Surfeit of Suspects

by George Bellairs

  ‘Against security, yes. Now and then. He was extravagant, but I never let him take more than he could secure. I shouldn’t be telling you this, you know, but I want to see justice done, and if I can help…’

  ‘We know the directors guaranteed a loan of several thousands by your bank and that all of them, except Dodd, had little in the way of resources to meet their commitment. In fact, the bank will have to depend on Dodd’s life policy to recover their money.’

  Mr. Roper was on his feet.

  ‘Look, Superintendent. The situation was confidential and sacred. Yes, sacred to the bank. I hope the police haven’t been questioning my staff behind my back.’

  ‘No, sir. I’ll tell you candidly where the information came from. It was from Mr. Boycott, the company’s lawyer.’

  ‘I see. A bit indiscreet of him, I must say. He talks too much. Professional secrecy isn’t lightly to be broken. All the same, your information is correct.’

  ‘Had Dodd not died, the life policy would have been worth very little to the bank and they would have suffered in consequence.’

  Mr. Roper changed colour to grey again and drank more whisky.

  The very thought of it! They were in a real mess!

  ‘There were, of course, the machinery and debts, which would have yielded quite a considerable sum of money.’

  ‘Were they charged to the bank?’

  ‘No. But in a liquidation…’

  Mr. Roper seemed uncertain about his facts and paused. Littlejohn was in no way qualified to carry on a financial argument with him. He wished his friend, Horace Flight, of the Fraud Squad, had been there.

  There seemed little else to be said. It had reached the stage where as far as the case was concerned, Littlejohn and Roper were sitting eyeing each other across the table and saying nothing. Mr. Roper was looking unsteadily, too, as though he wished Littlejohn would take himself off.

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Then I’ll get on with my work. It’s nearly time to close and I’ve a lot of letters to dictate yet.’

  His desk was empty, but perhaps Mr. Roper carried it all in his head.

  In any case, Littlejohn wished to call at the other branch of the Home Counties Bank, the new one in the new town. So, he thanked Mr. Roper, bade him good-day and hurried away.

  He was just in time. The junior of the new office was closing the door.

  ‘Is the manager free?’

  The junior was a bright boy and recognised Littlejohn from his picture in the Evingden Examiner. He was going steady with a girl who collected autographs and almost asked Littlejohn to oblige. Then he decided perhaps he’d better not. A famous detective’s signature among those of a lot of pop singers didn’t seem appropriate…

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He even forgot to close the door in his haste to announce the visitor and two belated customers sneaked in, much to the annoyance of the chief cashier, who pointedly left his till and closed the bank himself.

  It was an up-to-date branch. The front was almost entirely of glass and the public, honest and bandit alike, could see all that went on. Sometimes, the impoverished of the town would pause there for quite a while, looking in at the piles of cash, like children, hungry and standing over the savoury grid outside an eating-house. The interior walls were painted and papered in a variety of startling colours and the manager’s room had wallpaper of pink, blue, and yellow with a peach-coloured carpet and scarlet upholstery. Mr. Caffrey, the manager, leapt up from the midst of it all and warmly shook Littlejohn’s hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, Superintendent Littlejohn. Very pleased indeed to meet you.’

  Littlejohn might have been a potential big customer.

  Caffrey was only thirty-eight, which was a thorn in Mr. Roper’s flesh. Tall, slim, swarthy, and highly polished, he had been taught banking and all that went with it from A to Z at his bank’s staff college. He was a man with a future and some said he would one day be General Manager of the whole set-up. He indicated bottles of sherry in a cupboard on the wall.

  ‘Sweet or dry?’

  Without more ado he filled up.

  ‘Good health and success to your case, sir. It’s the queerest affair that’s ever happened in Evingden.’

  He knew all the history of the town, too. Useful as a talking-point in meeting established citizens.

  ‘I’ve just been to see Mr. Roper about Excelsior Joinery. They’re his clients…’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Poor old Roper. I believe they’ve led him a bit of a dance. They’ve been in a poor way for some time. Between you and me, sir, their cheques have been bouncing all over the town. I wondered if someone was trying a bit of fire-raising and did it too thoroughly. There seems no other explanation for the tragedy at their works.’

  ‘At any rate, it has solved Mr. Roper’s problems. I hear the bank would have suffered a bad debt otherwise.’

  ‘Yes. I know. I heard all about it from Handel. That’s Roper’s first name. His father was a prominent local musician and called his son after his favourite composer. The whole works… George Frederick Handel Roper…’

  ‘He’s a local man, then?’

  ‘Yes. Born and bred in Evingden. Strictly entre nous, he’s like the old premises he occupies. A bit passé.’

  ‘Are you a native, too?’

  ‘Yes. I started under Handel Roper in the old office. I’ve been around a bit since those days. He was quite a promising man then. He never got over his first wife’s death. Married again to a bit of a tartar. He’d only one daughter, the apple of his eye. When he brought home his new wife, Benita, the daughter, packed up and left. She married a chimney-sweep in the Isle of Wight. Not the black-faced type; the sort who uses a vacuum-cleaner up the chimney and runs a profitable company.’

  Mr. Caffrey laughed heartily and then grew solemn.

  ‘Poor Handel has had a packet of late.’

  ‘Does he stand high in the bank’s regard?’

  ‘Old-fashioned. He’s spent most of his career in Evingden. A mistake, you know. Makes it that you can’t say No to old friends and associates. It leads to bad debts, if you aren’t very careful.’

  ‘Perhaps the Excelsior loan was an example.’

  ‘I’ll tell you in confidence…’

  Mr. Caffrey looked disposed to tell Littlejohn quite a lot. He was intoxicated by the idea of collaborating with Scotland Yard.

  ‘In confidence, he’s been on the mat a time or two at Head Office for risky lending and bad debts. I’ve been asked myself by H.O. how he stands locally. It amounts to this. If he misbehaves much more and loses any more money for the bank, he might be demoted and lose his managerial position. It would be a tragedy for Roper. He’s due to retire in a year or two and that might greatly affect his pension. Head Office are only keeping the old branch in Evingden open out of regard for Handel Roper. When he goes, all the business will be transferred here.’

  ‘So, a bad debt with Excelsior might be very damaging.’

  ‘It would indeed. Especially as H.O. were angry about his making the loan in the first place. He granted the overdraft first, I gather, and told H.O. afterwards.’

  Mr. Caffrey paused and shook his head almost reproachfully, as though inwardly chiding himself for talking too much.

  ‘I hope you’ll keep this information to yourself, sir. I’m only giving it in the hope that it will help your investigation. It might assist you in judging the nature of the Excelsior business and the mess they are in.’

  ‘They’re in a bigger mess, now. They’ve only one director left. Fred Hoop. Is he a customer here?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all I can say. I’m not allowed to disclose his financial position. You understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mr. Caffrey might just as well have said Fred Hoop
was on his uppers. Probably another issuer of bouncing cheques.

  ‘I believe you, too, had an explosion here not long ago.’

  ‘I’ll say we had. A silly business. The local police haven’t been able to get to the bottom of it yet. It struck me as either a crazy prank, or else the work of an apprentice burglar testing his skill with dynamite. He didn’t even crack the safe. But he was cute enough to leave no trace behind him.’

  ‘There may be some connection between your explosion and that at Excelsior.’

  ‘A sort of rehearsal?’

  Mr. Caffrey laughed heartily again.

  ‘Maybe. Or something more crafty: the murderer just spreading false clues for the police.’

  ‘Indeed! I’d not thought of that.’

  Outside in the office, strange machines sounded to be squaring off the accounts for the day and balancing and putting away the cash.

  ‘Your affair occurred over the weekend, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Sunday morning when there was nobody about. The usual weekend snatch… or attempted snatch. That is, if it was genuine.’

  Mr. Caffrey looked troubled.

  ‘Where could anybody buy the dynamite in a place like this…? Perhaps they could steal it from a quarry, let’s say. There’s only one in this locality. It’s a few miles in the Brighton direction from here. The Rosealba quarry. Sandstone, you know. They blast now and then. They bank here. Transferred to me from the City and Counties Bank when we opened in Evingden.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘A family affair. People of the name of Pochin.’

  ‘Pochin? I’ve heard that name before. Yes. A house. In Brantwood.’

  ‘You’ve hit it, sir. The Pochins came from there. The house is occupied at present by Fred Hoop’s mother-in-law. She was a Miss Pochin before she married a fellow named Sandman. Morris Sandman. He made a fortune selling government surplus. Bit of a dark horse. Everybody was surprised when Miss Pochin married him, I believe. But, in love, there’s no accounting for taste, is there? It’s said Sandman ended up financially interested in the Rosealba quarries. Put them on their feet, in fact. That was before he married Miss Pochin.’

  A real mine of information! Littlejohn wondered where Caffrey got it all from.

  ‘Is Mrs. Sandman still interested in the family concern?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a director.’

  There was a tap on the door. The bright new junior entered apologetically. He gave Littlejohn an admiring smile and then addressed himself to his boss.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Sorry to interrupt. Mr. Alderman Vintner wishes to see you. It’s urgent.’

  The alderman didn’t wait. He blundered in after the junior. A huge, heavy-jowled man, with a red face, angry little eyes under shaggy brows, snub nose, thick, hanging underlip. He seemed to have difficulty in moving his huge bulk and punted himself along with a heavy ebony stick. He was evidently bent on bullying Caffrey, but drew himself to a standstill, like a huge vessel entering dock, when he saw Littlejohn.

  ‘Hullo. It’s you, is it? I thought you’d gone. Littlejohn, isn’t it?’

  He had a deep, suffocated bronchial voice.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr. Caffrey hurried to introduce them.

  ‘Never mind introductions, Caffrey. My name’s Vintner. Alderman Vintner. I’m also a J.P. And I’m on the Watch Committee. I know you, Superintendent, because I’ve had you pointed out to me. I saw you come into the bank, but I thought you’d have gone by this.’

  He gave Caffrey a questioning look as though expecting him to divulge what it was all about.

  Littlejohn took him up.

  ‘I called for a chat about the explosion here some time ago. I’ve finished now and won’t take up any more of Mr. Caffrey’s time.’

  He shook hands with Caffrey and thanked him. The alderman waited impatiently. He didn’t seem to like the good terms on which the banker and Littlejohn appeared to be. He suddenly thrust his face close to Littlejohn’s.

  ‘I don’t know why Scotland Yard need to interfere in this matter. We’ve a perfectly good police force of our own here. First class, I call it, and, as a J.P., I’m in a position to know. To my mind, it’s ridiculous calling you in.’

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  Littlejohn didn’t even bother to argue. As he left, Alderman Vintner was lowering his huge bulk in one of the customers’ chairs. He’d probably have taken the manager’s seat if Caffrey hadn’t been too quick for him. He looked that sort.

  Half an hour later, as he was drinking tea with Tattersall, Littlejohn was disturbed by the telephone. It was Caffrey again.

  ‘I’m just calling to apologise for the discourteous way in which I let you go from the bank, sir. Alderman Vintner is a bit of a tartar and, although he isn’t a customer here – he banks at our other branch – he thinks he owns the whole bank. I’m sorry he pushed you out so rudely.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Caffrey. I was ready for off. Forget it. And thank you for all the help you gave me.’

  ‘You might be interested to know why Alderman Vintner called. He wished to know why you’d called.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Just what you told him. About the explosion. Nothing more. He said he’d a right to know things, as when the murderer was caught, he’d come before him on the bench.’

  ‘Who is this Vintner?’ Littlejohn asked when it was all over. He told Tattersall what it was about.

  ‘I like his dam’ cheek. A self-opinionated boaster, indiscreet and foolish in a crowd and a particular swank in the presence of women. He still thinks he owns the town. A big frog in a little pool before the extension. Now that the town has grown so much, nobody but himself thinks he’s anybody.’

  ‘Why is he so interested in me, though? His excuse was a bit thin.’

  ‘I guess he thinks that as one of Dodd’s family, in a matter of speaking, he’s a right to know what goes on. He has a big plumber’s and ironmonger’s shop in the old town. He’s rolling in money, I believe. The new town’s been a godsend to him. New houses need ironmongery and plumbing, don’t they? Like hell, they do.’

  ‘A plumber. Mrs. Dodd was a plumber’s daughter…’

  It sounded like a nursery rhyme!

  ‘That’s it. Vintner is her father.’

  ‘But when I met him at the bank, he made no mention of it. He didn’t behave as though there were a death in the family, either.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. He hated Dodd. I don’t need to tell you that Dodd was a philanderer. His marriage with Betty Vintner was a shotgun affair. After the marriage, Dodd was soon back at his old games with the women. It galled Vintner. He forbade Dodd ever to enter his house again, after the way he’d treated his daughter. He never mentions Dodd. In fact, far from mourning Dodd’s decease, I’ll bet the alderman’s glad.’

  ‘I heard Mrs. Dodd’s father had two sons, although I didn’t know it was Vintner.’

  ‘Yes. They left Evingden years ago. Started a building company in the West End of London.’

  ‘What about putting the alderman and his sons on our list of suspects?’

  Tattersall laughed brokenly.

  ‘Him! You mean he might have killed Dodd for what he did to Betty? No. He’s quarrelled with Betty, too, and cut her off with a shilling. Not only did she persist in sticking to Dodd in spite of her father’s advice to divorce and be rid of him, but her mother, when she died, mortally affronted old Vintner by leaving all she had—it wasn’t much—to Betty, instead of to Vintner himself. Betty invested it in the Excelsior, I believe. That was enough for the alderman. There was a hell of a row and that was that. He’d no reason for killing Dodd. You can cross him off. After his quarrel with Betty, he’d give no support to his daughter, however badly Dodd treated her.’

  Instead, Littlejohn put the alderman
on the list.

  Eight

  Polydore

  John Robert Piper and his wife had lived in their own house, mortgaged to the bank, of course, in Railway Terrace, Evingden. It was a small, semi-detached place with a garden which Piper had made his hobby before the affairs of the Excelsior had driven it from his mind. All that was left of the garden was the wreckage of summer, dead and gone blooms, rotting Michaelmas daisies, overgrown paths and a solitary rosebud dying on a leafless stem. The property fronted on the railway line and Piper had once boasted he never needed a clock to tell the time as the trains did it for him.

  When Cromwell arrived, he found Mrs. Piper and her daughter there.

  ‘You’re lucky to find us at home. Mother’s just come for her black clothes. It’s the funeral the day after tomorrow. She’s taken all this badly. It’s hard enough dying in one’s bed, but to die like my dad did…’

  Mrs. Flowerdew, née Piper, then burst into tears and between the sobs managed to invite Cromwell indoors.

  ‘She’s living at our house at present. To stay on in this empty place after what she’d been through would be unbearable…’

  She didn’t even ask the purpose of Cromwell’s visit. His dark austerely cut clothes and white linen often caused him to be mistaken for a nonconformist parson. Mrs. Flowerdew thought he’d called to tender condolences and comfort. She offered him a chair whilst she went to find her mother, who could be heard forlornly rummaging about in the room overhead.

  Cromwell looked around him. A comfortable living-room with traces of the dead man still scattered about. A cold pipe in an ash-tray, carpet slippers near the hearth, books, magazines… Family photographs and out-of-date pictures on the walls, and a large castor-oil plant flourishing in front of the window.

  There was silence upstairs, as though mother and daughter were indulging in a whispered conference. Then they began to descend, one very slowly, and the other helping her.

  Mrs. Piper was a thin, white-haired woman, pale and stricken-looking. She seemed surprised when, instead of the local Methodist minister, she encountered Cromwell. She and her daughter looked afraid and resentful after Cromwell introduced himself.