‘And Cling left her all he had in spite of it.’
Outside the second floor window they could see a huge crane hauling girders about on a new building job. Mr. Havelock paused and held his breath as one of the great masses of steel hung shuddering in the air for a minute and then was slowly lowered into place among the rest.
‘Who else could he leave it to? He wasn’t the kind who endowed charities. Furthermore, he was obsessed by the idea that his wife might one day come back to him, or become penniless. He never divorced her and after she left him he kept in constant touch with her movements. He even went to Chicago once to try to persuade her to return to him. Nobody ever knew what kind of a reception he got there. He wasn’t great at confiding. But he never let go. That was one of his characteristics. He never let go in anything. He regarded her as his, and insisted on being responsible for her. You might think the whole thing was mad. But that was Cling. Other men have done the same, but you’d never think it of Cling, would you?’
‘I would not. What would have happened if she’d died before the man she’s living with now?’
‘I suppose he’d get the lot of Cling’s legacy that remains. Unless, of course she wills or gives it all away. Knowing her, I’ll bet she goes through it all quickly. I raised the point with Cling when he made his will. He merely shrugged. He wasn’t interested in what happened after his death provided Flo was all right. Very objective, wasn’t it?’
‘How much did he leave?’
‘I haven’t been closely into it. I’d say around ten thousand pounds.’
‘That’s a lot for a man like Cling.’
‘He didn’t spend much on himself and he had a bit of a flair for speculation on the Stock Exchange. He tucked it all away for Flo, as he used to call her.’
‘All this is very surprising. And yet it explains a lot about his standoffish, lonely personality and his way of life. I used to think he was just a crank.’
‘He was a crank. He was a conceited man who couldn’t bring himself to believe that his wife had left him for good. He had an idée fixe that one day she would discover what was best for her and would return to him.’
‘And with the exception of Flo, had Cling any other relatives?’
‘Two. An old aunt and uncle who, I believe, live at a place called Weston Parva, in Leicestershire. Cling was a native of Leicester. He told me when I drew up his will that if his wife died before him, he’d perhaps make a new will in favour of the old couple, if they were still alive. They are both about eighty. I have their address somewhere.’
‘He confided in you very much?’
‘Only as far as his will was concerned.’
‘I suppose now you’ll have to seek out Mrs. Cling in Chicago, or wherever she is.’
‘That is so. I’ve already wired agents there to find if she still exists at the address Cling once gave me. I should be hearing very soon.’
‘What was the name of the man she ran off with?’
‘Moon. Ulysses Simpson Moon, known by his comrades as Sim Moon. He was an American G.I.’
‘I’d imagine that, with a name like Ulysses Simpson. Called after General Grant, I’d think.’
‘Obviously.’
They left by taxi for Cling’s flat, situated in a mews behind Sloane Square. It lay beyond an archway in a cobble-stoned passage, one of the last not converted by the developers. A living-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, a small bathroom. All neat and tidy as might be expected from their methodical tenant.
There was nothing homely about the place. No pictures or photographs on the walls, no cushions on the chairs, no ornaments. It was almost monastic. Purely a pied-à-terre where Cling slept and kept his few things. There were a few books about, the most formidable of which were three heavy volumes of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall. They found nothing of importance in the wardrobe or drawers of the furniture until they turned to the desk which was locked. J. Q. Havelock had the key which Cling had handed to him, along with the will when it was executed. It all gave one the impression that Cling had had his death urgently in mind and had left his affairs in strict order.
Cling certainly hadn’t hoarded things, or else he’d destroyed his hoard in anticipation of the worst. The desk was half empty. All the superfluities of life had been disposed of. A folder containing current bank statements showing very little available ready cash and giving, at a cursory glance, very little evidence of unusual transactions. A clip of receipted bills all for something and nothing, a japanned box with the key still in it, containing birth, marriage and death certificates of Cling and his family. Some cigarettes and book matches. A letter or two of no importance whatever, including one from a plumber about fitting a new geyser and another from a firm of patent medicine dealers giving particulars of inoculation for the common cold.
Little else. Either Cling had severed all ties with ordinary existence and destroyed everything which bound him to it or else had cached away everything of importance—letters, money, private mementoes – somewhere safe from discovery.
Mr. Havelock stood with his hands on his hips and his mouth tight and surveyed the room.
‘It looks fine and dandy and ready for a new tenant, doesn’t it? You’d think Cling knew he’d never return and put his affairs in good order for the occasion.’
‘Who’s his landlord J.Q.?’
‘A property company in Sloane Square. I gather an elderly lady in the cottage over the way cleaned-up for Cling when he was here. She used to be one of the cooks for the Duke in her younger days and when she retired he gave her the lease of her house until her death. I don’t suppose she’ll be able to tell us very much, but we can call to see her.’
Across the way they found Mrs. Burdett living in a small house which had once been a coachman’s. The present owners of the freehold thought her somewhat of a pain in the neck, for she refused all their offers to find her accommodation elsewhere. They were forced under their agreement to put up with her until she died, when they hoped to develop her house and let it again at a fabulous rent. She said she knew very little about Cling.
She made them tea. A survival of another age, still stiff in tight stays and somewhat of a Stoic. She bore the signs of a well-trained servant and spoke like a good cockney, for she had lived in the Victoria Station district all her life.
‘I only did for Mr. Cling because his place was handy, bein’ just across the way, and the money was a help. I saw very little of him. Most times he’d gone when I went over in the mornings. For weeks at a time I’d never set eyes on him, although he’d be livin’ in the place, if you could call it livin’. Out early and back late.’
‘Did he ever bring anyone home or have any visitors?’
‘In all the seven years that Mr. Cling has been here, I never saw anybody either visit or call on him. Of course, in the way of his duties, he’d sometimes be away for weeks on end. He always paid me as though he’d been livin’ there, even when he wasn’t at home.’
A huge black cat rose from the fireside and jumped on Littlejohn’s knees. This seemed greatly to please Mrs. Burdett.
‘He doesn’t take to everybody.’
‘Did anybody come around enquiring for Mr. Cling or leave anything for him?’
She thought for a moment.
‘Not that I remember. If anybody wanted Mr. Cling and he wasn’t about, they weren’t likely to enquire here. They’d call at the Pelican, which is to the right through the archway. You could ask there.’
J. Q. Havelock excused himself.
‘Mind if I leave you to it, Littlejohn? I haven’t time to continue this investigation, much as I’d like to. I’ve a full book of appointments today.’
It was their slack time at the Pelican. An old-fashioned pub, still retaining a lot of brass and mirrors, soon to disappear with developments of the property. Its clientele came mostly in the evenings. The landlord was youngish; thin, sallow, with a smear of dark moustache across his upper lip. Another good-humoured and polite cockney
.
Littlejohn asked for a pint of ale in a tankard.
‘Cling? The police chap from the news. Yes; I recollect him. Now and then he’d call here for a pint, which he drank without a word. I saw in the papers that he’d been found murdered somewhere abroad. World’s in a sorry state isn’t it?’
He contemplated his beer, for which Littlejohn had paid, as though wondering whether or not to weep in it.
‘Did you ever have any callers enquiring about him?’
‘You’re from the police, too, aren’t you? You’re on the case, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t help. I don’t remember anybody … Here; wait a minute. Yes. Just after we took over here, a little less than a year since, I remember it, because I’d never heard of Cling at the time and I asked a couple of the locals as were in and they gave the fellow his address in the mews there.’
‘Was it a man seeking information about Cling?’
‘Yes. He didn’t get much, because nobody knew anything about Cling except that he was in the police. We just gave the chap his address and he went off there. He didn’t have any luck though. He drank three doubles before he left and another couple when he called back. He said he’d found Cling was out and it didn’t really matter.’
‘What kind of a man was he? English?’
‘Oh, yes. London, I’d say. Medium built, rather thickset, and I think he had a moustache. Gift of the gab and a big thirst. Pleasant bloke. Too pleasant, really.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You did say you were from the police?’
‘Yes. My name’s Littlejohn.’
‘Not the Littlejohn? Wait a minute. I’ll just get the wife. She’ll be interested in this.’
He hurried to the back quarters and returned shepherding a buxom woman with red cheeks, which, by comparison, made his own look even more deathly. She was carrying a flourishing child in her arms with cheeks as ruddy as her own. She said she was pleased to meet Littlejohn and, judging from the joyful noises he made, so was the child.
Mr. Cuthbert Ingram, the licensee according to the notice above the door, explained the purpose of Littlejohn’s visit to his wife, who then shifted the child from the crook of one arm to that of the other, as though somehow it stimulated her thoughts.
‘The man with the warts!’
Mr. Ingram made noises of approval.
‘Fancy you, remembering that, Polly. You remarked on it at the time, didn’t you? Only we decided in the end that they were moles, not warts.’
‘Warts or moles, when I came in the bar and saw them, it gave me quite a turn. He had three big ones on his face. Bigger than peas they were. I was carrying Walter at the time …’
She gave the smiling child a shake to indicate his identity and he chuckled his approval.
‘… and, as you know, blemishes of that kind are not good for women in such condition and might cause birthmarks on the baby.’
Littlejohn didn’t know, but he let it pass.
‘It doesn’t seem to have affected him, does it? He looks very well.’
Mr. Ingram filled up Littlejohn’s tankard in a gush of appreciation.
Mrs. Ingram hadn’t finished.
‘You remember, Bert, I called your attention to the moles at the time. I also said that if you were made as ugly by moles I’d see that you had them removed …’
She turned confidentially to Littlejohn.
‘The surgeons do wonderful things nowadays, don’t they? My sister-in-law actually had a new nose put on by them. Said her own was too hooked and pestered her husband till he agreed to have it made what they called retroussey. Not that it made much difference, I must say, but that wasn’t the doctor’s fault … You were saying sir …?’
‘Three moles. Where were they situated?’
‘One right in the corner of his nose … Here …’
The right side.
‘… and two on his cheek … Here …’
The left temple.
‘And that’s as far as I care to discuss them, because we’re expecting our second around Christmas and I’m sure it isn’t good to talk of such things in my condition.’
The child was growing restive through being thrust from one arm to the other so often, so Mrs. Ingram left to appease him after elevating him in the air for Littlejohn to kiss him.
‘I do hope the next is born on Christmas Day,’ said Mr. Ingram, wistfully watching their departure. ‘A proper birthday, wot?’
Littlejohn left him proudly contemplating the happy event.
Back at Scotland Yard, he put in an enquiry about the identity of the strange visitor at the Pelican … warts and all.
4
Surviving Relatives
‘OF COURSE it would be a pleasure to help Scotland Yard, but you know as well as I do that my sort of work’s very confidential …’
The man sitting behind the cheap desk smiled insolently at Cromwell. He had bloodshot eyes and there was a reek of whisky around him. He had three unsightly moles on his face, as described by Mrs. Ingram.
It was Inspector Cromwell who had identified him from the description.
‘That sounds like Jim Cupples …’
And Cromwell had climbed four flights of stairs in a seedy building in the Temple, shortly to be replaced by a massive concrete block, to ask Cupples what he knew about Cling.
Cupples had once been a member of the Metropolitan police, but his drinking habits had cut short his career and he had started in business on his own.
James F. Cupples, Enquiry Agent.
It was stencilled on the ground-glass panel of his shabby office door. His business was mainly concerned with adultery and divorce. He also operated at the London end of American enquiries put in his way by a former colleague who, like himself, had left the police before he was thrown out, and was established in New York.
Cromwell came straight to the point, as usual, and asked Cupples what he knew about Alec Cling.
‘… You know very well, Bob, the lines on which private enquiries are run.’
The familiarity only stiffened Cromwell’s approach.
‘This is murder, not squinting through keyholes at adultery. Cling’s dead. So there’s no further reason for withholding information. You may turn out to be a principal witness in this case. So I think you’d better co-operate. Better quietly, just between the pair of us, than going to Scotland Yard with the Press all around.’
‘You needn’t use threats, Bob. You know if one of the papers got a picture of me going into Scotland Yard, it would be the end of my business. But don’t push me too hard.’
Cupples had narrow little eyes and they grew greedy. He was trying to think up some bargain or other to his advantage. He couldn’t very well ask for cash, but there might be some other form of quid pro quo.
‘There’ve been expenses in connection with my enquiries and now that Cling’s dead, I’ll be left out of pocket.’
‘Sorry, we don’t buy information.’
‘Sez you!’
‘We don’t buy information. You’ll have the comfort of helping to further the ends of justice.’
‘It’s my profession and I get paid for it.’
‘Who were you working for?’
‘All right. But if I help you, you’ll have to help me if I need any assistance in my job in the future. Fair’s fair …’
‘I don’t have to do anything. Who was it?’
‘As you know I have international connections …’
He looked as if he had, too. Underworld ones.
‘… This was from the American end.’
‘What did they ask you to do?’
‘Find out where Cling was living, what he was doing, and whether or not he’d married again.’
‘Why were they enquiring?’
‘That was confidential business. It wouldn’t be right …’
‘Don’t be coy, Cupples. Cling’s dead. Murdered. Any information which might set
us on the track of his killer? If so, out with it and stop beating about the bush.’
‘I’ll be candid with you. I’m anxious to help if only you’ll stop bein’ so official and behave like an old colleague. I was going to say that my New York contact told me what it was about. It seems that Ulysses S. Moon, the American with whom Cling’s wife ran away after the war, had just died. They’d actually been married when they got back to America, although the marriage wasn’t valid, because she never got a divorce from Cling. It seems that after they got to Chicago, Moon prospered. He ran a little chain of drug stores. When he died, he left all he had to Flo Cling, as his wife. They had children, but Moon also had three brothers, who consulted a lawyer with the view to seeing if they could upset Moon’s will. That’s where I came in. They wanted to know, as I said, if Cling was alive and whether or not he’d married again.’
‘And that was all?’
‘The lot. Except that I had an enquiry from the same source about a year ago. They just wanted Cling’s address then.’
‘You reported back accordingly.’
‘Yes.’
‘And in the course of your investigations, did you come across any information which would be useful to us now?’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, come now, Cupples. You’ve been in the police yourself. What sort of information do you think we’re after?’
‘I’ll tell you one thing; Cling was a lone wolf. I went to his place near Sloane Square. It was locked-up and nobody seemed to know a thing about him. I was a bit stumped. So I had to ask some of my old friends at the Yard who knew him and I got the information about Cling from them. One of them told me, too, that Cling had only one surviving relative. A Mrs. Seal, who lives at a little godforsaken village in Leicestershire. Weston Parva. I went to see her to confirm things. Hell of a job getting there. And a hell of a reception I got, when I did get there. It’s an old Georgian house, tumbledown outside and in. She has a couple of savage dogs and half a dozen cats and to add to the confusion there’s a half-mad chap who looks like an artist living there, too. I don’t know whether he’s supposed to be a manservant or a relative. He’s called Coop, and every time the old woman wanted anything she yelled for him. Coop! Coop! What with the dogs barking, the cats jumpin’ on my knees and clawin’ my trousers into holes, Mrs. Seal yellin’ Coop! and Coop runnin’ in and out, I thought I was in a madhouse. I always thought Cling was a bit queer. That explained it. He comes from a mad family, I’m sure.’
Death of a Shadow (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 3
