As he made his way down the garden path, he could see Rider watching him off and then turning to meet Miss Cockayne as she entered the room.
The young lady was in for another cross-examination, probably less pleasant than the last.
Chapter XI
Reveller
I can no further crawl, no further go;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires.
Here will I rest me till the break of day.
—Act III. Sc. II.
After leaving Green Hedges, Littlejohn decided to call at Marsh Farm to confirm the doctor’s alibi, which he mistrusted. He was casting around for someone from whom to inquire the direction, when P.C. Mellalieu hove in sight, pursuing his stately course in a round of the village. The constable saluted and the Inspector asked his way from him.
“I’m goin’ part the road myself, sir,” said the bobby. “And then I’ll put you on the right track.”
Together they took the highway and tramped out beyond the village boundaries. Littlejohn tried to make conversation with his companion, but the poor fellow was completely tongue-tied and overawed at having one so famous at his side. Poor Mellalieu didn’t get much practice in conversation. He didn’t believe in being too familiar with the villagers. After all, the law must not be seen gossiping and back-slapping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the place. And at home, Mrs. Mellalieu did all the talking. To tell the truth in justification of the P.C., he was a shy man, without a gift of tongues. He hid this defect beneath a veneer of silent self-sufficiency. His eldest son, Joseph, (called after his mother’s father, of course,) was Mellalieu’s safety-valve, his particular favourite and buddy. Every Sunday, wet or fine, the pair went for a long walk and then Mellalieu chattered all the way; the full spate of all the past week’s experiences. Like many men who have nothing to say or who can’t express what they have to say coherently, Mellalieu earned a local reputation for depth and great wisdom hidden under a bushel, and hence was respected.
Clump, clump, clump. That and his heavy breathing was most of the noise Littlejohn’s companion made all the way. The Inspector tried to plumb his knowledge, experience, and hobbies, but it was no use. The bobby answered in monosyllables, or if he did try to expand, poor chap, he grew involved and incoherent and gave up the ghost half-way in confusion. Littlejohn felt as though he were being silently marched to the lock-up, and no familiarity!
“’Ere we are, sir,” said Mellalieu at length and in the longest speech of the session, he put the Inspector on his way. “’Ere’s the path. You follers this lane, crosses the first stile to the right, then, there in front of yer, is the farm. Marsh Farm. There ain’t no marsh and never was as far as I know.”
And with a salute, he bade his superior good-day, blushed, shuffled his feet, and stumped off on his business without more ado. When Littlejohn had disappeared, the constable removed his helmet, which released a flood of pent-up perspiration down his face, and solemnly mopped himself up with a red handkerchief. All cause for repression having gone, he began to chatter volubly to himself.
Marsh Farm was small, compact and cosy looking, with buildings of red brick and roof-tiles to match. Bargery, the farmer, was in the first field apparently inspecting his stock and Littlejohn bade him good-morning. The man looked under the weather, as was natural if what Mrs. Harris had said about his either celebrating or lamenting the arrival of his first-born, with the help of the bottle, was true. He gave Littlejohn a hearty good-day, but eyed him with a mixture of fear and suspicion. The Inspector noticed the telephone wire leading to the farm and guessed that Dr. Keating had already arranged for his alibi to be confirmed.
“How’s your wife, Mr. Bargery? I hear from the village that she hasn’t been having too good a time.”
The man looked surprised.
“Goin’ on nicely, thank ’ee, sir. Child, too. A fine bouncing boy, sir.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Touch-and-go for a time with Mrs. Bargery, I gather.”
“Yes, sir. Fair put me out it did…”
“By the way, was the doctor here the other night?”
“Yes, sir. Night that Mr. Wall died in the village, doctor was here from ten until nearly midnight.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The poor fellow lied without much conviction. Probably felt under a great obligation to the doctor for pulling his wife through and was doing his best to do him a good turn.
“Right, thanks, Mr. Bargery. Good day.”
Back in the village, Littlejohn met Mrs. Harris pursuing her somewhat uncertain way on a bicycle. Her black bag was strapped ostentatiously on the carrier. He gestured to her and she dismounted, wheeling her bike to join him with an unwilling air, as though suggesting that at any moment something might happen in the family way to one of her clients and she couldn’t waste any time in idle chatter.
“Mrs. Harris, you told me the other day that you were at the Bargery’s when Mr. Wall was killed. Was the doctor there with you?”
“No! I can mannige quite well without ’im. Breathin’ his whisky on the newly born! Disgustin’, I calls it. He was there at the birth. I had to send for him through no fault of mine, mind you. Much good he was when he did arrive. After that, I manniged myself. Most of the children in this village are mine with no medical ’elp needed…”
With this scandalous assertion, the midwife mounted again, wobbled dangerously for about fifty yards and then sped off, treading the pedals heavily. Nothing but an imminent accouchement could have thus saved Littlejohn from a long spate of woe and gossip and he couldn’t help feeling grateful to someone unknown for the relief. He made straight for the doctor’s house and rang the bell. The cheeky maid admitted him.
“What, you again!” said Keating, who was just in for lunch and was sitting writing up his account book with a glass at his elbow.
“Yes, doctor. I won’t take up much of your time. All I want to ask is why you gave me a false alibi for your movements of the other night.”
Keating sprang to his feet in an effort to bluff himself out of his difficulties.
“What the hell! Bargery told you I was there, didn’t he?”
“Oh yes, doctor. Almost before I asked him. He’d learned the piece you taught him over the ’phone properly, but spoke it a bit too fluently and prematurely.”
“Look here, Inspector. I won’t stand for any third degree. I told you where I was and it’s been confirmed. That’s all there is to it. You’ve got a suspicious mind. I tell you, I had nothing to do with Wall’s death.”
“Perhaps you didn’t. But you weren’t at Bargery’s, you know. The nurse happened to be there at the time and confirms what I suspected, that you’ve concocted an alibi!”
Dr. Keating slumped down in his chair and tossed-off half a glass of whisky at a gulp.
“So what?” he said, uneasy fear showing through the bluff.
“Let me have a proper tale, doctor. That’s all. Lying won’t do any good and only focuses suspicion on you.”
By this time, the man couldn’t meet Littlejohn’s eye. He talked to a paper-knife which he held in his left hand.
“Oh, very well then. If you must have it, you must. Though you’ll believe this less than the first tale. Blast Bargery!”
“Blast nobody. Don’t in future try to involve decent people in deceit of the police. Now, doctor, where were you?”
“I slept the night in my car in the road through Hanbury Wood.”
It came out like the confession of a small boy caught stealing apples.
“You what?”
“There you are! I knew you wouldn’t believe it. But it’s the truth this time. I went to see friends at Talby and I got too much drink. I was in the car and when I left, the air must have taken hold of me. I couldn’t drive straight. There were a lot of army lorries about and I didn’t fa
ncy trying conclusions with them. So, I turned off the main road into a side road through Hanbury Wood. I sat there for a time, trying to collect myself and then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d fallen asleep. I must have slept for two or three hours. I didn’t get home until past three.”
“What time did you leave Talby?”
“Ten o’clock. We’d been at a road-house until closing-time. I’d a call to make, so didn’t go back with my friends.”
“So, you slept through the important time, doctor?”
“Yes…You won’t believe it, I know. But it’s not a trumped-up tale this time.”
“Can your friends confirm where you were until ten?”
“Yes. But for God’s sake don’t go dragging-in what happened to me after.”
“I shall do what I think fit, doctor. You’re lucky I don’t take you off to the lock-up on suspicion. Give me the names of your friends, please.”
Sheepishly, Keating gave the names and addresses of another man and two women.
“Thank you, doctor. And in future, please don’t try to deceive the police. It comes out, you know. You’ve had me on a wild-goose chase this morning and I’m very annoyed about it.”
The doctor remained staring at his empty glass. He made no apology or effort to rise.
“You’ll probably see more of me, doctor, and I do hope that your tale holds water this time.”
Littlejohn left the place without another word. He hadn’t patience left even for courtesies and found himself hoping that Mrs. Keating had a brother or even a lover who one day might give the bounder a good hiding. The thought of such a man practising medicine almost made Littlejohn sick himself.
Chapter XII
Anonymous
Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain.
—Act V. Sc. I.
Littlejohn was struck by the idea that the late Mr. Wall’s case-books of ten years ago might prove interesting. Perhaps a perusal would disclose some link between the bonesetter and the newspaper reports of the bank robbery. He therefore telephoned to Gillibrand who sent the records in question to Stalden by special messenger.
The Inspector, having made himself comfortable in the quiet summer-house in the pretty back garden of The Mortal Man, lit his pipe, called for a pint and settled down to work. He soon found himself against a formidable obstacle, however. The case-book he was examining was a well-kept affair and done in the small, neat handwriting of Mr. Wall. Its entries ran in date order and were copious and they dealt fully with the patients and their treatment, the whole case-history in each instance being linked together by a carefully compiled cross-index. A meticulous man, Mr. Wall, but difficult to follow. His narratives were couched in highly technical terms, the language of anatomy, and the old man seemed to have a wide knowledge of the orthodox terminology and methods of description. To Littlejohn, who could read the handwriting without any trouble, the subject matter was double-Dutch.
One case, however, particularly attracted the detective’s attention. It was that of one Joseph Bollington, who first presented himself to Mr. Wall on the very day of the bank crime, ten years ago. “J.B.”, as he was called after the first entry, seemed to be a patient of some importance, for his treatment persisted over several months. Littlejohn could not follow what had happened and waded in vain through a maze of technical jargon, much of it rendered more difficult by drastic abbreviation. The many expressions of satisfaction in the text, however, seemed to indicate that Wall had been highly pleased by the progress of his experiments and operations.
The Inspector felt the need of a doctor to translate the entries into everyday language. Keating was quite out of the question. It would probably take some time if he got a police-surgeon on the job and he was anxious for immediate guidance. Suddenly, he thought of Dr. John Wall. The very man! One particularly interested in this branch of surgery and, as a member of the family, likely to bring a personal touch to the matter, too. Littlejohn sought the telephone directory and rang up the home of the Olstead lawyer with whom the surgeon was staying.
Yes, Mr. Wall was in. The maid brought him to the telephone and he fell-in with the detective’s suggestion with such gusto that he motored over to Stalden forthwith and half an hour later, joined Littlejohn in the summerhouse. Together they got to work.
Mr. Wall became so immersed in the case of “J.B.”, that he seemed to forget his companion and only awoke to his presence again when he had reached the end of the record.
“Well!” said the surgeon. “That’s a very interesting and useful account and a veritable triumph for the old man. At one and the same time, he gave a patient with a nasty disfigurement—a broken nose—a new and presentable organ, but what is more important, and much more daring, he cured by manipulation an almost useless elbow joint, which had seriously impaired the use of the forearm and hand.”
Littlejohn sprang to his feet with excitement.
“Light at last, doctor!” he said and in answer to the astonished looks of his companion, he told him of the case of the bank-robber who according to records supplied, had a paralysed right arm.
“It seems to me, Dr. Wall, that your uncle received as a patient a fugitive from justice and by treatment eliminated two of the main features by which the police hoped to trace him and run him to earth. A paralysed arm and a broken nose. By curing him of his defects, your uncle disguised him more effectively than if he’d changed the colour of his eyes and hair! Could you give me a brief outline in simple terms of what the late Mr. Wall wrote in his records?”
“Gladly, Inspector. In a few words. Over a period of a little more than six weeks, ‘J.B.’ went through a terrible ordeal. A most painful course of treatment involved the use of various mechanical devices on the nose; and a method of treatment by manipulation, stretching, pulleys, wrenching and the like on the elbow-joint which only a desperate man would undergo. The result seems to have surpassed my uncle’s most sanguine expectations. The man recovered the use of his hand and arm and his appearance was changed for the better by a straight and presentable nose. Very interesting and a matter for congratulation to the old man. The last entry says that ‘J.B.’ was making splendid progress with the right hand. Hitherto, he had written with his left; now he was doing well with the right.”
“Tell me, doctor, would the right grow as strong as the left? Or would it lag a bit behind?”
“Probably the left would always be the better. You see, the man had trained himself to use the left and during the time the right was out of commission, naturally the active member was gaining strength and dexterity. It would probably maintain this, unless, of course, the patient so re-educated the right hand as to be able to put the left voluntarily out of action and thus give the right first place again. But ordinarily, the left would probably continue to be used and keep its strength. There’d always be a slight weakness in the right, although for writing it would be as good as the other. Heavy work would bring the left into play more.”
“I see. Well, I’m very grateful indeed for your help, doctor. It’s been a most interesting conversation and one which, I hope, will bring us much nearer the solution of our case. Sorry, I can’t say more at the moment, but I’ll give you a full account later after I’ve tried one or two theories out.”
Dr. Wall smiled shrewdly.
“Are you thinking that the patient returned and strangled his benefactor, then? That seems a good line to follow, seeing that the marks on the throat showed an excess of strength in the left hand!”
And with that and a knowing nod, he bade Littlejohn good-day and departed.
The doctor had hit the nail on the head. Littlejohn’s interest in the mysterious “J.B.” had been furiously aroused. Where had he stayed during his treatment? He would need to lie low whilst he changed his appearance. The police were after him and it would be dangerous for him even to show his nose out of doors. His nose! Sur
ely, that would be a pretty sight during alterations! Then, Littlejohn remembered that The Corner House had taken in patients like a nursing-home. Probably Bollington, as he called himself, had become an inmate. What better way of hiding away until the hue and cry had died down, than in an out-of-the-way Norfolk village in the home of an old bonesetter? And then to emerge a different man, with a new nose and a perfectly good hand and arm. Mrs. Elliott was probably there at the time. She was the next person for interview.
Littlejohn was lucky enough to catch the infrequent ’bus to the nearby village where Mrs. Elliott was staying with her sister. She was surprised to see him again.
“Bollington, Bollington,” she said with a grave show of jogging her memory in response to the detective’s question. “No. I can’t remember any Bollington.”
“I know it’s a long time ago, but, if as you say, you were then working for Mr. Wall, how could you have missed this patient, who seems to have stayed with your late master for about two months whilst he underwent treatment for a paralysed arm and a broken nose?”
“Wait a minute, sir…wait…a…minute. I do remember the arm and nose. I recollect Mr. Wall telling me about them after the man had left us. Very pleased he was, the master, about that. Rubbed his hands over what he’d done. But I never knew him as Bollington. In fact, I never knew ’is name at all, come to that, sir.”
“Sounds a queer tale to me,” said Littlejohn.
“It was a queer business, now that I bring it to mind. The man arrived late one night and from that day until the night he left, I never see his face. A mystery to me that the master should be so secretive. Usually such an open man. He gave him treatment in his room and in the surgery and rare hard treatment it must have been. I’ve heard patients yell and groan at what’s been done to them, but this one seemed to go through it every night. Not that he raised the roof, of course, but the groans was terrible sometimes. I’ll never forget that case, although you mentioning Bollington didn’t bring any recollection. I didn’t know his name, you see.”
The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack Page 24
