
“In searc
hing the coat for evidence of identity, the police found these and asked us if we knew what they were. Our pharmacist recognized them as tablets of dicoumarin. It’s what’s known as an anti-coagulant drug and is used in cases such as thrombosis where we thin the blood to destroy clots. In the hands of the unwary, it is very dangerous. Too much of it will cause extensive bleeding internally, or even through the skin.... That’s why I asked.”
“I’m certain he never needed a drug of that kind.”
“It rather made us anxious. You see, operation under such conditions may be very risky.”
“I can’t think how or why he got the tablets. I’ll try to find out.”
Outside the great doors of the Royal Infirmary the sun was shining, life was going on as usual, the flowers in the gardens opposite formed masses of glorious colour. Ambulances shuttled to and fro, doctors and nurses crossed the courtyard and mixed with the throngs of passers-by, students came and went to the nearby university, members of the committee of management emerged talking and laughing and made off on their ways.
Mrs. Cromwell was going to stay in a nearby hotel and, having made the necessary arrangements for the Cromwell children to be cared for by good neighbours, Mrs. Littlejohn was travelling by a later train and coming to keep her company. Littlejohn himself had work to do at Rushton Inferior. He had a bone to pick with someone unknown.
The village of Rushton Inferior was four miles from the nearest station, which, into the bargain, provided no taxis. As the next bus was an hour and a half away, Littlejohn managed to pick up a lift from a plumber, who complained all the way about how long the wealthy people of the neighbourhood took to pay his bills.
“A year’s nothin’.... Some of ‘em take a couple of years to pay a quid or two. Scandalous.... Enough to make a chap turn communist.”
For some reason, Rushton Inferior was the metropolis of three small communities, and the parish church was there too. Rushton Inferior, plain Rushton, and then Rushton Superior. The plumber told Littlejohn that he’d find a pub and a temperance hotel at Inferior.
Death Sends for the Doctor (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 23
