The Tormentors
George Bellairs
© George Bellairs 1962 *
*Indicates the year of first publication.
Contents
1 Chance Acquaintance
2 Deep Waters
3 Alibi
4 Ballacroake
5 The Bishop's Arms
6 Teddy-Boy's Lament
7 The Ghost at Ballacroake
8 The Man in the Upper Room
9 Croake's Saturday Afternoon
10 The Treasure of Ballacroake
11 The Little People
12 The Inventory
13 The Confidences of Joseph Croake
14 Feminine Gossip
15 The Tormentors
16 The Elder Brother
17 Hard Luck on Littlejohn
18 The Cliffs at Keristal
1
Chance Acquaintance
A SUNNY MORNING in mid-August. A clock somewhere in the maze of streets along the waterfront struck half-past ten. The sailors manning the gangway on the Manx boat from Liverpool hauled it nimbly in, the engine-room telegraph clanged, and the trim cross-channel packet slowly moved into the river. The crowd on the pier gradually melted away and those aboard waiting for the bars to open, pushed their way to find a drink. The rest slowly settled down about the decks, talking excitedly, making new friends, eager to be starting their holidays right away.
'The Isle of Man's too risky these days. The police meet you at the boat, and, if they don't like the looks of you, they turn you round, give you a free ticket back to the mainland, and you've had it. And if you do get in and they cop you at any racket, they give you the birch. They can still do it there, you know.'
When his pals had told him that, Alf Cryer had accepted it as a challenge. He was more than a match for any meddling bobby. He'd packed his bag and taken the next boat.
The main thing was to establish a respectable front in case the police over the water questioned him too closely. His pocket was stuffed with pound notes, but that wasn't enough. He had a bad record and didn't want it to come to light if any questions were asked or they decided to check him up. He had three and a half hours in which to find a way out. By the time the King Orry passed the Mersey Bar, he'd found a solution and got it all sewed-up.
Alf was attractive in his scruffy way to those who fancied that kind. Some of the girls, prowling about the decks in jeans and tight jumpers and with their hair dishevelled, seemed to think so and turned to take a second look as he strutted past them looking as if he owned the boat. He gave them scornful looks, which was, he knew, the way they liked it.
He was dressed in black stovepipe trousers terminating in long pointed shoes which had cost him quite a lot, and he wore a plastic jacket and a pink holiday shirt open at the neck. His friends had also advised him against putting on his ted's clothes if he wanted to be let-in at the Isle of Man. He had a complexion the colour of putty, pimples on the back of his neck, a snub nose, and dark curly hair shining with oil. His eyes were black and cunning, with the almost sightless look of someone concentrating hard on his own devices. He was nearly six feet tall, thin, and well set-up, with long arms and legs and huge ill-kept hands. He carried himself like the cock o' the north and walked like a cat.
Perhaps it was the evil in Alf Cryer which attracted Sid Wanklyn. Or it may have been his impudence and self-possession. Nobody, not even Sid, will ever know. But, as the boat slowly nosed her way into the river, Sid introduced himself. He was on his own, too. He indicated the shabby fibre suitcase Alf was clutching.
'Want to get rid of that till we land? I'll see to it. I know my way about these boats.'
'O.K. See I get it back.'
Alf said it roughly, almost ignoring the other. In the mob he moved about with, he was almost a nonentity. He did as he was told. Now he was on his own with a chance to give orders himself.
'Sure.'
Sid almost ran to put the tumbledown luggage beside his own bag in a corner near the funnel.
'That's safe enough.'
He was a good four inches smaller than Alf. Stocky, square-headed, pale blue eyes, and crew-cut fair hair. He, too, wore narrow trousers, an imitation leather jacket, and brown shoes with thick rubber soles.
At first, Alf was disposed to dismiss him roughly. Tell him to drop dead. Then he changed his mind.
'You on holidays?'
'Yes. You?'
Alf didn't answer the question. Except as a part of the scheme he had in mind, Wanklyn was less than the dust to Alf.
'Booked your digs?'
'No. I'm staying with my aunt.'
Alf actually smiled. It was a poor effort, a mere predatory baring of the teeth, but Sid thought it betrayed good will.
'She lives in Castletown.'
'Where's that?'
'In the south. About ten miles from Douglas. It's a nice quiet town . . .'
Alf wasn't interested in geography. He was thinking. He stuck a fag in the corner of his mouth without offering one to his companion, lit it, flipped the spent match over the side of the boat and spat out a mouthful of smoke.
'Douglas is the top town, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'Busy at this time of year they tell me. Plenty of lolly about.'
'That's right. The place to have a good time. Been before?'
No answer. Alf was doing the asking. Sid didn't seem to mind. He was used to being ignored. An orphan, without any relatives except his aunt, who was religious and invited him over now and then for the purpose of inspecting his moral welfare and respectability. It was something to do when he got a week's holiday. Otherwise he just had to loaf about. On the Island he could pick up a girl when he'd money in his pocket, and swank a bit and throw his weight about. In the quarter where he lodged, off Scotland Road in Liverpool, his pals were older and larger than he was: chiselled-in if he found himself a girl, sheered off and left him when they were up to anything worth while. He earned eight pounds a week in a railway warehouse and now and then increased his labourer's income by swiping and flogging worthwhile stuff which passed through his hands, when the rest weren't looking.
'Cigarette?'
Alf decided he'd better be affable. If there were any plainclothes men planted aboard and he wanted to make use of Sid, he'd better behave like a familiar.
'Thanks. My name's Sid Wanklyn.'
'You can call me Alf.'
'What about a drink, Alf? The bar's open.'
'Lead me to it.'
The decks were crowded with holidaymakers and the day was fine and sunny. The passengers were growing noisy and good-humoured in a sort of thanksgiving for a calm crossing. There was music everywhere. Someone was playing an accordion; sad music. Paris, ma Tristesse. Some beatniks leaning over the rails looked ready to throw themselves in the water. On the other side of the deck, portable radios were picking up a jazz band. Riverboat Rock. Some of them were twisting and rock-and-rolling. The decks were so crowded that it almost became a riot.
Riverboat Rock, sailin' to the sunset.
Riverboat Rock, rock ma baby in my arms.
Yoo Hoo! Rock ma baby an' me.
They were still in sight of land. Liverpool Bay was full of shipping. In the distance, a liner on its way to Canada and another heading for Liverpool. The air was like wine and the sun was warm and kind. Just the sort of day for starting a holiday. Already some of the passengers were half seas over, celebrating the joys to come.
Alf and Sid elbowed their way through the crowd to the bar at the end of the deck. Sid's eyes were everywh
ere, taking it all in. Alf, on the contrary, seemed to see nothing with his half-dead gaze which, nevertheless, missed nothing at all. Now and then, a couple of girls, hunting for someone to finance them through the holiday, gave the pair the glad eye. Alf ignored them, but Sid was slightly exhilarated by it. He'd had his amorous adventures now and then, but some of the girls on the boat, dressed in their best and got-up to kill, put to shame the partners of his fumbling amours in sordid corners round Scotland Road.
Alf wasn't interested, however. The girls who took his eye had men with them. Men he'd have pushed aside in his normal surroundings. But now he was going to behave himself. Just in case . . .
'Come on. Time for that when we get there.'
They fought their way to the bar. Alf paid for two.
'You can buy the next. Then, that'll be the lot. Got to arrive sober. Respectable place, the Isle of Man. Or don't you know?'
Sid giggled. He felt that way. It looked as if they were going to have a good holiday after all. He and Alf. Already he could see them. Women, wine and song, with Alf to show him the way, to set the pace.
Everybody was merry and bright. Offering to pay for drinks for men they'd never met before; all pals together, out for a jolly good time. Now and then, somebody jostled them. Alf looked like thunder and seemed ready to start something. His dead eyes would light up and flash and the jostler would cringe away or smile a sickly smile. Then Alf would smile back. He'd remembered to be on his best behaviour. Just in case . . .
As the two of them got back on deck, the nine o'clock boat from Douglas was passing the King Orry on her way to Liverpool. She was a pretty sight, clean and graceful, her decks crowded with people returning home, cutting through the water like a racing dog. Passengers crowded to the rails to give her a wave and a cheer as she sped past. Some sang her a verse of the latest top hit.
Yoo Hoo! Rock ma baby an' me.
'Another 'oliday over.'
A tottering little fat man in an off-white suit and a fancy tweed hat, lifted his glass of beer to her with one hand and raised the hat with the other.
'It'll be the same with us in a fortnight,' he added sadly and drank his beer in one to help him forget it.
Alf and Sid leaned over the rails. They were now almost out of sight of land. All that remained behind them was a dim patch of it, like a cloud on the eastern horizon.
'Know any good digs in Douglas?'
'No, Alf. I daresay, if you wanted, my aunt could find you a place in Castletown. We'd be together there. I know the Island well. I could show you about.'
He didn't like the idea of their parting now. With Alf the holiday would be made.
Alf made an impatient gesture.
'I want the lights and crowds. I'll find me a place if you don't know one. We'll meet. You can come down to Douglas and we'll. . . . "
He halted there. The very idea of having Sid hanging around didn't suit him. He wanted to be on his own. He'd things to do.
'There's one thing you can do for me. I hear they're a bit choosey on the Island. They don't fancy the likes of you and me . . . '
He passed his hand up and down, indicating the way they were dressed.
'. . . They think everybody wearing clothes like you and me are up to mischief.'
'I've never found it that way, Alf. Who's told you that?'
'I've heard of the police turning back fellows they didn't like the look of. Sending 'em back home by the next boat.'
He looked hurt.
'They won't try it on with us. I'm going to see my aunt, I tell you. She's Manx. Her name's Mrs. Creer. If I tell them that, they'll give us the welcome handshake. That is, if they do ask questions, which I doubt.'
'If they do, then, just tell them I'm your pal, see? We're both going to see your aunt . . . That'll put it right.'
Sid brightened up.
'Decided to come with me, after all?'
Alf was disgusted. The man was just too dumb.
'No. I said Douglas, didn't I? If there's any questions, that's what you say. Get me?'
'Yes. I'll see to it.'
'There's the Island. See it? Good ole Isle of Man.'
The little fat man in the fancy hat was going the rounds again. He'd another glass of beer in his hand and started toasting the island loudly.
Ahead, land was slowly forming, building itself up on the horizon. A long, low outline, which gradually grew larger. A panorama of gentle hills, then a sudden clearing of the air, revealing their green slopes sweeping down to the sea and ending in massive cliffs. People began to crowd on deck to see it. Some of them were even making bets about how far the Island was still away and how long they'd take to reach it.
'Another hour yet,' the man in the hat was shouting. 'Time for a few more drinks.' He went off to have another.
They could see Douglas. The harbour and then a long crescent of promenade with white boarding-houses and hotels shining in the sun. Passengers began to gather their baggage, jostling one another for pride of place in the queues forming at the gangways. The boat blew a blast on her siren. Those who couldn't bear sailing in any weather began to emerge from below. They looked incongruously sick and green, but grew miraculously well again as the boat entered the harbour and docked.
'This is it . . .'
For the first time, Alf looked tense.
'Nothing's going to happen. I know some of the police here. One of them used to live near my aunt . . .'
Alf felt like telling Sid to take a walk. He sounded so cocky and pleased with himself. The kind that normally Alf picked quarrels with, just to cut them down to size. The gangways were out and they all began to shuffle off the boat. It was amazing how many the boat held. They seemed as if they'd never stop. Like a river trickling down the planks and then forming a huge lake of excited humanity on the quayside.
Alf's dead eyes picked out the helmets and even recognized the plain-clothes men, apparently idly standing by, casually watching the newcomers. Now and then, one would help a woman with heavy luggage and no porter to get her bags safely on the quay. One of them even carried a child shoulder-high, because she couldn't keep up with the mob. Then he calmly turned to Alf. He was a large, powerful officer with a fresh, gentle face.
'Here on holiday, sir?'
He looked mildly into Alf's dead eyes. He knew the type.
'Yes. Anything wrong with that?'
'No. You seemed like a stranger to the Island. Ever been here before?'
Alf had to struggle to keep his temper. Nobody pushed him around and that was what the detective was trying to do.
'This is the first time. So what?'
'Have you booked your room?'
And then Sid appeared, lugging his own and Alf's bags, like a strange gentleman's gentleman trailing behind his betters.
'He's with me.'
'I see.'
The policeman smiled affably. Actually, he wanted to laugh. He compared the two of them. One was full of it; the other, his admirer, a lad who'd fallen for his phoney bravado and cocksureness.
'Have you been here before, then?'
'Yes. I come every year. My aunt lives here. We're staying with her.'
'Where, if you don't mind telling me?'
'Castletown. Her name's Mrs. Creer. Lives on the estate near the airport.'
'That's different, isn't it? Almost Manx yourself, aren't you?'
Sid produced a grubby letter.
'If you don't believe me, here's her invitation.'
The policeman smiled.
'That's all right. We just have to make sure. Sometimes people arrive who make it a bit noisy and unpleasant for those who want a quiet life . . . Get along, then, and have a good time.'
Alf was almost exhausted with keeping his temper and by his efforts to behave civilly.
'Who the hell do they think they are, anyway? Keeping us standin' there like a couple of crooks and everybody staring at us. I'll get even with him for this. Nobody treats me like that without me getting even. Well
. . . That's all for the time being, young Sid. Thanks for the good turn. I'll not forget it, in spite of the way we've been pushed around. Did you hear him? Bit noisy and unpleasant, are we? We'll see. So long, then. Perhaps I'll be seein' you before I go back. On the other hand, perhaps I might not.'
The sudden turn about, even the tone of Alf's voice, took Sid's breath away.
'You don't mean . . .?'
Alf's mouth widened in his cruel grin again.
'Look. What would I want with a kid like you? You'd be more a hinderer than use. Get off to your auntie and have a good time . . . '
Suddenly he stopped. He wondered if the police might put a tail on him. He stood there at the pier gates looking around with his cold eyes without moving his head.
The approaches to the piers were almost empty. A clock struck three. The promenade was filling-up with crowds dressed in holiday wear. Horse trams were moving to and fro, stopping to pick up a few passengers and the horses off on their ways without so much as a ring of the conductor's bell or a twitch of the reins as soon as they saw all were aboard. The next boat was due out to Liverpool at four o'clock and a ragged queue had formed already. The plain-clothes man was talking to the harbour master and looking in the direction of Alf and his companion. They'd better be careful.
'Sorry, Sid. I didn't intend to be rough with you. But that damned copper . . . What about eating? Then we'll find me some digs and you can get off to your aunt's.'
Sid perked up.
'It's all right. Let's eat, then. After that, we can arrange something and fix to meet again. I'll come to Douglas any time you say.'
The restaurants in Victoria Street were empty by now. The owner of one was taking inside the blackboard on which he chalked the dishes and prices. He eyed them dubiously as they entered.
They had little to say to one another over the meal. Sid respectfully left the talking to Alf and Alf remained lost in thought, eating slowly, holding his knife and fork clutched in his fists, tackling his meat violently, as though it might be an enemy. He chewed with a rotary motion, opening his mouth and showing all inside it as he did so. He didn't seem aware of what he was eating. As the meal went on, Sid's spirits fell again. This was going to be a disappointing holiday after all.
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 1
