Death of a Shadow (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘Did your nephew leave a will, Mrs. Seal?’

  She seemed surprised. As though to mention such things was really in bad taste.

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But then, I’m not surprised he never mentioned it to me. He always kept his private affairs to himself and strictly apart from his family and social relations. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It is just one of those routine questions one asks on a murder case. You see, money and the directions it goes in are often motives for crime.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. Coop reads quite a lot of detective stories and when we’re by the fireside in the evenings, repeats them to me from beginning to end. So I know quite a lot about crime and detection …’

  Cromwell smiled and mentally summed it up. Adult education in crime!

  ‘You don’t know where your nephew kept his papers and, if he’d made one, his will?’

  ‘I don’t. Why do you keep insisting on his will? He may not have made one.’

  ‘I will tell you in confidence, Mrs. Seal, that his colleagues went to his flat near Sloane Square after hearing of his murder and looked it over with a view to finding out if there were any clues there which might help …’

  Best not mention J. Q. Havelock and the will in his hands. Havelock himself could deal with that later, if necessary.

  ‘They found nothing at all. No letters, documents, records, diaries. No will … Nothing. Alec seems to have lived a secret kind of life in which he was determined nobody should share.’

  She didn’t seem surprised.

  ‘Wouldn’t you say the very nature of his confidential work for the government led to such an existence? He was in the secret service at one period, and at the time of his death, he was engaged on special work. It was natural that he wouldn’t set down in writing how he spent his time and what he was engaged in. Anybody who broke in the flat would find such documents and perhaps make use of them in a sinister way.’

  Cromwell felt like asking if she and Coop also discussed spy cases and the fiction which covered their activities, far into the night.

  ‘I quite see that. But it makes it very awkward for everyone when a man dies and there’s no indication of his wishes post-mortem.’

  That was a good one! Wishes post-mortem. Cromwell could see that Mrs. Seal was impressed by it, too. She’d probably come out with it again later that night to Coop. She sat back in her chair, thinking. Then:

  ‘I think I might have an explanation for none of Alec’s papers being available. Very interesting.’

  She leaned forward confidentially and her eyes sparkled.

  ‘It’s like a detective story. One day, after I’d mentioned spies and their activities and the complications of diplomatic and other work, Alec opened up a little, as I’d intended he should do. We got talking about Hitler and his abominable associates and all the evil they’d done. I said that if they hadn’t been watched, they’d have got away with it and fled somewhere far off and lived on their ill-gotten gains. In fact, I was sure that certain of Hitler’s underlings had succeeded in doing so. The conversation turned on how such gains could be hidden …’

  She sat back smiling, waiting for Cromwell to answer the conundrum.

  ‘And he told you?’

  ‘Not exactly. But he mentioned that it was possible, in certain countries, neutral during the war, to open banking accounts and safe deposit facilities in anonymous names. I think he said they were opened by numbers, numbers only known to the bank and the individual concerned, or perhaps one or two more people whom he trusted.’

  ‘I’ve heard of that. Did he say he’d done that himself?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but when he smiled a queer smile and added “you can, for example, do it with certain Swiss banks”, I got a sort of intuition that he’d done it himself in view of his love of Switzerland and his connections there. I told you before that he sent me innumerable postcards from Geneva and that, I believe, is one of their great international banking centres. I must say that where intuition is concerned, I’m very good. I get a feeling about certain things which invariably proves right. I even got a feeling on the day he died that something was wrong about Alec …’

  Cromwell almost asked her if she’d had a feeling about who did it!

  ‘I see. That might be useful, Mrs. Seal. We’d better follow that matter up.’

  ‘Let me know if I’m right, won’t you?’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  Cromwell didn’t quite know when to terminate the interview. Most of the vital information he was gleaning about Cling just seemed to slip out casually after patient waiting. He wondered if Coop had any feelings about the affair.

  ‘Do you think I ought to have a chat with Mr. Coop, too?’

  She looked uneasy.

  ‘I think not. Poor Coop’s memory isn’t as good as it was. He’s terribly woolly. He’d probably tell you a lot of nonsense. All mixed up, you know.’

  As though aware that he was being discussed, Coop suddenly arrived. He was carrying a silver tea tray elegantly set out with tea for three. He daintily poured out and passed it round and then handed out the plate of scones.

  ‘Coop made these himself. He is an excellent cook. In fact, it’s his hobby.’

  Coop showed no signs of gratification at the compliment, but went on slowly masticating one of his own productions. He was sitting opposite Cromwell, who had a chance to look him over quietly. Coop had a fine head and the aquiline features and long nose with narrow nostrils of his nephew Alec. He looked as if he might, at one time, have been a man of parts, accomplished in many ways. Perhaps until the unremitting attention demanded by his sister had swamped him, taken his time and energies and reduced him to the state of a servant.

  Coop ate his scone and passed the plate around again. He was a good pastry cook, if nothing else, thought Cromwell.

  ‘Have you both spent a profitable afternoon together? I assume you have mainly been talking of Alec …’

  It was as though an obedient and silent pet dog had suddenly begun to articulate. Even his sister seemed surprised.

  ‘Yes. We’ve had a very interesting conversation, Coop. Inspector Cromwell was a friend of Alec’s and …’

  The swamping process was beginning again, but this time Coop would have none of it. It was evidently his turn to do some talking.

  ‘I was very fond of Alec, probably because he was the only member of the next generation of Clings and was always so kind and considerate to us. He was very much attached to the dogs, too. And they to him. All the cats and dogs will miss him. Now that he is dead without children, the name will, alas, die out …’

  Mrs. Seal made tutting noises and looked annoyed at Coop for suddenly taking the limelight from her and confusing her with the domestic animals.

  ‘I don’t think Inspector Cromwell will be very interested in our family tree, Coop …’

  Coop raised his long, thin hand.

  ‘Please don’t interrupt. I was simply saying that although I was very fond of Alec, he and I never got really close. You have said the same yourself. No, no, let me go on. It’s only fair that the Inspector should have my opinion as well. After all, I am upset by Alec’s death, too, and wish to add my comments to what has been said. I repeat that neither you nor I ever knew anything about Alec, the life he led, or the risks he ran. I can quite understand his fondness for Geneva. It was the only one of his enthusiasms which he ever aired when he was with us here. He was so keen on the place, you will remember, that he fired us with a desire to see it, too. You recollect how, in 1962, Mr. Putt and I spent a week there. Mr. Putt was our next-door neighbour, Inspector. I used to play chess with him. He died last year …’

  Mrs. Seal showed signs of impatience.

  ‘My dear Coop, for goodness’ sake don’t start telling the Inspector of your adventures in Geneva, or he’ll be here all night. They will be of no help to him in the matter of Alec’s death …’

  ‘I must insist. How can you or I judge what wil
l be of importance to Inspector Cromwell? As you know very well, in these matters, a little thing, apparently irrelevant, may give the key to the whole mystery …’

  Cromwell thought he’d better intervene to prevent a distressing family row.

  ‘Of course, sir, I’d be interested to hear your account of your trip, if you can spare the time. I presume Alec invited you and arranged it all.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. Coop and Mr. Putt took a sudden fancy for going there. Alec didn’t want them and tried to discourage them. Neither of them had been abroad since before the war and a couple of old men of seventy wandering about the Continent on their own was ridiculous.’

  ‘We enjoyed ourselves, I assure you. But let me go on. We stayed at a very nice hotel in the city. Alec had shown no enthusiasm about our going there, so we chose our own lodgings. We didn’t even know where Alec stayed when he was there, but I felt I’d like to know. Then my sister and I could imagine what it was like when we thought of him there. Mr. Putt, before he retired, had been a member of the consular service, so we went to the British Consul in Geneva to enquire about Alec. They seemed a little surprised but received us very kindly. I must say they were a bit reticent and cautious about giving the information until I’d proved my relationship and Mr. Putt had told them of the days when he’d served in Hamburg, Bone and Barcelona. Then they gave us Alec’s last address. He had recently been in Geneva at a conference, but had then returned. We went to see what kind of a place he stayed at.’

  ‘Really, Coop. I’m sure your inquisitive wanderings are of no interest to …’

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs. Seal. Please go on, sir.’

  Coop gave Cromwell a grateful bow. Then to reward him, he went to a drawer in the sideboard and produced a box of questionable-looking cigars. As Cromwell lit one, it crackled with dryness and he almost set himself on fire.

  ‘Swiss,’ said Coop. ‘Alec gave them to me last Christmas. To resume. We were surprised when we found the place. And yet, as I told Putt, we ought not to have been. If Alec was working for the secret service, it would hardly have done for him to parade himself about at an expensive public hotel. He had rented a room in a rather poor quarter near the university. I remembered the address quite well. 13bis, Rue Jacobi. The concierge wasn’t a very nice person. We couldn’t, of course, see the room, but it just gave me the idea of where Alec lived. We didn’t tell Alec I’d been there. You see, he’d not liked the idea of my going to Geneva at my age, and I didn’t wish to annoy him. That was all I had to say. I hope it will be useful. And also that, in my opinion, Alec probably met his death in the course of his duties in the secret service. These men, like Alec, carry their lives in their hands, I know. And now, I must not neglect my routine chores …’

  He carefully gathered the tea things and, without any help from his sister, stacked them on his tray and took them and himself off.

  6

  At the Ministry

  SIR ENSOR COBB’S room at the Ministry of Security was very comfortable and furnished in impeccable taste. He’d seen to that himself when he took over and cleared the place of all its old accoutrements and started afresh. He received Littlejohn from behind a large, genuine Sheraton desk, his own property which had moved in with him.

  He was a tall man of between fifty and sixty, bald, dark, florid, well tailored, almost a dandy. He was a widower who enjoyed life. He had been an ironmaster in a large way in a family company and had left it with a considerable fortune when he entered politics. His fine war record in Military Intelligence had marked him down for the Ministry of Security when the time came.

  Littlejohn had called reluctantly. He avoided politics whenever he could and feared that the case of Alec Cling was going to lead him in that direction.

  ‘Take a seat, Littlejohn.’

  The two men faced each other with the great desk between. Outside, although they could not see it, Big Ben was striking eleven.

  A woman of about forty entered with a silver tray holding coffee cups and jugs. She was small and dainty with fair greying hair and finely chiselled features. She had a serene and efficient way with her. She smiled at Sir Ensor as she placed the coffee cups on the table.

  ‘Well, Kate?’

  ‘Well, Sir Ensor.’

  There was a friendly intimacy in the way they greeted one another.

  ‘Black, sir?’

  The steady grey eyes smiled at Littlejohn this time. He felt somehow that his presence there was approved.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She poured the coffee and left them through a door behind Cobb’s chair.

  ‘Kate has been with me for more than twenty years. When she was sixteen, she joined my company and when I left business for politics, she came with me. A Sheffield girl. She accompanies me everywhere.’

  ‘You are from Sheffield, too, Sir Ensor?’

  ‘Yes. Our firm has been established there for over a century and a half. My home is still near Sheffield when I find time to return to it. My constituency is on the doorstep, as well. If ever my constituents feel they need a change, I guess Kate and I will find ourselves back with the old firm asking for jobs. You come from the north, too?’

  ‘Originally, yes, sir. Near Ulverston …’

  ‘Very nice …’

  Each instinctively knew that the other had informed himself about his life and record from various detailed reference departments and they were now indulging in cheerful manoeuvres. Like two chess-players opening a game, testing each other’s strength and style. It was all very friendly. They talked easily, man to man, each aware of the other’s skill and reputation in his own field and respecting him for it.

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I’d prefer my pipe, sir.’

  ‘Light it, then. I prefer a pipe, too, when I’m relaxed enough to fill it properly.’

  Cobb’s secretary entered and quietly removed the coffee tray.

  ‘There’s a manservant here who’s supposed to be my personal attendant but Kate – Miss Halston – insists on serving the drinks herself, as she’s always done …’

  A pause.

  ‘Well, Littlejohn. What do you want of me?’

  ‘It’s about Cling, of course. Can you tell me anything about him, sir? The Swiss police gave me their files to read, but I’d rather tackle this affair in my own way.’

  ‘Are you in charge of the case?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m seconded to help the Swiss police. It seems there might be more English than Swiss background to it all.’

  ‘There isn’t much I can say about Cling. You’d think that one’s bodyguard, one’s shadow, would soon become familiar and everyday. Not so with Cling. On his personal affairs, he was as close as a clam. Travelling with him, sometimes, over long distances, I’d try to draw him out. But it was never much use. He was always very civil, but extremely skilled in changing the subject. All the details I’ve learned of Cling’s biography are from the records.’

  ‘How often has Cling accompanied you on your travels, sir?’

  ‘About half a dozen times. Three times to Switzerland and to Mexico, Italy, and Yugoslavia. I don’t usually travel with a detective. I avoid it whenever I can. As you know, however, there have been bomb scares and threats against the lives of ministers which have caused a temporary flutter and a tightening of personal security arrangements. I intended to go without a guard to Geneva this time, but someone sent a letter to me saying that a scheme to eliminate me was afoot. I can’t think why. My trip was harmless enough. But the Prime Minister insisted on my travelling with a detective and, as Cling seemed to have taken possession of me on such occasions, he came with me.’

  ‘The letter you mention, sir. Do you have it in your possession?’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t. Cling asked for it. Said he might be able to find out who had sent it. He didn’t return it and, with his death, I’d forgotten all about it. You may find it among his papers.’

  ‘That’s another puzzle. We can’t find an
y of his papers. There aren’t any in his flat. He must have found a good hiding place for them.’

  ‘He wasn’t married, I gather.’

  ‘His wife left him years ago. He ran a mews flat off Sloane Square, but we found it totally uninformative. It was just like an hotel bedroom which someone has vacated and left behind no trace of his stay there. Cling, as a detective, must have known the kind of things we’d look for in a case such as this. He seems to have made a point of eliminating everything which might give us any help. In which case, it would appear that there was some dangerous secret in his life which he didn’t wish to come to light even after his death.’

  ‘In such a case, I’d be the last man to whom Cling would even give a hint of it. He did his job of taking care of me excellently. Except when we were travelling together or lodged in the same hotel, he was like the invisible man. I knew he was there, but rarely caught sight of him.’

  ‘I believe he was well-read and well-informed. The Swiss police talked with Pflüger, the butler at Mont-Choisi who, during Cling’s stay there with you, got on very well with him. Cling was a bit more forthcoming than usual, although quite on his guard as well.’

  ‘Yes. I heard from Pflüger about all that. A funny thing, but Cling specially asked to lodge in the servants’ quarters of Mont-Choisi. He said he’d be more comfortable and less trouble there.’

  Pflüger had blamed that arrangement on Sir Ensor. But then it might have been Cling’s way of avoiding awkward questions. For some reason, he wished to be on his own as much as possible. This might have been a means of being sure of it.

  ‘I take it that Cling got time off when you were occupied with your family at Mont-Choisi, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. As I told you, I didn’t regard the threats as very serious. I felt I could look after myself quite well. However, to put the Prime Minister’s mind at rest, I agreed to take Cling. It was a kind of token agreement and I didn’t keep Cling’s nose to the grindstone. He often went off on excursions of his own when he felt I was in safe hands. He was a great traveller and very interested in what he encountered on his way.’