Surfeit of Suspects

by George Bellairs

  ‘Is Hoop suspected?’

  ‘No. I’m on routine enquiries. I’m calling on Mrs. Hoop as a matter of form. Do you know her?’

  ‘She comes here for lunch sometimes. Brings her mother now and then. Mrs. Hoop’s getting a bit faded now, if you’ll excuse the term, but when she was in her prime she must have been a smasher.’

  ‘Has she any current admirers, would you say?’

  The landlord smiled and thumbed his double chin.

  ‘One of the chaps who got himself blown up at Evingden used to come to Brantwood pretty often to see her. His name was Dodd. A smooth piece of work, if you ask me. He stayed here overnight once or twice. That’s how I knew his name. From the register. He often came in for a drink with her and now and then they’d take dinner together. He rather overdid it in telling people that there was nothing between him and Mrs. Hoop. He was financial director, he said, of a company in which Mrs. Hoop had interests and he came for instructions and to give her advice. He protested too much… Was it Bernard Shaw or Noël Coward who said that? At any rate, that’s what he did. If he’d kept his mouth shut about it, nobody would have noticed it. As it was, all the town knew that he spent the night with her at Pochins every time her mother went to London for a day or two.’

  They didn’t get any further. A buxom, tired-looking woman entered the dining-room and told the landlord he was wanted on the ’phone. It was his wife who did most of the work whilst he talked. Now and then, when she felt he’d had long enough, she broke up the conversation by an imaginary telephone call.

  Littlejohn finished his lunch undisturbed. Then he crossed the road to Pochins. It had all the appearances of a small town house and its history must have been interesting. Three steps flanked by railings overlapped the pavement and the developers who seemed to be taking possession of the locality must have been panting to remove them. The frontage was Georgian and there was a fine large door with a fanlight and a brass knocker. Littlejohn knocked.

  There was a long delay. The curtains which completely screened the window to the left of the door moved, but Littlejohn could not see who was there, presumably eyeing him and deciding what to do about him. There was a bell-push on the door-frame; Littlejohn now used it. Somewhere far inside, he could hear the bell ringing. A door banged. Then the front door opened as far as an attached chain would allow it. He couldn’t see who was behind it. Judging from the elderly voice, however, it might have been a maid or Mrs. Sandman.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Is Mrs. Fred Hoop at home?’

  ‘She isn’t available. You’ll have to come again some other time.’

  ‘Will you kindly let her know that Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, wishes to see her?’

  There was a pause, as though whoever was behind the door was thinking out the next move. The chain was removed and the door opened. A tall, handsome, grey-haired elderly lady stood aside to let him enter.

  ‘Mrs. Sandman?’

  ‘Yes. My daughter has a caller and I’ll have to ask if she can see you. Come inside.’

  She was different from what he’d imagined she would be, the wife of a scrap merchant who’d made a fortune in government surpluses. She looked refined and spoke as though she’d had a good education. Her skin was pale and had a transparent look and her hands were long and fine.

  They were standing in a long corridor painted white with black woodwork. There were some good pieces of furniture sparsely scattered about as though Sandman might have come across them in his search for surplus. It could have been a part of a private school or even a convent, and the elderly lady could have fitted in either.

  ‘If you’ll wait I’ll see if she’s free. I’m sorry to keep you. But my daughter has been going through a harrowing time over the past few days, as you are doubtless well aware.’

  She left him standing in the hall and entered by the second door along the corridor. There wasn’t a sound in the house, except the ticking of a large case clock midway along the passage. Nevertheless, he felt that someone was listening in the room nearby, someone who wondered who he was and why he’d called.

  The noise of the town and the busy main street didn’t penetrate the house, which gave him the impression that it hadn’t changed much over the centuries since it was built. There was a strange atmosphere of dignity, almost mystery, about the place. He was sure that the demolishers busy not far away would put an end to that as soon as they could, and he felt sorry about it.

  Mrs. Sandman was back. He hardly heard her approach. She moved quietly in keeping with the almost religious silence of the house.

  ‘Could you tell me the reason for your call? My daughter’s nerves are a little shaken. She feels…’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, but I wish to ask her some routine questions about the affair at the Excelsior Joinery works. She is away from home and I’ve had to make a special journey to Brantwood. I’d be very much obliged if she could spare me a few minutes…’

  Mrs. Sandman passed her fingers across her forehead.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind waiting a little while longer. I’ll tell my daughter. No doubt we’ll be able to arrange something.’

  She seemed to be playing for time, as though in the room behind, the stage had to be set for his entrance. In the circumstances, however, he couldn’t very well force the issue.

  ‘I don’t mind waiting…’

  Mrs. Sandman vanished again, but first gave him a sad apologetic smile as though excusing herself for something she couldn’t help or explain.

  As he stood there trying to decide whether the framed cartoon over the small hall table was a genuine Rowlandson or a reproduction, he heard a vehicle draw up at the front door. He opened it quietly and found a large taxi at the kerb. A homely man in a peaked cap put his head out.

  ‘Is he ready yet?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr. Hoop, of course. I was told to come back for ’im at one o’clock. It’s past that time now.’

  ‘Mr. Fred Hoop?’

  ‘No. Mr. Tom.’

  ‘I thought he was very ill.’

  The man who had a pug-dog face was very good-humoured, but getting impatient.

  ‘So did I, but he must have had a sudden turn for the better. I brought ’im here and now I’m due to take him ’ome. I’ve got some other runs to do when I get back to Evingden, so would you mind tellin’ him I’m waiting?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Littlejohn and closed the door.

  He was just in time. Mrs. Sandman appeared again. He thought it seemed too bad to have her hurrying backwards and forwards like a servant. Bella ought to have done it.

  ‘My daughter will be free in a minute.’

  He thanked her and looked gently at her.

  ‘And if Mr. Thomas Hoop is with her, would you kindly ask him to remain until I’ve had a word with him, as well?’

  She gave him a glance of reproach, as though he might have been prying into matters which didn’t concern him during her absence, but she didn’t answer.

  ‘Please follow me…’

  Quite a remarkable woman, Mrs. Sandman.

  Six

  Old Tom Hoop

  The room was quite out of keeping with the rest of the place. The furniture and fittings were all modern and there was a monstrosity of a bar in one corner. Under the Adam mantel, a gas-fire had been installed and was burning full blast. There were hunting prints on the walls and Persian mats on the floor. The area was small and the paper on the walls further constricted the atmosphere. It had been the ‘snug’ of the late Mr. Morris Sandman.

  Mrs. Sandman had been born in Pochins. It had belonged to her family for generations and Mr. Sandman had bought it from her cousin Anthony and given it to her as a birthday present. Actually, Sandman had foreclosed on a mortgage, but didn’t tell his wife at the time. Whe
n he came to want to sell Pochins to a large retail store at a magnificent profit, his wife wouldn’t agree and Sandman had died feeling frustrated to the end. His revenge had been to convert the nicest, cosiest room in the house into a bar in which he entertained his dubious friends.

  Mrs. Sandman led the way and Littlejohn found an old man and a woman of uncertain age already in occupation. He assumed the man was Thomas Hoop and the woman Mrs. Fred. Mrs. Sandman introduced him. Neither of them offered to shake hands. He might have been the rate collector come for his dues or an agent collecting insurance premiums.

  Mrs. Fred Hoop must have taken after her father. She didn’t resemble her mother in the slightest detail. She was auburn, of medium height, voluptuously built, handsome, and heavily made-up. She was expensively dressed and wore a lot of jewellery. If the stones in the rings on her fingers were genuine, she was well-off, however bankrupt her husband might be.

  The old man in the chair by the fire didn’t seem at home. His thin white hair was ruffled and his blue lips were pursed tightly. He was small and frail, clean-looking, with a flushed clear complexion and a grey moustache. He wore an expression of intense distaste.

  As Littlejohn entered, he struggled to his feet.

  ‘I’ll be going. My taxi should be at the door and I’ve nothing more to say.’

  ‘There’s no hurry, dad. You’d better take a drink—as medicine, of course—before you go. It’s cold outside.’

  Tom Hoop gave his daughter-in-law a nasty look. The suggestion of paternity by the woman seemed objectionable and, added to that, he’d signed the teetotal pledge when a young man and had no intention of breaking it to please anybody, especially Bella Hoop.

  ‘I hope you’ll stay, sir. I have one or two matters to discuss with you and it might be convenient now.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to the police.’

  ‘We have something to say to you, sir. I hope you are feeling better.’

  Littlejohn was surprised to find Tom Hoop in circulation at all. The last news he’d heard was that he was at death’s door.

  ‘I’m all right. What is it you’ve got to say? Say it and let me go. It’s time I was home. I’ve been away long enough.’

  He looked at the two women, standing uncertainly together between him and the fire.

  ‘Anything I have to say will be in private.’

  It was obvious that Bella, at least, wished to stay, but the compulsion in old Hoop’s voice was too strong.

  ‘Very well. Though I don’t see why we shouldn’t stay. After all we’re concerned with all this.’

  Bella Hoop had the husky voice of a contralto with laryngitis.

  ‘Come along, Bella. We have plenty to do. Perhaps you two gentlemen will let us know when you’re ready to go. We’ll be in the kitchen.’

  Mrs. Sandman said it very casually. A woman in full control of her feelings and quite unperturbed by the situation. She’d obviously learned after years with Sandman to take things as they came. They left the room, the mother leading the way and Bella following sulky and resentful.

  ‘Well? What have you to say?’

  Hoop slumped down in his chair, his arms hanging lightly, his head on one side supported by the wing. His eyes were pale blue and expressionless. His emotions were mainly expressed by flushes in his cheeks and by waving his arms about in ungainly jerks.

  ‘Are you sure, sir, you are well enough to be out? You were, I believe, too ill when the disaster happened to take much notice of it.’

  ‘I was not. I heard the explosion and was told all about it. I judged it unwise at the time to get out of bed and investigate.’

  That was a cool one! Old Hoop was supposed to be on his last legs when the offices went sky-high!

  ‘You were wise. I hear you had pneumonia, sir.’

  ‘That’s what they told me. It was a sharp attack of influenza and, I might add, you are in no position to tell me whether I was wise or not in staying in bed. To tell you the truth, I wish I hadn’t. I’d probably have solved the problem of who did it if I’d been on the spot sooner.’

  ‘Have you visited the place already?’

  ‘Of course. I’m head of the company. It was my duty. I called there on my way here this morning. The fire brigade and police had reduced the place to such a shambles it was impossible to tell what had happened.’

  To hide his smiles, Littlejohn took out his empty pipe and examined it fondly.

  ‘Here, you can’t smoke. My chest’s bad enough without you puffing tobacco all over the place.’

  ‘Sorry. Has the doctor agreed to your making this trip?’

  ‘I didn’t have a doctor. I don’t believe in doctors and their wonder drugs which give you worse complaints than those they cure. I can very well look after myself. I’m quite a competent medical herbalist.’

  Good! Old Hoop looked proud of it. Littlejohn felt he was dealing with a crank and decided to sheer away from health and illness. Otherwise they’d be all day at it and involved in herbs instead of explosives.

  ‘Have you any idea why the murder was committed and who might have done it?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Suppose you tell me your guess, sir.’

  ‘That’s not my business.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you a theory held by the local police. Forgive me if I’m blunt about it, but this is murder. It has been suggested that Dodd was having an affair with your son’s wife… Please let me go on… That your son was too afraid of Dodd to challenge him to his face and deal appropriately with him. He therefore murdered him in Guy Fawkes fashion.’

  Hoop hoisted himself to his feet in a sudden convulsive movement, trembling, flushed, stamping with rage.

  ‘That’s a damned impertinent lie! My son was nowhere near the office…’

  He had to stop to fit in his false teeth, which he’d half-ejected by his shouting.

  ‘That wouldn’t be necessary in the case of explosives. The fire and explosion have destroyed and confused most of the contents of the building. Not the police and firemen, as you suggest. A time-device could have been used and our experts will probably find one when they’ve sifted the mass of rubbish. Please sit down. You’re in no condition to get excited, sir.’

  ‘I’ll do as I like…’

  All the same, he sat down panting.

  ‘I’ll do as I like and I advise you not to repeat that slander outside, or you’ll regret it.’

  ‘You must admit that Dodd and Mrs. Fred Hoop…’

  ‘I admit nothing… I see now why you wanted Bella out of the way. To slander her behind her back.’

  ‘You sent her packing, not I. I suggest you called here in an effort either to effect a reconciliation or enlist Mrs. Hoop’s help in your son’s defence.’

  ‘You’re wrong. He needs no defending. He was here when the explosion occurred. He’d been away from Evingden for over an hour.’

  ‘That doesn’t get over the theory of the time-device.’

  ‘That theory is just a piece of balderdash to help you solve the case. You can’t find a victim, so you’re picking on an innocent man. I tell you, I’ll move heaven and earth to beat and discredit you and your lies.’

  ‘Your son called to ask his wife for further financial help for the company.’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘I’ve only to ask his wife to get the truth.’

  ‘Oho! She’ll tell you he was after her money. That would suit her. She tells everybody that. She’s always harping on Fred being after her money. If she’d been a good wife to him, all this would never have happened and my son would have been able to concentrate on running the business successfully. As it is…’

  It seemed obvious that old Hoop ran both Fred and the business. Littlejohn wondered, however, if he’d have allowed Fred to marry Bella if i
t hadn’t been for her money. Perhaps that was it. Money. How Bella had come to marry Fred was quite a puzzle, too. The appeal of the ingenious, virile Dodd was quite understandable.

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Then hurry up. I’m tired. I don’t know why I’m staying here listening to your nonsense…’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, it’s because you’re anxious to know exactly how far your son is incriminated.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  The women must have been cooking in the adjacent kitchen. A smell of onions began to pervade the air. Then the door opened and Bella arrived, balancing a tray of drinks.

  ‘Would you like some sherry, Superintendent?’

  She handed Tom Hoop a glass of orange, which he refused.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Please yourself…’

  Littlejohn almost said ‘neither do I,’ but it seemed too bad. He accepted a glass. It must have been Bella’s choice; it tasted like the cooking variety. He felt it attack his stomach like strong acid.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She hesitated. ‘Am I still de trop?’

  ‘If by that you mean you aren’t wanted, you’re right.’

  She stood in front of her father-in-law and a lock of hair fell across her face and made her appear more wild and ferocious. She looked ready to fling the orange drink in his face. She turned on her heel and went out without another word, banging the door behind her. Then she opened it again.

  ‘You can tell your precious Fred not to call here again after money. There’s none for him or any of you. Excelsior! That’s a good one!’

  Bang; and she was gone. An aroma of singed onions mingled with that of the exotic scent she left behind her.

  ‘The baggage! The bitch!!’

  Hoop drooled with temper and glared at the closed door for a while, as though she were still there.

  ‘Anything else? I want to get out of this place. It’s evil.’

  ‘Had an official directors’ meeting been called at the time the explosion occurred?’

  ‘Are you still at it? You never stop. No. You can take it from me that Piper and Fallows were just unlucky. Whoever wanted to damage Dodd didn’t know he’d arranged to meet Piper and Fallows at the office with the old old story of scratching round for money for the week’s wages.’