Death of a Shadow (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘I gather that Cling was exceptionally fond of Geneva. In the course of time, he showered his sole surviving relatives, an aunt and uncle in Leicestershire, with picture postcards of the place.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. He had, as I said, been to Geneva with me before, but I’d no idea that he was so keen on the place. It might be that his frequent visits there had something to do with his death. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a hint of any dangerous enterprises of Cling there. In any event, he’d have kept it all to himself. He was that way. One strange thing I do recollect, however. My grandsons at Ferney were very fond of him. He used to play cricket with them.’

  ‘Could it have been that the writer of the threatening letter to you might have actually been in Geneva and encountered Cling?’

  ‘The letter proved not to have come from the man I thought had sent it. Since I returned, I’ve learned he was at that time back in a mental home and couldn’t have had access to a typewriter or the post. Cling might have found a clue from the letter, however, and in pursuing it met his death. Perhaps he deposited it somewhere with his papers.’

  ‘That may be so. We may come across it. The main thing now is to find the cache, if any, where he kept his documents and the like.’

  ‘Have you any ideas about his hiding place?’

  ‘His aunt, whom one of my colleagues visited yesterday, said she got the idea that Cling had an account with a Swiss bank in Geneva. She even suggested he might be known there by number instead of name, after the style of a foreign dictator, stowing away a fortune on the sly for the day when they kicked him out.’

  ‘Did she say which bank?’

  ‘No. It was only a theory. She reads a lot of crime and secret service tales.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be investigating that.’

  ‘The Swiss police will do so. I’ve informed them.’

  Littlejohn thought it time to assume the offensive again. After all, he was there to question Sir Ensor, not to give an account of his own investigations.

  ‘During your time together in Geneva recently, sir, did you gather any impression that Cling was being watched or felt himself in danger?’

  ‘None whatever. Cling, as I said before, was completely unemotional. On the surface, I mean. What his feelings underneath might have been he never gave one the slightest hint. Even if he knew someone were looking at him through the sights of a rifle, I’m sure he wouldn’t change countenance.’

  ‘I believe Cling was particularly keen on Voltaire and spent quite a lot of time investigating the locality of Ferney.’

  Sir Ensor looked irritated.

  ‘I must confess I’m not in the least interested in the fellow myself. My daughter’s house at Ferney isn’t far from Voltaire’s old home. The village still finds Voltaire a small gold-mine in the holiday season. Quite a lot of Americans visit the place and spend their money there. For myself, I’ve never been to the château where Voltaire lived … What could Voltaire possibly have to do with the murder of Cling?’

  ‘None, as far as I can see, Sir Ensor.’

  There was a knock on the door and a newcomer thrust his head round it and then withdrew.

  ‘Don’t go. Come in.’

  The intruder was tall and fair with a long inquisitive nose. He was formally dressed in a black jacket and striped trousers and Littlejohn felt sure he wore a bowler hat out of doors. Littlejohn had seen him somewhere before, perhaps in the news, certainly not in the rogues’ gallery.

  ‘This is Roland Bellin, my private secretary and man-of-affairs … Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, in charge of the Cling case over here.’

  Bellin shook hands. Or rather proffered a limp dry hand to be shaken.

  Littlejohn knew now where he’d seen him. Television.

  ‘We were just discussing the strange secretiveness of Cling, Roland. He seems to have died after cleaning-up his affairs. The police can’t find any papers … By the way, Littlejohn, did Cling leave a will?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the hands of a city lawyer, J. Q. Havelock, who also seems to have Cling’s investments – scrip certificates and the like – in his possession. It all gives the impression that Cling expected sudden death at some time or another.’

  ‘You mean Cling had stacked away his personal papers in some secret hideout or other?’

  Bellin, who had a languid look about him, suddenly seemed to wake up.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘I was just telling Sir Ensor there’d been a suggestion that he’d deposited them for safe custody in a Swiss bank.’

  ‘Why Swiss?’

  ‘The Swiss banks seem to afford such facilities in an anonymous way. The depositor can use a number instead of a name.’

  ‘I know that. But why Switzerland?’

  ‘Cling was very fond of Switzerland. Especially the Geneva neighbourhood. He spent a number of holidays there.’

  ‘I see. I wonder if he became involved in some shady work or other and met his death in consequence.’

  It sounded like Mrs. Seal, with her spy mentality.

  Bellin was looking questioningly at Littlejohn, as though expecting him to agree.

  ‘I really couldn’t say, Mr. Bellin. Did you know Cling yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve accompanied Sir Ensor on one or two missions and Cling has been there. I was in Geneva at the time of his murder. I was present at the police dinner when it occurred.’

  ‘You also stayed at Mont-Choisi?’

  Bellin gave Sir Ensor a wry smile.

  ‘We could hardly expect Mrs. Vincent to take us all under her wing. No. Sir Ensor and Cling were at Mont-Choisi and Miss Halston and I had rooms at the Beau Rivage.’

  ‘It was your duty to brief Cling concerning Sir Ensor’s daily programme?’

  ‘Miss Halston did that. She is Sir Ensor’s personal secretary.’

  There was a note of reproof in the answer.

  ‘Might we have another word with Miss Halston, Sir Ensor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cobb flipped a key in the instrument on his desk.

  ‘Can you come in for a moment, Kate?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She entered and looked questioningly at the three men at the desk.

  ‘The Superintendent has something to ask you …’

  ‘I believe it was your duty to brief Cling about Sir Ensor’s daily programme when you were away.’

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘Do you remember the routine for the days of Cling’s death?’

  She answered at once with no show of thinking out what it might have been.

  ‘The conference resumed at ten o’clock at the Palais des Nations. Cling was told to accompany Sir Ensor there from Ferney for the opening. I met them at five minutes to ten. Security was laid on by the Swiss police at the conference hall and, once indoors, Cling was free to do as he liked most of the day. The concourse adjourned for lunch at the Palais. Cling, therefore, was free until five and didn’t return to Sir Ensor at lunch time. Work ended there at five. Sir Ensor was then joined by Cling and they returned to Ferney. Sir Ensor dressed and left at six-thirty. Cling accompanied Sir Ensor to the Hôtel du Roi for the police dinner. The Swiss police resumed security responsibility there, Cling left, and that was the last we saw of him.’

  ‘And this schedule, I assume, was strictly adhered to.’

  ‘The evening before, I had given Sir Ensor and Cling a card each with the day’s routine typed on it …’

  She recited it all pleasantly, without hesitation, as though it were tape-recorded in her mind.

  Sir Ensor smiled.

  ‘It was also Miss Halston’s custom the morning after, to ask if all went as arranged. In spite of the upset caused by Cling’s murder, she posed the usual question. I was able to say that the schedule had gone off like clockwork and we hadn’t deviated. That is, of course, until Cling was murdered.’

  ‘What did Cling do wit
h himself whilst you were in the conference, Sir Ensor?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Bellin was with me most of the time and Miss Halston was at her post in the secretariat in the Palais, I assume …’

  ‘That is right, sir.’

  ‘So nobody quite knows where Cling was or what he was doing. He left you in the hall of the Hôtel du Roi, sir?’

  ‘Yes. And went out through the main door after promising to return at ten-thirty to wait for me. I had decided not to stay very late, although such dinners go on for hours and hours. We’d rather a fatiguing day and I wanted to get back to Mont-Choisi and enjoy a quiet hour with my daughter and her family before retiring …’

  He turned to Miss Halston.

  ‘I think that will be all, Kate, unless Superintendent Littlejohn has any more questions.’

  ‘No sir. Thank you, Miss Halston.’

  She left them, turning on her way to straighten the papers and odds and ends on Sir Ensor’s desk.

  ‘You won’t forget the Cabinet at two-thirty, Sir Ensor?’

  ‘No Kate. I think I’ll have a snack at my desk.’

  ‘Smoked trout, chicken sandwiches, a sorbet, and some of the Crépy to drink …?’

  ‘Fine.’

  A snack! To Littlejohn it sounded like a banquet, but in keeping with Sir Ensor’s reputation for fastidious living.

  ‘Anything more, Littlejohn?’

  ‘I think not, Sir Ensor. It’s good of you to spare me the time.’

  ‘Not at all. Anything more you’d like to ask Bellin?’

  Bellin looked like a respectful counter-jumper, but Littlejohn had an idea that behind it all lay a keen brain and a shrewd judgement. He remembered the thrust and parry of certain television interviews in which Bellin had proved himself a very competent duellist and diplomat.

  ‘I wonder what Mr. Bellin thinks about all this, sir.’

  Bellin jerked his head sharply back as though surprised at the sound of his own name.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I wonder what you think about the Cling affair. Did he seem the sort, in your experience of him, who might get involved in matters leading to murder?’

  ‘In my brief dealings with him I formed no conclusions whatever. He always struck me as a cold fish, devoted to his task, deadpan of face, sparing in speech. He always seemed to look on me as of no account. He had Sir Ensor under his wing whenever we met and I got the idea that the murder or kidnapping of an odd secretary or two was, to Cling, a matter of no importance.’

  ‘And that was all.’

  ‘Yes. Except that I could never get rid of the idea that perhaps the phlegmatic mask and almost mechanical efficiency of the man might hide something really tremendous going on underneath. In other words, that in different circumstances and in other places, Cling might be a changed man. He might be leading a double life. He might have got in mischief when he was off duty.’

  7

  13bis Rue Jacobi

  WHEN Littlejohn boarded the plane at Heathrow it was raining. A fine drizzle, which hampered flying and made schedules uncertain. They got away an hour late.

  Over France the weather changed and by the time the Swiss mountains appeared, the sun was shining. They turned along the lake to land at Geneva with Mont Blanc on the left etched two dimensionally against a clear blue sky.

  The airport was bathed in sunshine and people moved around in summer clothing. Lindemann met him, clicked his heels and shook hands. They had already arranged the meeting by telephone. A general conference about how the case was progressing.

  Littlejohn followed his colleague across the hot tarmac. No passports, no customs examination. Everyone saluted Lindemann and he saluted solemnly back. It took Littlejohn all his time to keep up with the brisk Swiss officer. They climbed in the official car and Littlejohn mopped his forehead. There crept upon him once more the holiday feeling from which he always suffered when he visited the Continent in good weather. The very idea of work was a bore.

  All the awnings, green, blue, orange and red were out at the houses between Cointrin Airport and the city. People in beach wear and light clothes were sipping apéritifs on the café terraces. Littlejohn was sorry when they reached the police station and settled down to routine again.

  There was very little to report at the Geneva end. The English one was very little better, either. Cling’s body had been released for burial and J. Q. Havelock had been in person to Geneva – quick in and quick out – to attend the cremation and the despatch of the ashes to England. This was an event Littlejohn had heard very little about. Havelock was a swift and quiet worker. Lindemann told him that Cling’s ashes were to be interred at Weston Parva.

  Otherwise there was little fresh. Few avenues of enquiry had opened and such as had appeared had proved to be dead ends.

  They lunched at the Perle du Lac on the lakeside and ate Coq du pays au champagne with a local sparkling wine. It was only after coffee and kirsch had been served that Cling was mentioned again.

  ‘Do you know Rue Jacobi, Lindemann?’

  ‘A street in the Eaux-Vives quarter. It mainly contains small hotels and furnished apartments.’

  ‘It seems Cling was very fond of Geneva and spent a lot of his spare time here. He stayed at 13bis Rue Jacobi, according to his uncle, who once visited the place.’

  ‘With Cling?’

  ‘No. Only on the sly. The uncle was afraid the secretive Cling would be annoyed if he found he were being spied upon.’

  ‘We’d better call there on our way back. It’s not a very savoury quarter, although Cling might have found cheap and decent lodgings there.’

  They left the restaurant, followed the lakeside across the Pont du Mont-Blanc and then took off in the direction of Eaux-Vives station. In the maze of streets behind a local market they found Rue Jacobi. Junk shops, wine warehouses, and, where the street approached the main thoroughfare to the station, a number of plain hotels with nothing but doorways and small name-plates to advertise them. There was one of these at No. 13, and 13bis was a door leading to furnished apartments and registered as an hôtel meublée.

  The sight of Lindemann’s uniform brought out the concierge right away. She occupied a gloomy bed-sitting-room almost behind the door. A small peevish-faced woman dressed in black who had been peeling potatoes and was now busy drying her hands and arms on her apron. She waded into the attack right away.

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. There’s nothing to concern the police here.’

  ‘Do you know a man called Cling? C-L-I-N-G … An Englishman.’

  ‘No. Never heard of him. The only English tenant we have is a man called Smith and he hasn’t been in his rooms for a week.’

  A man called Smith. That sounded hopeful. Littlejohn took out the photograph Cromwell had borrowed from Mrs. Seal, showing Cling boarding a plane.

  ‘Is that the man?’

  ‘That’s him! What’s the matter? Have they found his body in the lake?’

  ‘No. We just wish to ask him a few questions. Please show us his room.’

  ‘But his name is Smith.’

  ‘We’ll settle that later.’

  ‘The room’s on the second floor. He hasn’t been here for a week and when he comes back I’ve something to say to him. The way he left his room was a disgrace. I let myself in to see all was well and the place looked as if he’d gone crazy in it. Things thrown all over the shop, drawers turned out, bed ripped open. He must have lost something and gone mad because he couldn’t find it.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that his room might have been burgled?’

  ‘Of course not. All my tenants are respectable and no outsiders could have got in to do it, because there’s always somebody in my place keeping an eye on things. If I’m out, then I get somebody else to stand in for me.’

  ‘Show us the way then. Have you tidied up the room?’

  ‘Of course. I wasn’t having any of my rooms in such a state. Suppose the landlord had called in to inspect them.
I’d have got the sack. Jobs aren’t easy to come by at my age. I restored the room as it should be and Mr. Smith is going to get the bill when he turns up again.’

  ‘Does he owe any rent?’

  ‘No. He always paid monthly in advance and never missed. He was a good tenant. I don’t know what came over him.’

  ‘How long has he been with you?’

  ‘About two years on and off. Why?’

  They had reached the second floor. Long corridors with four doors on each side and a W.C. at the end.

  ‘This is it.’

  The woman padded noiselessly along in her felt slippers and opened one of the doors with her pass-key which hung from her waist on a chain, like a gaoler’s.

  It was all straight and tidy and she stood aside to let them pass and then followed them inside to see that they didn’t disturb things.

  ‘You may leave us here. We want to have a look around. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.’

  The concierge looked blankly at Lindemann and seemed to be gathering her reserves of strength together for a show of resistance. Then, she decided that she’d better not try conclusions with the police and turned and left them after firing a parting shot.

  ‘See you leave the place as you found it. It took me a whole morning clearing up the damage.’

  ‘When did you find the place in disorder?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  She returned to emphasise her point.

  ‘Mr. Smith hadn’t been in his room for a day or two, but I’d been busy and left things. Then I thought I’d better see what had been going on. It was a shambles.’

  ‘One other thing before you go … Mrs.…’

  ‘Pfiffner …’

  ‘Was Cling or Smith away from his room a lot, Mrs. Pfiffner? I mean, did he regularly occupy it?’

  ‘Yes, quite a lot. He was a commercial traveller, he said. He went all over the world and would sometimes be away for weeks at a time. He paid for his room, occupied or empty, because he said he wanted a place to call his own and to keep his things in. It suited me. He paid the rent. Why should I complain? He was a good tenant, even if he didn’t always behave as I’d have liked. I’m a respectable woman, but in a job like mine one has to close one’s eyes now and then.’