The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

by George Bellairs

  “What can you find me?” said Cromwell, cursing his luck and hoping for the best.

  “How about a boiled egg and bread and butter and tea?” asked the woman hopefully. She was dried-up and past middle-age. Her face was wrinkled and yellow and the tight-drawn skin of her cheeks and forehead showed the skull plainly beneath. Wisps of unruly grey hair fell about her ears and now and then slid over her eyes making her squint. Her bust was braced tight and high in creaking corsets.

  “Very well.… An egg will do.”

  There was at least a shell to keep the inside of the egg clean!

  The old woman began to scamper back and forth from the kitchen to Cromwell’s table. A separate journey for each item. Cup and saucer; plates; salt-cellar; jam-pot; bread-and-butter. Then a pause whilst the egg boiled.

  “Are you all alone here?” asked Cromwell.

  “Just at present. Me daughter’s away on a holiday. Heard her husband, who’s in the forces, ’ad been killed in an air-raid in London. Broke ’er up, it did. So, not bein’ busy, I sent ’er away.…”

  She scuttered off to fetch the egg.

  So Doris Pratt’s husband was dead. And just as fate seemed to have solved the problem caused by Sam Prank’s philandering, Sam himself gets killed. Bad luck!

  The woman brought out the egg. It looked stale and soiled, but smelled all right when Cromwell chopped off the top.

  “Nasty business over at Werrymouth,” began Cromwell, when his waitress seemed inclined to hang about and gossip.

  “Yes. We knew Sam Prank pretty well. He lodged here when he docked in Redport. A great friend of our Doris’s, he was. She was proper cut-up about it, I can tell yer.”

  So that was it! Sam Prank lodged there, did he? And Doris, although married to somebody else, hadn’t been able to resist him.

  The old woman was still talking.

  “… Like as not they’d have made a match of it, only our Doris was married, as I just said. Fond of the girls, was Sam. No doubt in ’is time, had a girl in every port, as they say. Matter of fact, I’ve still got a photo of one of them he left behind in ’is room one time. I kept it. It was no use to ’im after he met Doris. Seemed to settle down with Doris, he did.…”

  “Could I see that photo, Mrs.… Mrs.…”

  “Pratt’s the name. Yes, I’ll get it. Though why you should be so interested in it, I don’t know. But then people do get morbid curiosity about murders, don’t they? Pity about Sam. Now that Doris has lost ’er husband, they might ’ave made a match of it.… I’ll get the picture. It’ll show you what a good lookin’ girl Sam could ’ave had, and he preferred our Doris.…”

  She hurried off, still talking to herself.

  Cromwell could hear her rummaging and banging about upstairs as though turning out drawers in her hunt for the picture. The café remained quiet and forlorn. Flies crawled up the windows or lay in dead heaps on the sill. Outside a decrepit car chugged up the hill coughing and at any moment threatening to give up the ghost. Two women passed gossiping shrilly.

  “I said to her, I said, it isn’t as if I was one who was used to doin’ that sort of thing.…”

  “You know what she is.… I wouldn’t trust a word she says.…”

  The old woman came blundering downstairs again.

  In one hand she held the photograph, with the other she scratched her disorderly hair.

  “I never asked you if you wanted some cake.…”

  Cromwell vigorously protested that he wanted nothing more. Already he saw in imagination those dirty hands preparing the meal he had just devoured.…

  “This is the picture. Good lookin’, isn’t she? Lived at Werrymouth, Sam said. But he preferred my Doris.…”

  Cromwell was not listening to the old woman’s chatter. He was looking at the photograph in his hand. He was flabbergasted that such a girl should be connected with the sordid murder of Sam Prank.

  The picture had been taken somewhere in the country, for the background was of a low wooded upland, with a white cottage or farm in the foreground. At the door of the house a girl was standing. She was tall, young and fair, and dressed in a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt, with a small afternoon tea apron, as though she had been suddenly caught and snapped without much time to get ready for it.

  The forehead was broad and the style of hairdressing, a parting in the middle and the hair brushed sideways and backwards from the brow, gave it a calm, intelligent, slightly globular appearance. The face was oval and clean-cut with a small smiling mouth, a straight little nose and wide-set candid eyes, slightly cast-down either from shyness or artifice.…

  But it was the attitude of the girl which struck Cromwell most. She must have been in the early twenties, a slim, young figure, as fresh as a spring morning, with an air of almost childish innocence. It did not take the detective long to call to mind a very similar type. In odd, spare hours, he had been fond of rambling round the Tate Gallery before the war.… He recollected Arthur Hughes’s April Love.…

  “Nice, ain’t she? No wonder Sam …”

  “I’d like to keep this,” interrupted Cromwell, glaring at the leering woman. He not only wanted to show it to Littlejohn in connection with the case; he wanted to rescue it from the hands of the dreadful Mrs. Pratt.… Mrs. Pratt whose married daughter had carried on an affair under her very roof with Sam Prank. Just because Sam had talked of money and spent his time swanking to her. She was nothing better than a …

  “You’ve got a nerve, I must say. What do you want it for?”

  Mrs. Pratt simpered and looked ready to strike a bargain for the picture.

  “I’m a police officer and as this was the property of the dead man, I propose to retain it.”

  Mrs. Pratt reared and clutched her scrawny bosom.

  “You stinkin’ cheat, you.… Here was I takin’ you inter me confidence and all the time you a nosy copper, … a bloody Judas.…”

  “That will do. You profess to be a friend of the late Prank. Then you’re interested in helping to find who killed him. It’s up to you to give us all the help you can.”

  “I’ve told you all I know. You wormed it out of me under false pretences.…”

  Cromwell pocketed the photograph.

  “One more question, just to rouse your memory. Where was Prank getting all his money from? We know of his connections with your daughter, we know the trouble he got her into, and we know he paid-up handsomely when the child came. He was only a deck-hand. Where did the money come from?”

  “I don’t know.…”

  The woman’s lips disappeared as she tightened her mouth in determination.

  “Very well, then. We’ll have it out of you in court. You’ll be called for evidence at the adjourned coroner’s inquest and the tale will be dragged out of you publicly under oath.…”

  “It’s no good. I never knew where ’e got the money. Borrered it, I guess. He did say once that he’d some valuable letters he could sell to raise the wind, but …”

  “What letters?”

  “How do I know? I never saw ’em. Nor yet knew who wrote ’em. I know nothin’, I tell yer. You can’t get blood out of a stone.”

  A party of hikers had halted before the café and were debating about feeding there. They argued in undertones whether there was another place or not and finally entered reluctantly, as though half-convinced that Mrs. Pratt’s was a low dive where they might be set upon and robbed. They looked relieved to see one so respectable as Cromwell there and picked up courage and spirits, approached Mrs. Pratt and enquired about a meal.

  The old woman clutched eagerly at this passing straw and welcomed them with spurious cordiality.

  “That’ll be two-and-six,” she said to Cromwell and tried to make it appear to the new company that he was trying to get off without paying.

  “Two and six!” piped the detective, forgetting all else but the cheek of the woman and deriving a sort of subconscious consolation by thinking of his expense sheet.

  “Ye
s.… And pay up and be quick about it. Not even the police are goin’ to cheat me out o’ my just dues.…”

  He settled up hurriedly, contenting himself with the thought of the picture and the further news he had secured.

  He could not resist a parting shot.

  “You’ll get the summons to the coroner’s court in due course,” he said.

  Mrs. Pratt’s reply to this cryptic utterance was lost, for Cromwell closed the door between them, but it must have been vehement, for he saw the hikers come streaming out immediately afterwards as though terrified of consuming food prepared by such a harpy.

  XVI

  THE MAN WITHOUT A FACE

  “HAVEN’T you any less than this …? You’ll ’ave to take your change in copper, then.”

  The man in the little office on the Halfpenny Bridge was getting peevish. People kept giving him shillings as they paid toll. Elevenpence halfpenny change. It wasn’t good enough. One chap had even had the cheek to give him half-a-crown. Took it back, too, and said he’d go round the long way when Tebb started to count out two and five-pence halfpenny in copper.…

  Littlejohn was standing in the little cubby-hole trying to get some information out of Tebb. With his ungrateful employers who accorded him no honour for rescuing Prank’s corpse, his unruly clients, and the records of his tickets, the custodian of the bridge was getting properly tied-up.

  “It’s really irregular, is this,” he grumbled, his ragged black moustache looking more like an inky waterfall than ever and his watery eyes wounded and bothered-looking from the many burdens he had to bear. “You ought to ask the office …’arbour Commissioners keeps the records.… ’aven’t yer got an ’apenny? You’ll ’ave to take the change in copper, then. That’s about fifty this mornin’ as ’as given me a bob.… What d’yer think I am; a bank?”

  So it went on. People who wanted to pay clicked through the turnstile. Those with season tickets passed through a wicket and, now and then, when a car or lorry hooted to cross the bridge, Tebb had to rush out and open the big gate. He was like a juggler with too many balls in the air, in danger of missing one.

  “Right. I’d better get down to the office, then,” said Littlejohn, knocking out his pipe on the turnstile. At this rate he’d be here all day.

  The gatekeeper belched and seemed considerably relieved inwardly.

  “No, no.… That’s all right. I can tell yer, I think. Wot is it?”

  “ You know the night you fished Prank out of the basin here? Have you got the numbers of the tickets you sold just before he fell in?”

  A hand extended through the glass hole which gave access to the pay desk and dropped a halfpenny. Tebb thrust a ticket in it, released the turnstile and seemed very pleased at not having to give change for once.

  “Last Saturday. Yes, I think I ’ave. The rolls of tickets and the cash go into the Commissioners’ office every night and the watchman locks ’em up. But I keep ’ere the startin’ and stoppin’ numbers mornin’ and night, so to speak. See …”

  He showed Littlejohn a printed official list with spaces for a month’s details of tickets sold daily, with the beginning number when the bridge opened and the ending figure when it closed.

  “Now, ’ere’s Saturday. Startin’ number Doubleyew, thirty-four oh, oh, oh, four. Stoppin’ number, Doubleyew, thirty-four oh seven oh seven. Total sold for day, seven oh four. Total cash twenty nine an’ fourpence. See? Course I can’t be to an odd ticket or so.… Pay for both those kids, missus. No ’alf tickets for kids. Lor lummy, bad enough messin’ about at a ’alfpenny a time, without half tickets. Get on. Yer ’oldin’ up the traffic.…”

  Tebb turned to Littlejohn again, pushed his hat back on his head and resumed.

  “ Cripes! They’ll drive me dotty. Sometimes I wonder ’ow I keep me ’ands from strikin’ ’em.… Where was we? Oh yes. Now as far as I’d say, and I can’t be to ten or so, I’d say about the time Prank was pushed in the water I’d sell, lemme see, … say … Doubleyew, three four oh six nine nine. Tell yer why …”

  A car hooted for the gates Tebb glared through his window and snorted. Then, he suddenly sprang to attention, adjusted the angle of his hat to a respectable tilt and hurled himself on the job. The car passed and the bridge-keeper returned, lifting up his curly-toed shoes as though proud of what he’d just done.

  “That’s the Chairman of the ’arbour Board … Nice bloke.… Where was we? Yes … W340699, I was sayin’. And why? Because I finished up at W340707 and I’d say eight or nine only went through after the murder and bought tickets. And they was mostly from the ’eadland. Courtin’ couples out for a pennyworth o’ cuddlin’ in the dark. A rare place fer cuddlin’ in the dark.… You’d be surprised wot goes on on the Head after dark … And before dark, too, for that matter.…”

  His face lit up with a lascivious leer, which reminded Littlejohn of a cornered polecat showing its teeth.

  “Most o’ the natives ’ave season tickets and those as ’as to go home to the Head use the wicket, you see.… Wouldn’t you, if you lived there? Season ticket for a year costs five bob. That’s an ’undred and twenty times. Coming and goin’ most of ’em cross the bridge … well … I’d say a thousand times per annum.… Season ticket’s dirt cheap.…”

  “So you’d say W340699, eh, Tebb?”

  The ticket in Littlejohn’s pocket was numbered 340694. Not so far out!

  “Do the farmers on the Head use the bridge much?”

  “Meanin’?”

  “People like the Emmotts and the …”

  “No. You see it’s sixpence a time fer vehicles and no season tickets. Farmers like the Emmotts, greedy ’uns as ’ud skin a flint, won’t pay no sixpences. They run their vans round by the old bridge. A bit longer, but saves ’em a tanner a time, see? I don’t blame ’em, though I sez it as shouldn’t. Tolls on this bridge is too high. Ought to ’ave been done away with long since. It’s paid fer itself ten times over from tolls. But the Commissioners reckon that the ’olidaymakers can afford to pay and they’re buildin’ up a fund from the takings for ’arbour improvements.”

  “And when they come to town on foot, these farmers, do they use this way?”

  “I suppose so, though I ’aven’t noticed it. They mostly come in their cars. For instance, the Emmotts you was speakin’ of fetch supplies and sich like in a sort of little van ’ooked onto their private car, which when they want to use private-like, they unhooks the van and there you are. None of ’em ’as season tickets, that I know.…”

  “I see. Do you remember to whom you issued that?” Littlejohn put the ticket he’d found in young Emmott’s raincoat on the desk before Tebb.

  “Wot an ’ope,” grunted Tebb. “That was issued in the pitch dark, and unless whoever tuck it popped into the box just to say good night or how’s tricks, I’d never know. Wot agen? Eelevenpence ’a’penny change … you’ll ’ave to take it in copper …”

  “Look ’ere, sir …”

  And by way of demonstration Tebb left his own perch and walked round to the pay-hole in the role of one of his own customers.

  “Wot do you see of me,” he breathed, “When I stretches up to me full height?”

  A portion of the small bridge-keeper’s person covered the pigeon-hole. One brass button, an expanse of blue serge, soiled soft collar, with triangle of shirt not to match, ragged tie, and a bit of scrawny neck sprouting from the top.

  “See? A man without a face, I am, ain’t I? Well, that’s wot it is here after dark. The light isn’t good on account o’ black-out. We’ve ’ad to put out the big lamp we usedter ’ave over the main gate and all that we see o’ passers-by now is just wot you saw o’ me. No face, no ’ead at all for that matter.… You’ll excuse me …”

  Tebb shot out again hastily.

  A squad of youngsters from the local O.C.T.U., marching smartly, approached the bridge. Tebb opened the gates and, old soldier that he was, stood to attention stiffly.

  “Break step!” There was a shuffle
and the steady rhythmic tramp of feet changed to a confused scuffling.

  Littlejohn took the opportunity and went on his way.

  Cromwell was back at the police station. He produced the photograph he had taken from Mrs. Pratt, at the same time telling the tale of his morning’s work and the sordid meal he’d eaten at Redport.

  “Well, well,” said Littlejohn. “We have been busy on the Emmotts. That’s the girl I’ve been interviewing.”

  Cromwell looked crestfallen.

  “Don’t look so depressed, Cromwell. This picture’s very useful. I’ll keep it in my pocket, for I’m going to Headlands Farm again very soon.”

  And he told Cromwell and Hoggatt, who had joined them, what had happened at Emmott’s Farm and at the swing-bridge.

  “It looks as though we’re on something at last, doesn’t it?” exclaimed Hoggatt, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

  “That’s right. We’re now on something definite.…”

  Sometimes it came early in the case; sometimes late. First, absorbing the atmosphere of the strange new place to which he’d been called to help. Getting to know strangers, sorting out the characters of the drama, finding out who was helpful and who hostile. Anybody from among them might have done the deed; or it might be somebody right outside the pale. Waiting for something to crystalise, for a scent to attract the hunter.… If the case never developed beyond this, then … another unsolved crime for the files.

  But, as likely as not, some trail was picked up, some conviction, perhaps only a sort of intuition, evolved. Off we go … the smooth machinery of police routine is in gear. Piece by piece, the case is built up, a jigsaw taking shape under the hands of the expert. Until, finally …

  “Do you know the Emmotts, Hoggatt?”

  “Yes. A proud, stand-offish lot. Integrity absolutely undoubted. They pride themselves on it. Family honour and all that, you know. The old man’s been paralysed and confined indoors for years. But he was a bit of a tartar when he was up and about, I believe. You’d have thought he owned all Werrymouth, they say. A fiery eye and a convincing manner. Fanatically proud of his family and its long record of local distinction and integrity …”