Many years ago, just after a bank robbery by one Percival Bates, an unknown patient arrived at the house of Wall the bonesetter. He hid in the house apparently whilst an operation was performed which made a useful member of a previously deformed right arm. At the same time, a badly broken nose was given a straight twist again and the hitherto repulsive appearance of its owner made normal.
Bates had both a damaged right arm and a crooked nose. Therefore, it was likely that the patient was Bates.
Surely, the bonesetter must have known, however, that he was harbouring and hiding a criminal, for the newspapers of the time had published details and photographs of the bank affair. Why had old Wall remained silent?
Cromwell’s report disclosed that Bates during a spell on Dartmoor before his bank crime, had come-by information concerning the connection of Dr. John Wall, nephew of the murdered man, with an illegal operation. Had he used this as a lever to force the bonesetter to hide him and change his appearance?
Dr. John himself had better be consulted on that score again, and Littlejohn made a mental note about it.
Finally, there was Rider, who presumably had been mixed-up with a gang of forgers. The metallic noises, heard by the postmistress in the parcels he received, might easily have been engraved note-plates. Was Rider doing the job of engraving in a hideout in Stalden and were the plates passing to and from London by post? Bates had served a term for counterfeiting! Could Rider and Bates be one and the same?
If so, why in the world had he remained on the very doorstep of the man who had changed his appearance and who was probably the only one who knew his identity? Had he continued to blackmail the bonesetter and then had the old man, on hearing of Rider’s forthcoming marriage to a girl of whom he himself was very fond in a paternal way, threatened to disclose his secret and got himself murdered for his indiscretion?
Littlejohn sprang to his feet.
What he needed now was an immediate talk with Dr. John Wall and the fingerprints of Rider.
He hurried down to the telephone and arranged an appointment with the doctor right away and then rang-up the local police-station and gave the startled Mellalieu instructions.
Dr. John Wall was not long in arriving.
“I want to ask you a rather delicate question, doctor,” said Littlejohn when they had settled down to business.
“Fire away, then, Inspector,” replied Wall and his eyes twinkled.
“Have you ever been mixed up with an illegal operation? In particular, that performed on the sister of Harold Greenlees, the Redstead murderer, who served a term of imprisonment for murdering the man responsible for his sister’s trouble?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Dr. Wall replied candidly and without hesitation.
“I was called-in for consultation by a man who had been a fellow student with me at the hospital and had gone downhill. He’d landed himself in a proper jam. The least I could do was to make the best of a bad job. I operated and saved the life of the girl. There was nothing unprofessional in my conduct, except perhaps, that I didn’t make a scandal of the affair. The doctor concerned went abroad after it and is now dead.”
“Yet, doctor, I’ve reason to believe that that incident was used as a lever by a bank-robber fleeing from justice to make your uncle perform an operation, which changed the appearance of the criminal so much that it threw the police off his track and enabled him to get away with the crime.”
Littlejohn then told the surgeon what he knew and what he deduced from the facts in hand.
“You mean to say that to preserve my good name, my uncle did what this scoundrel asked without resistance?”
“So it seems to me, doctor.”
“But Bates had already tried it on me, Inspector. After his release from gaol, he called on me at my rooms in London and openly asked for what he called help to set him on his feet again. Otherwise, he’d make public certain facts about the Greenlees case which hadn’t hitherto been known by the world at large, to say nothing of the police and the Medical Council. I showed him the door and told him that if I’d any more of his pestering, I’d turn him over to the police.”
“Then, why in the world did he manage to work his tricks on your uncle, Dr. Wall?”
“I think I can tell you that, too, Inspector. When Bates called at my place, I was just packing for a sea trip. I’d some post-graduate study to do, which involved a lot of reading and quiet thought. What better way than to sign on as a ship’s surgeon on a vessel with not too many passengers? I’d get pay, a healthy life, and plenty of time to call my own for study and reflection. I joined an eastern-bound boat, which wouldn’t be back in Britain for a year or more.”
“So your uncle couldn’t get hold of you to confirm the tale and he didn’t dare to write about it lest somebody else got hold of the letter?”
“That’s about it. And I wouldn’t put it past Bates to have spotted the labels on my kit, which was scattered all over the place when he called, and made use of the knowledge when he was in a corner.”
“And did your uncle never mention it to you?”
“No. It was quite typical of him to say nothing. Probably thought it would upset me or something. Anyway, the job was long over and done-with by the time I got back and Bates probably swallowed-up somewhere out of harm’s way…”
“I wonder, doctor. I wonder.”
“Why? What are you getting at?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Bates hadn’t something to do with your uncle’s death, doctor. You mustn’t forget that Mr. Wall knew something incriminating about Bates as well.”
“So Bates, the scoundrel, silenced him, eh?”
“Quite likely.”
“Well, what are you doing about it?”
“Leave that to us, doctor. I can assure you that we’re hot on the trail and no stone will be left unturned to bring Bates to book. By the way, wasn’t your father alive at the time of the operation on Bates?”
“Yes. But father came on the round-the-world trip with me. He was a passenger, you see.”
“Bates was in luck and no mistake. All the cards were set for him at the time.”
“Well, if you don’t want anything more from me, Inspector, I’ll be off. But I hope you’ll soon get your man, I can’t bear to think of his being at large…”
“Trust us, doctor…”
But Littlejohn was in for a disappointment.
In some way or another, Mellalieu had secured a pair of garden-shears used by Rider and these were found to bear an excellent set of prints from each hand on their handles. The village bobby was quite proud of his effort and was prouder still under Littlejohn’s praise and pleasure. The thrill was short-lived.
Later in the day, the fingerprint expert at Olstead, to whom the shears and the facsimile prints of Bates had been forwarded, reported in a voice so jocular that it sounded as though he were delighted with his destructive labours, that in no single respect was one set like the others!
“Oh hell!” muttered Littlejohn and turned disconsolately to two more letters which the postman had just delivered for him.
One was from Scotland Yard and confirmed the radio programme involved in Rider’s alibi. The other was from Mrs. Littlejohn, a friendly, warm, connubial affair, in reply to Littlejohn’s report on the case and his share in solving it. He always told his wife as much as he could about his cases. It did him good and put his thoughts in better shape.
“…For what it’s worth, Tom,” wrote Mrs. Littlejohn among other things of a domestic nature, “I listened myself to the wireless programme you mention as being a part of an alibi. There was a technical hitch right in the middle of the Enigma Variations. The whole of ‘Nimrod’ was missed as a result. I was very annoyed, I’ll tell you. I always look forward to ‘Nimrod’…”
Scotland Yard had mentioned nothing of the breakdown in
their report.
“Good old Letty…good old Letty,” muttered Littlejohn as he crushed on his hat and made for the door, and to remind him not to forget it, he wrote “Box of chocolates for L.” on the back of an old envelope and put it in his pocket.
Chapter XVII
Nimrod
What dreadful dole is here!
—Act V. Sc. I.
Littlejohn’s first port of call was the village police-station. The tight-lipped bobby’s wife answered the door and was immediately thrown into confusion, for her husband was stripped to the waist and washing himself in the scullery. Mrs. Mellalieu never allowed William Arthur to use the bathroom except on very special occasions and then only after repeating a list of injunctions as long as your arm. She installed Littlejohn in the best arm-chair in her small sitting-room, which, judging from the atmosphere and stiff, unused feeling about it, was also a sacred spot, and then bustled off to warn the constable. From where he was sitting, the Inspector could hear her ordering William Arthur about in a stage-whisper full of asperity. The P.C. arrived sheepishly on the scene shortly afterwards. His red ears looked as if they had been well-pulled and his face shone as though recently and vigorously polished with furniture cream.
“Sorry not to be ’andy when you arrived, sir,” he stammered self-consciously. “Jest bin gardenin’ and was washing-off the dirt.”
There was a snort from the lobby outside the room, where Mrs. Mellalieu seemed to be furiously dusting the umbrella stand. P.C. Mellalieu portentously closed the door of the parlour. Whatever else his better half might regard as her rights, he was not having her listening-in to the business of the law, or standing in the offing like a prompter in the wings at a play.
Heavy, angry footsteps were heard retreating to an inner room. Mellalieu knew he was in for it when his visitor departed.
Littlejohn came to the point.
“I may as well tell you, Mellalieu, that I asked you to get a sample of Mr. Rider’s fingerprints because I wanted to compare them with some on record at Scotland Yard…”
Mellalieu’s jaw dropped in surprise.
“Oh…ah…” was all he could find to say.
“I’m afraid we’ve drawn a blank, however. They don’t tally at all. In view of some deductions I’d made and which are therefore disproved, I’m a bit disappointed.”
Mellalieu made noises with his mouth in an effort to indicate that he was sympathetic. He sounded like a melancholy woodpecker.
“Where did you get the garden-shears, Mellalieu?”
“Out o’ the tool-shed, sir. Seen ’im use ’em regular, I have. Mr. Rider was out at the time. Saw him headin’ for Olstead, so I knew I was safe in borrerin’ the things. Door was unlocked.”
Littlejohn handed the shears, which he had brought with him, back to the constable.
“Think you can replace them without any trouble now?” he said.
“Oh yes. There’s a path through the fields leads to the back o’ Mr. Rider’s place. I could nip round and never be seen. Matter o’ fact, now’s a good time. I see Mr. Rider catchin’ the Olstead ’bus again about half an ’our since. I’ll go right away.”
“In that case, I might as well come with you.”
So they set out together, followed by the eyes of Mrs. Mellalieu from an upper window. Littlejohn could almost feel the gaze of the busy constable’s wife boring into the back of his head.
Mellalieu made great play of the secret excursion. He executed the last hundred yards of the deserted field-path, which led to the back wicket-gate of Rider’s garden, on tiptoe. It reminded Littlejohn of a grotesque dance and he chuckled inwardly. He almost expected the village bobby at any time to burst into the policeman’s song from The Pirates of Penzance.
“’Ere we are,” said his guide at length and conspiratorially ushered his superior into Rider’s back-garden. The place was neat and well-kept. A secluded spot with trim beds of vegetables and flowers rioting in the summer weather.
The constable singled out a small wooden shed and, opening the door, slipped the garden-shears inside. The place contained an orderly array of tools of all kinds, plant-pots, a potting-bench and little else. Next door was a more substantial erection. The door was locked and by peeping in through the window, the Inspector was able to make out a small laboratory. Bottles of chemicals and tins of insecticide and fertilizer were visible.
Littlejohn tried the door. It resisted his pressure. He took from his pocket a small instrument which he kept concealed from the bobby’s eyes, inserted it in the lock and tried the door again. This time it opened. The pair of them entered, Mellalieu looking anxious, as though pondering whether or not to run-in his companion for breaking and entering.
The detective looked carefully round the little room. A neat chemical workshop. He examined the bottles, test-tubes and cans, opened the drawers of a cabinet and a work-table, using his handkerchief to keep off the fingerprints. An object reposing in one of the drawers of the bench caused him to whistle under his breath. He took it in his handkerchief and dropped it in his pocket. Under the work-table was a small white receptacle for refuse. Littlejohn raised the lid of this by pressing the toe of his shoe on a small projecting pedal which did the job automatically. There was little inside. A few pieces of wrapping paper, some knotted string apparently cut from a parcel and then two broken cigarettes. The Inspector picked out the latter, sniffed them and slipped them in an envelope which he also pocketed. Mellalieu, breathing heavily, watched all this with popping eyes.
At a sign from Littlejohn, they made their exit and the door was again locked as easily as it had been opened.
“You ’ot on the trail o’ something, sir?” said Mellalieu in a hoarse whisper as they made their way back to the road.
“Not exactly hot, Mellalieu, but getting warmer…”
And that was the extent of the inside information which the village constable was given for the time being.
After disposing of his companion, Littlejohn made for Green Hedges again. Miss Cockayne was at home and received him without cordiality.
“You still snooping around on the murder case, Inspector?” she said impudently as the detective entered the house on her rather frigid invitation.
“Yes, Miss Cockayne. I won’t bore you with it, as you’re not interested in bringing your old friend’s murderer to justice…”
Betty Cockayne’s face flushed angrily.
“I didn’t say so. I think you’re a horrible man, Inspector.”
“Let’s leave recriminations for the present, Miss Cockayne, shall we? It’s about the alibi you and Mr. Rider gave for the night of Mr. Wall’s murder. You were listening to a symphony concert, I understand?”
“Yes. We’ve already told you that.”
“Were you smoking?”
“Yes. What has that to do with it?”
Littlejohn ignored the counter-question.
“Your own cigarettes, Miss Cockayne?”
“Not all the time. I smoked some of Mr. Rider’s from his case and he smoked some of mine from that box on the table. Why?”
“You heard the concert through?”
“Yes…”
“Including the Enigma Variations?”
“Yes. What’s all this about?”
“Please let me do the questioning, Miss Cockayne. I assure you I’m not being flippant. Did you hear ‘Nimrod’ in the variations?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. I never heard anything so stupid as this silly cross-
examination.”
“One thing is perhaps sillier, Miss Cockayne. ‘Nimrod’ was not played that night! A technical hitch occurred at the end of the preceding variation and continued through ‘Nimrod’ until half-way into the next section!”
Betty Cockayne’s mouth opened and her eyes grew wide.
She looked anything but pretty and self-possessed in her astonishment.
“But I’m sure I heard it…”
“And I’m sure you didn’t. Take my word for it, it didn’t come over the air. I suggest that what happened was, you fell asleep during the concert. Perhaps you heard the beginning of the Enigma Variations, dozed off, and fancied you’d heard it through. After all, they are variations and the theme is constantly repeated…”
Miss Cockayne’s self-assurance had vanished. Littlejohn liked her better thus. She was more herself and less of Rider.
“I could have sworn I heard it all through, Inspector. I know I did get drowsy. The fire was warm and the Water Music is so comfortable, it almost puts you to sleep. I remember the start of the Enigma quite well. I was sleepy, but the music seemed to go on and on without a pause…”
“Did Mr. Rider say anything to you about the breakdown in transmission?”
“No. He seemed drowsy, too.”
“Well, many thanks, Miss Cockayne. I won’t trouble you further.”
“But what’s it all about, officer?”
“That I’m afraid I can’t tell you at present, but it’s all on behalf of your old friend Mr. Wall, I can assure you.”
And with that Littlejohn took his leave.
He had not travelled far down the village street before Mellalieu appeared again, this time running and dishevelled.
“Ah, there you are, sir…glad I found you…” gasped the constable his face streaming with perspiration, the veins of his forehead bulging like knotted cords and his helmet rakishly awry.
“Can you come with me at once, sir? We jest found another dead body.”
Without more ado or waiting for a reply from the Inspector, Mellalieu bustled him round a corner, along a road and to the smallholding of poor Daft Dick, the man at constant war against leatherjackets and the rival gardeners of the village in general.
Daft Dick was standing in his holding surrounded by a knot of men. He was shouting abuse and flailing the air with his long bony arms.
Mellalieu had by this time recovered his breath and was able to give a brief explanation to Littlejohn.
The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack Page 27
