Driving his men, lashing them to a frenzy, Sir Gilbert paved the way. Then, up went his fist, straight at Hiss, and out came the magnificent honking trombone notes, with the violins chattering like unheeded gossips in the background. Sir Gilbert ignored the rest of the orchestra and left the strings to the leader. Left hand and baton were both for Lambert Hiss, like a man conducting a solo, and through the torrent of sound the two old friends, agitated by their efforts, managed to smile. …
Sir Gilbert was deeply affected as he bowed to the applause and a great wave of pride in its two best musicians surged over the audience, tempered with regret that this was the last of Hiss.
The conductor shook hands with Lambert, brought him to the front to bow, patted him on the back and uttered his own congratulations.
Hiss bobbed his head again, raised his eyes to the middle of the gallery and smiled. But Bessie had departed! She was one of those who like to scuffle out of an assembly before the National Anthem suspends the scramble for the doors. Then, he reeled back a pace and had Sir Gilbert not been there to give him a helping hand, would have fallen. They managed to get him to the ante-room and find a doctor in the audience.
When Littlejohn reached the side of Mr. Lambert Hiss, after battling with the cross currents of the homebound audience, they were helping him to a taxi. The doctor was taking him home to bed, for he had had a heart attack.
Littlejohn went with them.
Chapter XVII
The Man with a Bad Heart
Dr. Flanagan, of Mereton, and Littlejohn put Lambert Hiss to bed. Downstairs the women of Horeb clamoured and struggled together in a turmoil of would-be helpfulness.
“Get away the lot of ye!” yelled Flanagan at them. “The Insthpector and I’ll put Mr. Hiss to bed. Now be decidin’ among ye which two are going to stay and do some proper work, and the rest of ye clear out!”
Whether they drew lots or fought it out was not plain, but in due course the pack of predatory women withdrew leaving a pair of a more gentle type to render such assistance as might be needed in the way of nursing. Thus did the meek inherit Hiss!
The trombone player was in bad shape. Completely exhausted by his efforts and the excitement at the concert, he could hardly help himself and his two companions undressed him, put him in his pyjamas and slipped him into bed. Littlejohn and the doctor even carried Lambert upstairs.
“I’ve been tellin’ him for weeks,” said Flanagan, a roguish Irishman with an unruly mop of grey hair, Irish blue eyes, and a small dissipated-looking nose. “I’ve been tellin’ him for weeks, bring your bed downstairs. You’re in no condition to be climbin’ stairs with a heart like that o’ yours. But no. Those damned women had him scared to death. He thought if they knew he was ailin’ at all, they’d have him in his bed and the lot of ’em be twitterin’ round him for the rest of his days.”
“He was so bad, then?”
“I don’t know how he got upstairs. Wonder he didn’t kill himself. I promised to patch him up if he’d do as I told him. He didn’t and behold …!”
He pointed to the mound in the bed. Hiss looked at them with large, regretful, questioning eyes.
“I’m sorry to be such a lot of trouble,” he whispered hoarsely.
There was a box of digitalis pills on the bedside table, and the doctor passed one to Hiss.
“Now you be restin’ yourself and take the medicine as you’re told, and I shouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t be havin’ ye runnin’ around again by the Spring.”
“Spring?” groaned Lambert Hiss.
“Yes. And I’m taking steps to see that that unholy pack o’ women keeps away. Either they come here in moderation two at a time … I’d say one, only you’d be in danger for your life … two at a time, or else straight to the Infirmary you go. Be makin’ up your mind.”
“I’ll do anything you say, doctor.”
Spring, thought Littlejohn. He fingered the warrant in his pocket. Spring!
Littlejohn and the doctor descended the stairs, leaving one of the women tidying up the bedroom and the other preparing a light supper for the patient.
They entered the small sitting-room behind the closed shop, where Dr. Flanagan had left his bag.
The place was very cosy. A gas fire, easy chairs, a couch and a small sideboard on which reposed Hiss’s trombone in its case. The walls were covered in pictures of brass band groups, and one of Hiss, togged up in a uniform, standing beside a table on which reposed a huge silver rose-bowl. Over the fireplace, a framed photograph of a sickly-looking woman in a dress with mutton-chop sleeves. Presumably Mrs. Hiss long ago.
“He never ought to have done it to-night. I warned him. Wonder he didn’t drop dead.”
“How is his heart, doctor?”
“Not bad now for what he’s being doing to it. Mostly emotional shock it’s had to-night. Physical exertion would probably have stopped it entirely. It’s still a profound mystery to me how he’s got up those stairs every night. Must have crept up by degrees on his hands and knees.”
“Is that really true?”
“What do you mean, really true? What do you think I’m talking about? I’ve just sounded his heart again. It’s not changed in the last month, thanks to his stupidity and those blasted women about the house. It’s no use takin’ pills if you don’t remove the cause of the trouble.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but could Hiss have gone down forty steps and climbed back again …”
“What is all this? Are you tryin’ to get out of me just how bad Hiss is? Why man, up and down ten steps, except on his knees and by slow degrees, would have snuffed him out like a candle.”
And yet Littlejohn had been assuming that Hiss had gone up and down the platelayers’ steps and killed Bellis into the bargain. How had it been done?
“I want to talk to Hiss about the murder of Bellis last week. Can I do so to-night?”
“No, you may not! He’s to get to sleep now after his supper. I won’t have him disturbed, and I’ll hold you responsible if you give him any trouble or shock before I say you can.”
The doctor fixed Littlejohn with a steely blue eye, and jerked his head at him bellicosely.
“May I just go and see him for a minute, then … Just to see he’s all right?”
“Very well. But no excitement, or …”
“I promise I’ll not agitate him.”
“Get goin’, then. He wants some sleep. I’m off. Two imminent confinements and I hope they’re on time. I’ve been out of my bed for the last three nights.”
Flanagan bustled off. He looked as though he made up for lack of sleep by taking poteen.
Upstairs, Hiss had finished his supper. They were settling him for the night. Freed from his loving man-hunters he looked less harassed. The mild woman with fluffy hair and large china-blue eyes hovered very solicitously around.
“I’m all right, Ada,” Hiss was saying.
“I just came up to wish you a good night, Mr. Hiss,” said Littlejohn.
“You’ve been very kind, Inspector.”
“Not at all. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”
Hiss looked anxiously at Ada. She was fussing with articles on the dressing table. Picking up collar studs and putting them down again, rolling up a tie, examining a soiled collar with expert eyes, twisting a pair of braces and untwisting them again.
“May we have a word alone, Mr. Hiss and I, Mrs … Mrs. . .”
“Mrs. Scattermole …”
She didn’t wear a wedding ring. The late Scattermole had taken to drink in his latter days, and thus cut himself off from the congregation of the righteous. She wanted to forget him.
Ada gave Littlejohn a nasty look as though suspecting him of trying to lead Hiss astray, and then turned her melting china-blue eyes on Lambert in a look of questioning beatitude.
“I won’t want anythin’ more tonight, thank you, Ada, very much.”
Mrs. Scattermole approached the bed and gave Lambert a benedictiv
e peck on the top of his head, which made him blush right to the top of the bedclothes. Even his hands clutching the sheets turned red. Then she withdrew like one who has done the job properly.
Hiss cleared his throat.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Littlejohn.”
“Now get a good night’s rest … Anything you want to say to me or anything I can do …?”
“Well … ahem …”
Hiss coughed again and lowered his eyes, fixing them on an alarm clock which kept up a steady tick-tack all the while.
“Well … I’ve a friend … A lady, who might be anxious about me when she hears what’s happened. I mean, my collapsin’ at the concert, like. She was there, you see, and …”
“You’d like me to give her a message?”
Littlejohn knew what was coming. Bessie Emmott had been there and as far as he had been able to see, hadn’t taken much interest in Hiss or his performance. In fact, she’d left before the end of Tannhäuser.
“She’s Miss Bessie Emmott and she lives at …”
“I know where she lives …”
“You know? Good. Then would you mind tellin’ her that I said everythin’s all right? She’s not to worry … Everythin’s all right.”
“Just that?”
“Yes. And if she could find time to call in just for a minute to visit a sick friend, I’d be very glad …”
Littlejohn shuddered to think of the reception in store for Bessie and the commotion her arrival would cause in the ranks of Horeb.
“I’ll see she gets the message. But it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Doesn’t matter tonight. To-morrow mornin’, first thing, would do.”
“Right. To-morrow then. Everything’s all right and you’d welcome a call.”
“Yes. Very good of you, Inspector. Very good … I’d do the same for you …”
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Hiss. And now sleep well. Goodnight.”
Littlejohn walked back to the station for the last train to Salton deep in thought.
It was as black as ink outside the orbit of the street lamps. The road led over the bridge across the railway. Shunting operations were going on in the nearby goods-yard. Below glinted the lines and Littlejohn could see the twin flights of platelayers’ steps beginning on each side of the viaduct. He looked at his watch under a gas-lamp.
Fifteen minutes to go.
Quickly he ran down the iron staircase, reached the permanent way below, turned about and ascended rapidly to the bridge again. He was in first-class condition but the effort decidedly got him in the wind.
Then the whole thing came to him in a flash!
He hung over the bridge peering into the gloom. A shunter, carrying a lamp, passed below, walking on the sleepers. You could just make out a figure. No details. Nothing but a black blot and a swinging light.
Littlejohn turned on his heel and hurried to the station.
As the Inspector reached the train, shuffling steps descended the staircase. Two men appeared supporting a third and dumped him in the guard’s van.
Harold Claypott. Drunk again!
To-night, Harold was truculent.
“I’m not goin’ home … Shtayin’ at the club. Don’ wanna go home. …”
You could hear him bellowing in the van. His companions left him to it.
Then Claypott emerged, shouting for his vanished pals, tripped over the step and measured his length on the platform, where he lay still.
The stationmaster and guard hurried to the spot. Claypott wasn’t hurt. Just all-in from drink. But he wouldn’t budge. He refused to get up until they brought his friends to help him back to the club.
Littlejohn watched the scene with growing disgust, thinking of Harold’s promises to his sisters and the disgrace he had brought upon them. Then the Inspector’s ire rose beyond control.
Seizing a nearby fire-bucket, Littlejohn dashed a good half of the contents over the head and face of the recumbent toper.
They had no more trouble with Harold Claypott that night! He even arrived home in a maudlin condition, got his sisters out of bed, begged their forgiveness, and called loudly for his father’s bible on which to swear a solemn oath …
Chapter XVIII
Breaking Point
Eight o’clock the following morning. Cromwell again strode up the battered asphalt path to Humphrey Godwin’s door in Railway Terrace. In his pocket he carried a bottle of Greengoose’s MILKO. A gift to placate the savage parent. For Cromwell was about to put him through the hoop once more.
Littlejohn had not arrested Hiss.
“It can wait,” he told Forrester. “I think I was wrong. To-day will prove it one way or the other. Hiss will do no harm meanwhile. He’s quite hors de combat. Like a steam engine with the fires drawn.”
Forrester began to doubt the efficiency of Scotland Yard methods after all. All this messing about with Hiss as good as proved to be the murderer. Ought to be safely in the prison infirmary. However, in the silent clash of personalities Littlejohn won, as he usually did. He was given a day’s grace.
Godwin met Cromwell on the doorstep. He’d had a bad night and as soon as his wife arrived home from night shift the baby had closed down and fallen asleep. It wasn’t damn well good enough. Godwin was blacker under the eyes than ever and his temper was in ribbons.
Two lovely black eyes,
Oh, what a surprise …
Cromwell whistled it under his breath and sniggered to himself. His sense of humour is not highly developed and when he later passed on his little joke to Littlejohn, his chief told him off for being crude and callous …
But Humphrey Godwin wasn’t uncivil to Cromwell. Oh, no. A chap who could put a kid to sleep like Cromwell had done the other day commanded Humphrey’s unbounded respect.
When Cromwell gave him the MILKO and directions for use, together with testimonials on behalf of two little Cromwells and a lecture on why Mr. Greengoose’s gift to suffering humanity would do the trick, Humphrey could not do enough for the detective. Of course, his frayed nerves erupted now and then, but what could you expect after only three hours of broken sleep, and with a day’s rationing and coupon-cutting and cantankerous queues in front of you? …
“I’ll go mad!!!” shouted Godwin.
“Come, come, come, you’ll soon have your troubles behind you.”
“Please God I do,” moaned Humphrey rolling his tired head from side to side and looking ready to beat it against the wall.
“Now will you do something for me?”
“Anything, Mr. Cromwell. Anything. You’ve been a pal and God knows I need one these days. What do you want?”
“About the man you saw when Bellis was murdered …”
“Oh, hell’s bells … Oh, jumping Jerusalem … Oh …”
“Come, come. I only want your help …”
“Get it over, Mr. Cromwell. Get it over … I’ll go daft!”
“You’re sure you saw a man …?”
“Yes … I said so … I said so … Don’t ask me again for the love of Mike. I can’t stand it. I’m going potty with it all.”
Just like a Gestapo third-degree after the victim had been kept from sleep for several nights.
“Just a quiet question, Mr. Godwin, and then I’ve done. What did you see?”
Godwin was trying to brew tea for breakfast, but put coffee in the pot instead, made it, and didn’t know the difference.
“Did you see a man. Or did you say it was a man, because you expected it was a man and not a woman?”
“Say that again. Want some tea?”
Cromwell took the tea and found it was coffee. Then he repeated his question.
“I saw a figure. Thought it was the guard. Could see the official cap like they wear …”
“See any other part of the uniform? You said you saw trousers, you know.”
“I thought they were trousers. What else could they be? Holy angels! What else could they be?”
He yelled it
fortissimo and from upstairs came the sound of knocking on the floor in protest.
“Could they have been the fat legs of a fat woman or even a sturdy boy climbing into the compartment?”
“I never thought of that! No, I never … Good Lord! It’s half-past eight and I’ve to be at the shop for nine. I’m not shaved!”
“Righto. I’ll be off. So, it needn’t have been a man?”
“Come to that, no. Never saw it in that light … Where the hell’s my razor?”
Godwin began to rummage in the sideboard drawers of all places.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Godwin. Use the MILKO as I said and you’ll soon be all right …”
“Yes … I’ll do as you say … MILKO … My razor … where is it?”
More knocking from the room above.
Cromwell wasn’t there to hear it. He was telephoning to Littlejohn who was waiting for the news at Mereton police station.
Bessie Emmott hadn’t been up long when the Inspector called. Alice was about, sweeping out the shop. People didn’t want beer so early in the day, but it didn’t seem decent to stay closed till lunch time with everyone else on the move.
Miss Emmott received Littlejohn in a soiled cotton wrapper. She hadn’t much on underneath and Alice looked apologetically at the Inspector about it. Bessie was clean and her hair tidy but she looked on edge as though she’d had a bad night. She was smoking a cigarette. The table was littered with dirty breakfast dishes.
“When are we going to be rid of you?” she asked as Littlejohn appeared in the doorway.
“This is the last time, I think, Miss Emmott.”
Alice took up the broom again and returned to the shop where they soon heard her hard at it.
“Now, Miss Emmott. I’ve a message for you from a friend of yours, Mr. Lambert Hiss.”
“Friend o’ mine? Hardly that. Just an old customer from the club. Decent little chap.”
So the famous women’s intuition hadn’t functioned in this case, or Bessie was pretending it hadn’t.
“Mr. Hiss thinks the world of you, Miss Emmott.”
“He’s what? Who’s been telling you that tale?”
Death on the Last Train Page 16
