“And since then, what has happened?”
“Nothing, Inspector. Just nothing. He died a fortnight afterwards. I’m sure I didn’t wish him dead.”
The telephone rang and she ran to it.
“Yes … yes, I’ve just been held up. Of course it’s business. What else .. ? Very well … Wait a minute …”
She answered in clipped syllables, embarrassed by Littlejohn’s presence.
“I’m going, Miss Mander …”
She spoke back in the telephone.
“Of course there isn’t a man here … I’m busy changing my frock … Very well. Wait for me …I’ll be at the gate in five minutes … No … If you try coming up, I’ll never speak to you again …”
She hung up with an exasperated twitch of her hand.
Littlejohn smiled. So her followers didn’t come to the flat for her; she met them at the gate. A kind of Box and Cox business! He wondered how many men were actually mixed up in Miss Mander’s life. Young or old, it didn’t seem to matter.
“Young men rather bore me …”
She seemed to want to confide in somebody and here she was, telling it all to Littlejohn, old enough to be her father.
“They’re so frantic and impatient. I like calm, experienced men. I guess it’s because till I was nineteen and daddy died, we were always together and I grew to appreciate older men that way.”
Littlejohn wondered from which play she’d found those lines! He took up his hat.
“I’ll let you get on with your dressing, then. I’ll want to see you again, later, but I’ll call at the shop.”
“Very well. I’ll always be glad to see you, Inspector. You’ve been so kind.”
Before he reached the door she had flung off her wrapper and ran, half naked in strips of filmy black underwear, into the bedroom to put on her frock.
On the stairs, the strong smell of fried onions fought with the scent of bath-salts coming from the bathroom, and behind the door of the odd flat about which Littlejohn knew nothing, there were sounds of quarrelling and of tears.
At the main gate of Whispers stood a fast little sports-car, presumably waiting for Violet Mander. The occupant was so anxious to avoid Littlejohn’s seeing him that he hid his head and thus attracted the Inspector’s attention. It was, without doubt, Hubert Stubbs!
Yewbert had felt affronted and suspicious after the funeral at which the incongruous roses had arrived among the Ned Bunn wreaths and had, manly and off-hand, called on Helen next day for an explanation and reassurance. Instead, he had been met by Aunt Sarah, smiling and affable.
“She won’t be long. While you’re waiting, young man, would you mind calling at Mimi’s hat shop for a new hat I left there?”
Yewbert, amazed at the request, but a bit gratified by the old lady’s change of front, hurriedly made off in his car. He stayed a long time at the modiste’s and, after delivering the hat to Aunt Sarah, mentioned an appointment and quickly made himself scarce.
“It cost me five pounds, but it was worth it to get rid of him and his pimples,” confided Aunt Sarah to Helen much later.
“And, after all, it was, in a way, a sound investment, though I never wore the ’ideous thing,” she added, by way of justification for dissipating good Bunn cash.
16
THE TOWN FOOL
THE situation was one the two detectives were getting used to at The Freemasons’. Blowitt’s changes of mood were like the weather; one moment he was in the depths of despair, playing the piano like somebody demented, the next he was brimming with smiles and good humour. When Littlejohn returned from Whispers to the hotel he found Cromwell waiting for him and the landlord eager to serve a good hot dinner.
“What’s come over Blowitt since I left?”
“He got a telegram from somewhere, sir, and it was as good as a tonic to him. He announced that drinks were on the house, although there were only two of us present, the acting-manager and me.”
The two new blondes served the meal, with Blowitt hanging attentively around, and then when coffee arrived Littlejohn got to business.
“Just a minute, Mr. Blowitt.”
The landlord turned and beamed on them both. He was expecting congratulations on the food and drink.
“Yes, gents?”
“I believe you employed Browning on some private business a short time before he was killed. What was it all about?”
Mr. Blowitt looked mysterious and seemed to have all kinds of secrets to divulge.
“’Ave one each on the house,” he said, sat down, and rang the bell for the barmaid.
“Three pints o’ mild …”
“Your ’ealths, gents. I thought sooner or later you’d be askin’ questions and I’ll do all I can to ’elp.”
He went to the door, opened it, looked out to right and left to make sure nobody was listening behind it, returned, and took from his pocket a crushed telegram.
“Read it.”
Blowitt leaned back, lit a small cigarette, thrust his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and looked as happy as he could be.
Hinckley. 11.0 a.m.
Effie Moore employed as barmaid at Unicorn here. Wire instructions.
Clancy.
“Well?”
Blowitt slowly closed one eye.
“Effie was the best barmaid I ever ’ad at this place and left on account of the shockin’ behaviour of the late Ned Bunn. She vanished. Now she’s found and I’ve jest wired Sid Clancy to offer her six quid a week an’ all found, to come and manage this place. The wife’s run away with that little perisher, Twelves. I’ve got to …”
Littlejohn gave him back the piece of paper.
“Who’s Clancy?”
“Enquiry agent. My business with Browning was for him to try an’ find out where Effie had gone. Browning was busy on other business and couldn’t do it all himself, see? So he set Sid on the job and he’s done it first class. Now with Effie back …”
“Never mind Effie for the moment. I’m concerned with Browning.”
Blowitt cast a reproachful look on the Inspector. His luck had turned and he wanted everybody to be jolly now.
“Wot about another on the ’ouse?”
“No, thanks.”
Cromwell waved a finger to and fro to signify the same.
“You had a talk with Browning a little time before he died …”
“A week to be exac’ …”
“And as you talked, you stood him drinks on the house.”
“Yes. Can’t I stand a client a drink if I want? You ain’t bein’ very matey, are you, sir, after the way I’ve tried to look after you since you came?”
Cromwell made clicking noises with his tongue against his teeth.
Littlejohn lit his pipe.
“During your talk with Browning, the drinks loosened his tongue a bit, I’ve no doubt. Did he say anything? Did he give any excuse for not devoting all his time to your job?”
Blowitt puffed out his cheeks importantly and looked wise.
“Yes. Come to think of it, ’e did. He said he’d ’ave to get a suitable colleague, that was Sid Clancy, to take on my job, as ’e himself was busy on a legal one. Matrimonial case, ’e said. A lot o’ money in it, from what I could gather. Browning seemed a bit above himself about it. Said he’d landed lucky an’ if he played ’is ’and right, he’d do well for himself.”
“Was Ned Bunn mentioned during the conversation?”
Mr. Blowitt winked again to show how clever he was.
“Yes, ’e was. I sez to Browning that I bet old Bunn was up to ’is tricks agen. Brownin’ treated it with contempt, as you might say. ‘Wot? ’im? Naw. Gettin’ anything out o’ Ned Bunn’s like squeezin’ blood out of a stone. My client’s easier meat than Ned.’”
“That was all?”
“Should there be any more?”
“No, thanks. And now, if you don’t mind, my colleague and I have work to do and want to talk it over.”
Mr. Blowitt win
ked again and tiptoed from the room to show he appreciated the gravity of the situation.
“I can’t make head or tail of it all.”
Cromwell stroked his large chin with one hand and with the fingers of the other flirted pellets of bread from the table at a large framed photograph of a group of freemasons.
“I’ve a job for you, old man. I want you to call and see Mimi.”
Cromwell looked alarmed. Violet, Helen, and now Mimi … It was like a beauty contest!
“… but Mr. Ladbroke said on principle he’d never agree to any wife of his going out to work, so, as the shop was such a profitable business, I put in a manageress.”
Cromwell was only with difficulty able to tear himself away from Mrs. Ladbroke, who lived in a large semi-detached villa in a district known as “up town” to designate it as superior to “down town” which held the slums and works.
Mrs. Ladbroke was a well-preserved woman in her early fifties; the sort in whom you couldn’t tell where nature ended and art began. She was heavily made up, had doubtful auburn hair, and she was exquisitely groomed and turned-out. Two black poodles with bright button eyes followed her wherever she went. She talked solidly for half-an-hour about her first and second husbands, her business life, her first and subsequent encounters with Mr. Ladbroke, her “second”, and how evil rumours had spread around about their relationship before they married. Finally, she got down to Violet Mander, whom she described as a jewel from the point of view of selling hats, but as “a bit on the loose” in her private life.
“… Not that I’m not broad-minded, you know. Times have changed since you and I were young, Mr.… What did you say your name was? Ah, yes … Cromwell …”
The sergeant took his cue before it slipped from his grasp.
“I suppose she was left an orphan, or something, at an early age, Mrs. Ladbroke. However, she seemed to find a good patron in the late Edwin Bunn. She’ll miss him now he’s gone, I’ve no doubt.”
Mrs. Ladbroke looked a bit stunned.
“Bunn … Bunn … I never heard that he had anything to do with Violet. Who told you that?”
“I think she told my colleague herself.”
“I can’t understand it.”
“But surely it was Bunn got her her job with you, wasn’t it?”
“With me?”
She tapped her wishbone with a heavily-ringed finger.
“With me? Edwin Bunn had nothing whatever to do with it. It was my lawyer, Mr. Edgell, who recommended her to me. In fact, I’d asked his advice about selling the place when I married for the second time and he suggested that I might get a girl to run it for me. A few weeks later, he said he’d come across the very one; a young actress out of a job. So, I took her on and I’ve never regretted it.”
“And you never heard of Edwin Bunn paying her attention?”
Mrs. Ladbroke’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s a very pretty girl and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of anyone being attracted by her.”
Cromwell had taken a dislike to the woman. The hennaed hair, the painted clawlike nails, the way she dressed slightly too young for her age, the stuffy exotic room, the two dogs, caressed like children and self-conscious about it … They all gave the same impression, a feeling Cromwell couldn’t actually define. He knew, however, that Mrs. Ladbroke didn’t much care how Violet Mander attracted custom to the shop, provided the takings increased. In a burst of dramatic illumination he saw Maison Mimi as Madame Tellier’s Establishment! A hat-shop of ill repute!!
“You must know as well as I do that Bunn paid attention to your shopgirl. I’ll bet there’s not much goes on there that you don’t know about.”
“I beg your pardon, officer. Are you insinuating .. ?”
“Nothing, madam …”
Cromwell dismissed it with a wave of the hand.
“Nothing. But I am anxious to explore every avenue about the death of Edwin Bunn. And one avenue is, it might have been a crime of passion!”
“Oh …”
Talk of passion was right up Mrs. Ladbroke’s street. She read erotic novelettes most of the day, frequented all-in wrestling matches, flirted dangerously with any man who would rise to the occasion, and said her husband didn’t understand her.
“But I never thought of that in connection with Mr. Bunn. How blind I’ve been! He had a reputation for peccadilloes with the fair sex. Surely the crime wasn’t committed by an outraged husband or a jealous lover?”
She had it all off pat; Violet, the fair adventuress, the blonde Carmen, stirring the passions of men until they killed one another for her!
The two dogs, which had been playfully vying for caresses from Cromwell, grew excited, tore at his trousers-bottoms, jostled one another, snarled, and then started to fight, snapping, growling, charging and yelling all over the room.
“Jip and Pip … Behave yourselves. Mummy’s little darlings mustn’t fight.”
She seized one and put it in Cromwell’s arms and held the other herself. Amid yapping, slobbering and struggling to get at each other, the dogs punctuated the rest of the interview.
“That explains Mr. Bunn’s offer to buy the shop … I never thought.”
Cromwell thought quite a lot. He thought Mrs. Ladbroke was a poor liar.
“Did Mr. Edgell show any fondness for Miss Mander? After all, you say he found her the job with you. Was he attracted by her when Mr. Bunn took him to the theatre to collect the debts the stock company owed him?”
“Debts? Stock company? I don’t quite follow. As for Mr. Edgell … Oh dear, no. A most respectable lawyer. A bachelor, I grant you, and still waters often run deep, but to commit a crime of passion or even prove susceptible to the charms of Violet … It’s too laughable … Mr. Edgell … Just imagine …”
Almost suffocating the dog in her arms, she laughed shrilly… a laugh so false and forced, that Cromwell knew at once that he had laid his finger on a likely spot. She was protesting and bluffing so forcibly, that she might as well have told the truth, the nasty truth that she had acted, or was still acting, as a go-between for Edgell and Violet Mander.
“I hope I’m not going to get involved in any scandal through that girl. It would ruin me if the affair was aired in court. You’ll do your best …”
She smiled at Cromwell and fluttered her eyelids. The dogs came to his rescue by starting to howl dismally together and the one in the sergeant’s arms wriggled itself free and ran to the door in haste.
“It’s their mealtime, the little loves. I often say they must have little alarm-clocks in their heads.”
Cromwell seized the chance to get away.
“An unpleasant sort of woman,” he told Littlejohn after reporting the interview. “I’d much rather deal with Aunt Sarah any day. You know where you are with Aunt Sarah.”
Mr. Blowitt was full of beans. Effie was returning to-morrow and he couldn’t contain himself with satisfaction.
“Drinks are on the house to-night, gents. It’s time I stood you two a round or two. You’ve brought great credit and a lot of publicity to my ’umble pub. Your ’ealth, gents.”
They didn’t stay to be convivial.
“I’d like the room to myself for a while, Mr. Blowitt. Could you arrange it?”
“Sure, sir. Anythin’ you like.”
Littlejohn knew it was no use ringing up Violet Mander at that hour, so he tried Cuffright. He was lucky. A fruity, unsteady voice answered.
“Cuffright ’ere …”
“Could I speak to Mr. Medlicott, please?”
“Look ’ere, this isn’t a telelephone eschange …”
“This is Inspector Littlejohn.”
“Huuuuullo, Inshpector … Be a great pleasure …”
In a few minutes Littlejohn had spoken to Medlicott and asked him to call at The Freemasons’ at once.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” panted Jubal when he arrived. He’d run nearly all the way and then halted at the door. He wasn’t used to frequenting pubs
.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Medlicott. I want a straight talk with you; straight questions and straight answers.”
The dapper little tailor evidently expected the worst. His eyes were anxious and feverish and he kept licking his bright lips, which made a startling contrast to his auburn and grey beard.
Littlejohn, his hands deep in his pockets, his pipe burning, his face stern, seemed to be talking to himself.
“This isn’t a court of enquiry. This investigation’s gone on long enough and it’s time we did some plain speaking. What are your relations with Miss Mander, your tenant, sir?”
“We’re good friends. She was a bit alone and helpless when she arrived in Enderby and I tried to make her comfortable in the flat.”
“Is it true you don’t take any rent for the rooms and that Violet Mander has been your mistress?”
Medlicott took a deep breath and looked too bewildered even to know where he was.
“I …? I, Inspector? Miss Mander’s … Miss Mander’s …?”
He couldn’t even remember the appropriate word. He flailed the air with his arms for a minute. Then he got to his feet and lost his temper.
“Is this all your investigation has brought to light, Inspector? A lot of damned lies and an attempt to blacken my good name. I protest! Who I can protest to, I don’t know. But I protest. I appeal to your better nature, Inspector. I implore you to believe me. I have never, never, since I married her, been unfaithful to my wife! Never …”
He looked suddenly dishevelled. In his anguish he had buttoned the wrong button in the wrong buttonhole of his jacket, his tie was askew, and his natty light suit looked crumpled and ready-made.
“You must believe me … It would kill my wife to think … She’s ill as it is.”
Tears flowed and were lost in his whiskers again.
Cromwell, the silent spectator, caught Littlejohn’s eye, smiled and shrugged.
“Who is it, then, Mr. Medlicott, who has been around the town spreading the tale of your unfaithfulness to Mrs. Medlicott, blackening your good name, as you call it, mixing you up with Violet Mander, and even trying to pin on you the murder of your brother-in-law and of Browning?”
Corpses in Enderby (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 16
