The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

by George Bellairs

  Finally, before parting it was agreed that on the morrow Hoggatt’s men should make enquiries on the Melcombe Road, which turns into Werrymouth over the river at the old bridge, and try to find out if anyone had seen Lee on his way to one of the farms nearby. Most of the farms kept pigs, of course, and, provided no trace of pig dung was found on the road for the dead man to have tramped through on his travels, it was safe to assume that he had been to some farm or other.

  “And then, what?” muttered Hoggatt. “If we do find out that he’s been to a farm, what good will it be? There are scores of farms in that direction.”

  “Perhaps we can link it up with something else,” replied Littlejohn. “On Sunday afternoon, Lee visited the Samaritan Hospital, I hear. Now, we can assume he didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. There must be somebody there he’s got his claws in. To-morrow I’ll call and try to get a line on that angle. Meanwhile, Cromwell is off to South Redport as soon as Tom Kitchin’s information comes through.…

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I got through to Dunstead just after you’d gone. The Bluebell put in there this evening. The police at the port managed to get hold of Tom right away. They must have shaken him up pretty badly. He gave them the address of the girl at South Redport without any trouble. It’s 29, Castle Hill.…”

  Cromwell made a note in his black book.

  “Did they give any name?”

  “Yes. Doris Pratt. I wonder if we’ll have any luck there. It’s a hell of a business trying to get to know anything about the private life of Sam Prank. We searched his lodgings.… He used to stay with Mrs. Pinner in Quay Street here; but we drew a blank. The place just looked like a vacant room in an hotel. Not a thing worth noting. A few books of the lurid kind, a change of suit and shoes, and little else. He certainly cleaned up his trail.…”

  Early the following morning Cromwell took a cross-country ’bus to South Redport and Littlejohn returned to Werrymouth to visit the hospital.

  The Good Samaritan Infirmary is an old foundation situated in the oldest part of Werrymouth. Its main buildings tower above a motley assortment of annexes and lean-to constructions added to the place until not another yard of space was available. There is a scheme afoot to transfer the whole lot, lock, stock and barrel, to the country after the war.

  The janitor told Littlejohn where to find the office.

  On the way he passed the out-patients’ department where the usual crowd of sick and infirm were seated on benches like worshippers in a chapel. They spoke only in whispers, comparing notes and sympathising with one another. A nurse appeared and muttered a name and a woman rose to assist a man with a bandaged head.…

  Down the corridor two policemen were supporting a man who had fallen from his bicycle right outside the hospital. His trousers were tom and blood streamed from his nose.

  “Take a seat,” said a fair girl in a white smock to Littlejohn and indicated a long wooden bench on which several others were awaiting attention. Opposite, in a room marked “X-Ray Department ” figures came and went. Two nurses in uniform, then a doctor in a white jacket followed by two men pushing a trolley on which was laid a smiling little man who might have been off for a joy ride. The door closed behind them and soon hissing noises could be heard behind it as though someone were spasmodically deflating motor tyres.

  “My wife’s here to have her breast off.… There was a lump.… The doctor said …”

  A small nervous man with a feeble straggling moustache was opening his heart to the Inspector. By his side, a little worn-looking woman trying to smile bravely. A battered suitcase between them.

  “They said it would be all right. She’ll only be here a fortnight. I’m managing on my own. She’ll be all right here.…”

  And to confirm it, the small man thrust into Littlejohn’s hand a note from the Infirmary telling him to bring in the patient at such a time on such a day and then detailing toilet articles and items of clothing required.

  “They do it properly, don’t they?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be all right,” said Littlejohn.

  It brought back the time when he himself took Letty to the nursing home to have her appendix out.

  A nurse arrived and conducted the small man and his wife away. They turned to Littlejohn and smiled wanly, as though seeking a friend in the face of some form of torture.

  “Good luck. She’ll be all right.…”

  “Yes.… Good luck to you, too. We hope you’ll come through all right as well.”

  They had mistaken him for a patient, too. The little man trotted back and picked up the suitcase.

  “I was forgetting this.…”

  “The secretary is free now,” said the receptionist.

  Littlejohn was ushered into a small office crowded with filing-cabinets. A busy-looking grey-haired woman was sitting at a plain table.

  Littlejohn stated what he wanted.

  “Well, Inspector, you’ve rather set us a problem. We get so many visitors here. Sunday, you say? Perhaps the janitor will know.”

  The secretary rang a bell and the elderly shuffling man who had admitted Littlejohn appeared.

  “Lee? Yes, I remember him. Who wouldn’t, with his ugly mug? Called to see a patient in Ward 10.…”

  “Private Annexe?” said the secretary.

  “Yes, Miss Hoskins. What ’e wanted I don’t know. Said he was visitin’ a friend.”

  Littlejohn thanked the janitor, who shambled off.

  “Now, Miss Hoskins, could you tell me about Ward 10, and who’s in it? Perhaps I might see whoever it is?”

  “We’d better speak to Sister.…”

  The secretary pressed one of the buttons of a house telephone and spoke.

  “She’ll be down in a moment.…”

  A good looking, apple-cheeked nurse, with a fringe of flaming red hair escaping from the front of her head-dress arrived. Littlejohn told her what he was after. She smiled wryly.

  “Yes, I remember him. A very nasty-looking old man, but he said he just wanted a word with his friend. I don’t believe they were friends at all. I told him he couldn’t see the patient. I’m sure he was up to no good.”

  “Who is the patient?”

  “Mr. Boake.…”

  “Could I see him?”

  “I’m afraid not, at present. He’s not been well since Sunday and Mr. Carper said he’d to have no more visitors for a bit.”

  “Who’s Mr. Carper?”

  The pretty Sister looked at him with a mixture of horror and pity.

  “The surgeon. Everyone knows Mr. Carper”.

  “Has Boake had an operation, then?”

  “Yes. Perforated duodenal ulcer. He was getting along nicely until Sunday. Then he had a bad day. He’s improving again, now.”

  “You’re sure I can’t have a word with him? I won’t be above a minute or two.”

  The pretty nurse had a firm chin and a tight little mouth when occasion demanded.

  “Not at present. Besides, the police might upset him more than ever. You might ask Mr. Carper when he comes this afternoon.… Or I could do so.… But …”

  “All right, Sister. I can wait. Thank you very much.”

  “Now, Miss Hoskins,” said Littlejohn when the Sister had gone, “I wonder if we could find out all the people who’ve visited Mr. Boake since he had his operation.… By the way, who is he?”

  “Headmaster of St. Jude’s School, in the town. Was taken suddenly ill in the night and rushed here only just in time, I believe.”

  “I see. I wonder what Lee wanted with him? Perhaps a list of his other visitors might assist us. Can you help?”

  “I’m afraid not. You see, we don’t keep a visitors’ book. Mr. Boake is in a private ward on his own and the rules are relaxed on that wing somewhat. Callers may come any day, not just on special visiting days, as in the public wards.”

  “Would any of the nurses remember?”

  “I doubt it. Visitors don’t give their names. The nurse jus
t shows them in and asks no questions, provided the patient’s fit to see them.”

  “Since when has Mr. Boake been seeing people?”

  The secretary rang through to the red-haired Sister on the intercom. again.

  “Since last Thursday. His wife was allowed to see him after the operation on the Sunday-week before that. But nobody else until Thursday. He recovered very well until this little set-back.”

  “Thursday to Sunday isn’t long. Perhaps some of the staff would remember callers.”

  “I think your salvation will lie in Fred, the janitor, again. He knows everybody in town and has a remarkable memory for faces. I suggest you ask him on your way out.”

  “Thanks for your help, Miss Hoskins, and now I’ll be off and see Fred as you suggest.”

  Littlejohn found the janitor back in his cubby-hole by the main entrance. The place was stuffy and hot and barely large enough to hold two people.

  Fred was glad to find somebody to talk to; especially when it was the police. He wanted to discuss the Werry-mouth murders from start to finish. He almost collapsed when Littlejohn told him that Rosie Lee was dead.

  “There isn’t much news I don’t get ’old of, but that ’adn’t come my way. Good riddance to a nasty bit o’ work’s what I say.”

  “He was here last Sunday …?”

  “Aye. An’ up to no good, if you ask me.”

  “Visiting Mr. Boake?”

  “Yes. And was shown the door for his pains. Nice gentleman, Mr. Boake. Very pleased we was able to pull ’im round after ’is sudden attack.”

  The janitor talked as though he himself had operated in the nick of time.

  “Has he had many visitors lately?”

  “Wife started comin’ almost before ’e was out of the h’anesthetic. Then, later, others came. His wife’s very different from ’im. A long-faced, sour sort o’ woman, she is. Don’t know where ’e picked ’er up from. Not a native o’ these parts. What ’e saw in ’er I don’t know, ’owever, no accountin’ for tastes. ’Specially in love.”

  “Can you remember who called besides Mrs. Boake?”

  “Now, lemme see. Give me time and I’ll remember ’em. Got a good memory, I have. Not so many comes through those doors that I don’t remember. Mornin’, Dr. Postlethwaite.…”

  He was greeting the house surgeon who was just going out for a breath of fresh air.

  “Now, there was Mrs. Boake.…”

  The doorman was laboriously intoning the list, his eyes turned heavenwards as though invoking inspiration or help in remembrance.

  Littlejohn took out his note-book and jotted the names down.

  “… then Mr. Podmore came. He’s the assistant headmaster at St. Jude’s. Doin’ temp’rary duty for Mr. Boake. Retired, was Mr. Podmore, but come back on account o’ the war. See? Then there was a deputation, as you might call it … two boys from the school with some flowers. Yes, an’ the Director of Education himself was in. The Reverend Cornwallis, of the Methodists—very decent chap he is, too—called on behalf of the church where Boake goes, an’ later two o’ the deacons arrived, too.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Mr. h’Alderman Coop an’ Mr. Watkinson, the bank manager.”

  Littlejohn noted them all down.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Plenty of inquiries, but they all didn’t want to see Mr. Boake, of course.… Who else went in to ’im? Oh yes. One or two of ’is old scholars. Funny how they should turn up. There was Nancy Emmott, from Headlands.…”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Headlands Farm, just outside the town.”

  “Yes. A friend of Mr. Boake’s, eh?”

  “Old pupil, I said, didn’t I? Drove in with ’er brother in the van. I saw ’em there, in front of the ’ospital, and ’ad to tell ’em to move the van round the corner. No parkin’ in front of the ’ospital, I tells ’em.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well. Nancy arrived with a big bunch o’ flowers and they tuck ’er up to see Mr. Boake. In a bit, she comes down and says Boake wants to see ’er brother. So out she goes and sends up George.”

  “When would that be?”

  “Last Saturday morning.”

  “Were they the first except Mrs. Boake?”

  “No. Several before them.… Wait. There was another, too. An old scholar called on Friday. ’is ship ’ad just docked and havin’ heard of his old schoolmaster’s illness, ’e calls to see ’im. Ministerin’ to the sick. I don’t think. Scroungin’. That’s what it was. Scroungin’ for what ’e could get.…”

  Littlejohn had difficulty in making himself heard above this spate of abuse.

  “Who was it?” he asked, but he knew the answer before it came.

  “Bloke called Sam Prank,” replied the janitor, smiling knowingly to himself and pleased with his dramatic effort in preserving the climax until the end.

  XIII

  ST. JUDE’S SCHOOL

  AFTER his visit to the Good Samaritan Littlejohn paused to consider his next move.

  The patient in Ward 10 was obviously connected with Sam Prank, albeit remotely, and hence probably with the crime. Yet, in his serious condition, Mr. Boake could hardly have left the hospital and attacked the sailor on the previous Saturday night. A. fortnight after a laparotomy operation was no time for venturing on the quayside.

  All the same, further background concerning the schoolmaster and his connection with Sam Prank must be sought at once. From Mrs. Boake herself? She had a reputation for being an awkward woman, to say the least of it, and it might be that if, as was likely, Sam had been trading on some seamy side of Mr. Boake’s history, his wife would be quite in the dark.

  Who else was there? Littlejohn remembered that a Mr. Podmore, who was acting as temporary head of St. Jude’s during Boake’s illness, had already been to the hospital to see the sick man. Perhaps he would be of greater help.

  The Inspector therefore made enquiries concerning the location of the school and set out to find it. It did not take him long. The school is an old one and the gaunt, two-storeyed pile of buildings turned out to be within a few hundred yards of the police station.

  The main entrance fronted straight on to the street. Asphalted playgrounds surrounded by low walls topped with spiked railings on either side of the building. A monitor asked Littlejohn his business as soon as he entered by the swing-doors and pointed the way to a room where Mr. Podmore was taking a large class of boys.

  There was a great hush along the corridors, punctuated by the voices of teachers pumping knowledge into students. In the distance, a dull rumble of scholars reciting monotonously and in unison. As Littlejohn drew nearer, he recognised the words of the drone and smiled to himself as he remembered himself as a unit in a similar performance ten, twenty, thirty … how many years ago was it?

  “Horatius,” quoth the Consul,

  “As thou sayest, so let it be.”

  And straight against that great array

  Forth went the dauntless Three.

  For Roman’s in Rome’s quarrel

  Spared neither land nor gold,

  Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,

  In the brave days of old.…

  Mr. Arnold Podmore reminded Littlejohn of a spinning-top. He heard him before he saw him, though.

  “You … and you … and you … Out you come.… Into the front of the class. My stars, I’ll make you bounce!”

  Through the glass panels of the door, Littlejohn saw the eternal comedy of school days being enacted. Three hulking boys detached themselves from the main body, slowly, as though anticipating what was in store at the end of the journey, and made their ways to the front of the room. When they arrived there, they received three ringing blows apiece on the head from a ruler which would have rendered feebler specimens unconscious on the spot. The spinning-top was in a rare temper and was making his students sit up!

  “My word, I’ll make you bounce! By gad, I’ll dust your trousers!” he yelled at his v
ictims, each of whom was much bigger than his tormentor. They towered above Mr. Podmore like great hounds terrified by a snapping terrier or lions cowed by the unflinching eye of a diminutive tamer.

  Littlejohn picked up another wandering pupil and asked to be shown to Mr. Podmore. He watched his messenger approach the teacher like a suppliant begging a boon of a tyrant and not knowing whether it would be granted or he’d have his eyes gouged out for the asking. Podmore spun and faced the awed youngster, snatched Littlejohn’s card impatiently, read it and barked a question. The boy pointed to Littlejohn on the other side of the door. Mr. Podmore slapped down the boy’s finger, for it was rude to point, flapped a friendly hand at the Inspector and with short rapid steps hurried to join him.

  “Afternoon, Inspector,” he said. He had a large bald head with two tufts of grey hair like rudimentary wings, over his ears. His nose was snub and a mellow red; his well-tended grey moustache resembled an aeroplane propeller. His body was small and round and his feet were so tiny that he seemed to taper-off to a point as though created to rotate on his axis rather than walk.

  “We’ll go to my private room, sir. Come along,” said the teetotum affably and then his genial round face suddenly straightening and becoming contorted into a malevolent mask, he turned back and shouted through the open door.

  “And let me so much as hear a pin drop in this room while I’m away and I’ll make somebody unable to sit down for a week.…”

  Forty boys sat there with petrified faces, trying to look models of virtue. They adored “Poddy,” created legends about him to tell to their companions who hadn’t the luck and honour to sit under him, and returned from the ends of the earth in later life to pay him respects when freed by time from his tyrannies.

  The Inspector followed his companion to a small office, the walls of which were covered in book-shelves containing what looked like stocks of text-books, for the titles were repeated ad infinitum. There were, too, on the window sills, on tables, on a large desk and overflowing to the ground, exercise books and papers awaiting marking. A small table by the door held a motley lot of marbles, penknives, pencils, catapults, water-pistols, sweets and other objects dear to the hearts of boys and obviously confiscated for distracting their owners from Poddy’s discourses. It only needed a label, “Anything in this lot twopence” to complete the picture.