Surfeit of Suspects

by George Bellairs

  ‘Smart young chap,’ said Cromwell. The young chap heard it as he shuffled through the shavings and it sustained him for a long time afterwards.

  It was even more dismal here than in the open air. The whole place had a dejected look as though expecting to be burned down, too, at any time. Ossie sucked in his tea with a pouting mouth. He started his jeremiad again.

  ‘I always said that…’

  Littlejohn had had enough.

  ‘I suppose this is the place where the books are kept and the main office work is done?’

  ‘It was. The books were kept in that steel cabinet, and Dodd took them across to the office to look them over. They’ve gone up in smoke. They can’t expect me to reconstruct them and produce a new set. The accountant who does the audit will have to do that. I’m not stopping on to do it. It would drive me up the wall.’

  ‘What went on in the office that was burned down, then? You, I take it, did most of the official work here.’

  ‘I didn’t. The board-room was over there and the typist and typewriter as well. Dodd did all the correspondence. He was officially the secretary, you see. He bought all the timber and dealt with all the orders and cash and cheques… when there were any. Things have been so bad of late that they could well have done without me. But Mr. Dodd didn’t like routine work, so I was kept on to do it. I dealt with the books, the invoices, writing out cheques for accounts for signatures when Dodd could persuade the bank to pay them. And if the cheques bounced, I was the one who got the abuse over the telephone.’

  ‘Things were bad financially?’

  ‘Never worse. Mind you, it wasn’t always that way. When Mr. Jonas owned the place, it did all right.’

  ‘Mr. Jonas who?’

  ‘Mr. Jonas. Henry Jonas. It was his family business. It once employed over a hundred and fifty men. Now there are twenty-five. Or were. Mr. Fred Hoop laid most of them off this morning, and they’ll be lucky if they ever start again…’

  He cast his sad glaucous eyes on a framed picture askew on the wall. It had apparently been taken years ago on some kind of a works outing or jubilee. A crowd of workmen, all dressed in their best, arranged in orderly rows by the photographer, with a line of seated men in front – obviously the officials and administrators – and an elderly man, who couldn’t have been anyone but Mr. Jonas himself, legs crossed, proud and smiling, a king among his subjects, with a torpedo beard like Captain Kettle. Happy days for Excelsior!

  ‘What was the set-up after Mr. Jonas left it?’

  ‘He died. Quite suddenly, it happened. One minute he was joking with one of the joiners. Next, he was dead among the shavings. Heart attack.’

  ‘Did he own the whole of it?’

  ‘He’d no son and Miss Eva and Miss Agnes, his daughters, were directors along with him. Not that they knew a thing about business, but it kept it in the family.’

  ‘How long has Mr. Jonas been dead?’

  ‘Five years. When he died his daughters removed to Bournemouth. Mrs. Jonas had been dead about ten years then. It looked as if the whole concern would come under the hammer. Then, John Willie Dodd had a scheme for a sort of syndicate to take it over. So, five of them bought the shares from the Misses Jonas.’

  ‘How long have you been employed here, Mr. Bugler?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  He said it sadly, as though they were years the locusts had eaten.

  ‘And you didn’t become one of the directors at the takeover?’

  Mr. Bugler showed signs of lively indignation.

  ‘I wasn’t asked, but I wouldn’t have put a penny in it. Not with John Willie Dodd running the place.’

  ‘You didn’t like Dodd?’

  ‘He was all right, but no good at bossing a firm like this. He was secretary when Mr. Jonas was alive. He didn’t know anything about the practical side of the business. Thomas Hoop, the old man, was manager. He was good when he was in his prime, but he’s eighty now and past it. The place has been going down ever since they took over from Mr. Jonas.’

  ‘What did they pay for it?’

  ‘Five thousand pounds. The Jonas family owned the freehold and the two daughters leased it to the new company at a rent. The five thousand the new directors scraped together went to buy the machinery, which was past its prime at the time. If it had been auctioned, it would have sold for scrap-iron. But Dodd persuaded the rest that there was a fortune in keeping the firm running. So, they went on and, judging from results, they’ve lost every penny they put in it.’

  It was a dismal tale. Littlejohn looked round the dusty office and through the glass partition into the silent forlorn workshop. Failure and struggle all over it.

  ‘The directors, then. Who were they?’

  ‘Thomas Hoop was chairman and Fred, his son, was what they called managing director. Thomas was, as I said, manager for Mr. Jonas, and knew the business well. Fred was foreman in the machine shop, and the old man had forgotten more than Fred knew. It was a mistake giving Fred all that responsibility. He couldn’t take it. John Willie Dodd stayed as secretary, but it was really him who ran the place. They were always up against finance. Not enough capital and Dodd did the scraping, borrowing, getting credit to keep the place alive. It was hopeless from the start. Richard Fallows was head of the joinery shop. He became a director, too. John Robert Piper was stock foreman. His wife had a bit of money, so he was made a director, also. He was a decent chap, but like a fish out of water on the board. That was the set-up.’

  It all sounded depressing, and the way Bugler described it, in his dull, flat voice, gave it an atmosphere of doom like that created by a Greek chorus.

  ‘They didn’t make a go of it, then?’

  ‘At first things seemed good. They were running on Mr. Jonas’s reputation and credit, then. But this business of what they call prepared joinery has got in the hands of big groups now, with modern machines. They soon knock a place like this for six. Couldn’t hope to compete. Dodd cut prices below profit margins and, in the end, they had to take in loan monies from whoever they could persuade to lend them. Relatives mostly. Dodd could tell a good tale and, right to the end, seemed able to persuade people this was a little gold mine. Well, it’s over now. Dodd, Fallows, and Piper dead, and Mr. Thomas Hoop at death’s door. I heard this morning that his ’flu had turned to pneumonia and his chances of recovery are very poor.’

  Four out of five directors extinguished overnight! What a case! Through a dirty window which overlooked Green Lane and the timber-yard, Littlejohn could see a group of men, presumably the idle workers, gathered round the gatehouse, talking with the gatekeeper. Their faces were grave and they almost moved about on tiptoes. One of them was laying down the law, gesticulating, beating the palm of one hand with the back of the other. His talk and grievances didn’t seem to be making much impression. The men were too stunned.

  Mr. Oswald Bugler picked up a pile of bills and threw them back on the desk with a disgruntled gesture.

  ‘Completely bust! That’s what we are. Bust. And what next? Only one man left of the board and him a lightweight. I expect the next move’ll be the bailiffs’ll be in.’

  Littlejohn glanced at Cromwell, who’d been very silent through it all. He was frowning and looking as if he were battling himself with the problem of extricating the sorry business from its troubles.

  ‘What do you think, old man?’

  Cromwell awoke from his reverie with a start.

  ‘It beats me.’

  He grinned.

  ‘Did you ever see such a mess? If you read about a thing like this in a novel, you’d say it was a bit overdone, wouldn’t you?’

  Ossie, who had been rummaging among the piles of invoices and bills, as though, somewhere hidden among them, was the solution to the present disaster, suddenly straightened himself and, á propos of nothing, gave tongue.

 
‘Excelsior Joinery Company! I seem to remember from a poem I used to recite at school, that Excelsior means up and up. What’s the word for down and down…’

  Littlejohn said that he couldn’t give him the answer on the spur of the moment and Cromwell looked at Ossie as though he’d suddenly gone round the bend.

  ‘The company was borrowing heavily from the bank, Mr. Bugler?’

  Bugler shrugged.

  ‘As heavily as Roper—that’s the manager—would let ’em. And the overdraft was bigger than I’d care to lend. What was there to lend against? They don’t own the property and the machinery’s antiquated. Dodd, who could talk his way in or out of anything, persuaded Roper to lend them five thousand against the guarantee of all the directors and a charge over the machinery. They soon spent the whole lot… The whole five thousand, I mean. Dodd bought in timber and the rest went to keep the creditors quiet. Now that this has happened and the place will probably have to shut up, I don’t see how Roper’s going to get his money back. All the directors had was in the company. Their guarantee’ll be worth damn’ all, and as for the machinery… Well… It looks as if Roper’s in for a bad debt.’

  The sorry tale was interrupted by the arrival of Tattersall, ploughing through the mass of shavings on the floor outside, smiling as though his prosecution of the local toughs had been highly successful. He thrust his head round the door of the partition.

  Bugler raised his baggy eyes.

  ‘You’ve not come to tell us that Fred Hoop’s hung himself? It only needs that to finish the lot.’

  He wasn’t joking and looked as if he’d been disappointed with anything short of an affirmative.

  ‘No. I haven’t heard of anything so bad, but Roper, the bank manager, is outside asking for Fred Hoop, and judging from the look in his eye, he’s called to murder him.’

  Bugler seemed determined to squeeze the last drop of misery from the situation. He cackled dismally.

  ‘If Roper doesn’t do him in, the workmen will, when it comes pay-day. There’s not a cent in cash around the place for wages, and Roper’s already said he won’t provide the money. There’ll be some more explosions round here on Friday.’

  Outside the knots of men were breaking up. It was lunchtime and the man at the gatehouse was sharing his sandwiches with a stray dog.

  Three

  Legal Advice

  It was three in the afternoon. Cromwell, who was never idle, was sitting in a room at the police station making his report.

  Littlejohn was lolling opposite, smoking his pipe and reading the file on the case which Tattersall had handed to him. He looked at his watch.

  ‘They’re taking a long time finding Fred Hoop.’

  Tattersall was in court again. He never seemed out of it. The justices of the peace appeared to be more intent on dealing with petty motor offences and in punishing hooligans than in finding the pyrotechnician of Green Lane.

  Fred Hoop had been absent all morning. Some said he was consulting fire loss assessors; others that he’d done a bunk rather than face his angry unpaid workmen. Littlejohn was very anxious to see Fred. With the exception of his dying father, he was all that was left of the board of the expiring joinery company.

  Cromwell looked up blankly. He’d been concentrating on his writing, living for a while in the town of Evingden.

  Cromwell always made a few notes on the locality and scene of the crime. Evingden needed a bit of describing. Little more than a large village of 3,000 people ten years ago, it had been swollen by an overspill of another 15,000. A new town had been built beside the old one and a conglomeration of new shops and public buildings, most of them architectural monstrosities, with a sprawl of housing schemes surrounding them, had swamped a one-time pleasant locality.

  Fred Hoop lived on the outskirts of the new town. After lunch, Littlejohn and Cromwell had called to see him and found the house empty.

  It was a new, modern place, quite out of keeping with the penniless company of which Hoop was a director. Tattersall explained that Hoop’s father-in-law had made him and his bride, Bella, a present of it on their marriage. A man called Sandman, who’d made a lot of money buying and selling government surplus after the war. Cromwell had described the house in his notes.

  A large affair, with a green roof, lawns, flower-beds and two ancient carriage-lamps, electrically illuminated, one on each side of the front door. The house was called Bella Vista, which, after subsequent speculative builders had finished with the sites around it, sounded more ironical than real.

  The Hoops were obviously having difficulty in keeping up the place. The buildings needed painting and pointing and the grounds were shabby. Mrs. Hoop was perhaps finding it hard to keep up the appearances of both her wedding present and her husband. Her father had died not long after giving her away in holy matrimony and left an estate of next to nothing. It was said that he had secretly given sums to his wife and daughter from untaxed profits in the scrap trade.

  When Cromwell had looked through the closed green shutters from which the faded paint was peeling, he’d had a surprise. The rooms were almost bare. The sumptuous furniture with which Sandman had endowed the house was gone, along with the heavy carpets. It had, according to a nearby neighbour, been recently removed in a plain van. This seemed to support the rumour that Fred Hoop had fled to distant parts.

  Bought on H.P.? Re-possessed?

  Sold to keep up appearances?

  Sold to finance business?

  Sold preparatory to flight?

  Cromwell had made notes with question marks in the margin of his report to show how his mind was working.

  That was as far as he had got when heavy feet outside announced the arrival of visitors. It was Fred Hoop himself, accompanied by two constables from a police car. He looked as if they’d arrested him for murder, arson, larceny, and a lot of other things.

  ‘We found him on a bike, sir, cycling in the direction of Brantwood,’ explained one of the bobbies, who was panting, either from enthusiasm or after a struggle with Fred.

  Fred wasn’t going to take it lying down. His collar and tie were dishevelled, his hair was windblown from his athletic efforts, and his suit looked to have been slept in the night before, but he still retained his fighting dignity.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I go to Brantwood on my bike, if I like? My mother-in-law lives there and my wife’s been staying with her. After the commotion of yesterday, she’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown. There were newspaper reporters camping in our garden overnight. It’s a disgrace… And to cap the lot, these chaps started chasing me along the road and insisted on bringing me in. You might think it was me who blew up the works. I shan’t do anything or say anything without my lawyer…’

  And he sank exhausted in a chair in the corner.

  Littlejohn looked at him blandly.

  ‘We’re not accusing you of anything, sir. We’re here to give you all the help we can. After last night’s disaster, you’re the only remaining director of the company in circulation. We need some assistance from you and we’ve been hunting all over the place for you. Where have you been?’

  ‘That’s my business. I wasn’t bolting with the rest of the firm’s resources, if that’s what you’re hinting. Business has to be carried on in spite of what happened last night. I’ve been chasing here, there, and everywhere with that in mind.’

  Actually, Fred had been doing a round of banks, insurance companies, and other sources of finance trying to raise the wind to pay his workmen’s wages. He didn’t know that Littlejohn had heard about it all and he wasn’t going to tell him.

  Cromwell looked up from his notes.

  ‘Have you been selling your house, Mr. Hoop?’

  ‘That’s a silly question. Why should I sell my house? Do you think I’ve gone up the wall?’

  ‘It’s empty. The furniture’s all gone.’
/>   ‘And what’s that to do with you? It has nothing to do with last night’s affair…’

  Cromwell looked at his list of enquiries and wondered whether or not to reel them off. Re-possessed by H.P. firm; sold? In any case he didn’t get a chance. More pattering feet and the door opened. A constable ushered in a stranger. A youngish man of around forty, dressed in a black jacket, and grey striped trousers, with a small moustache and curly black hair. Not a hair out of place, either, and his linen was white and clean. His dark eyes were sparkling with eagerness.

  ‘Mister Hash!’ announced the conducting bobby.

  The newcomer didn’t wait for introductions. First he made a correction.

  ‘Ash, without the aitch, if you please.’

  Then he addressed Littlejohn.

  ‘Good afternoon, Superintendent. I presume you are Littlejohn. And this is Inspector Cromwell. I’ve heard about you both and I’m glad to meet you both. I’m Mr. Fred Hoop’s solicitor…’

  He turned to Hoop, who, fortified by his presence, now gave him a watery smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to be late, Fred. I was in court…’

  Then he turned to Littlejohn again. The fellow was like one of the figures in a Punch and Judy show. Agitated with energy; addressing first one side of the stage and then the other; shrugging and gesticulating.

  ‘Mr. Hoop telephoned my office for me. As I said, I was out. In court. First of all, I must ask you to excuse Mr. Hoop’s rather strange conduct in absenting himself from the enquiry. After all, he had his men’s wages to attend to. Very commendable in the middle of other troubles. Men must live and eat and without wages… Well… Besides, the trade union secretary was on the doorstep at crack o’ dawn about it… So, you see…’