Surfeit of Suspects

by George Bellairs

  ‘Where is the Dodds’ home?’

  ‘They moved not long ago to a bungalow in Strathallan Road, in the new town. I don’t know where they got the money from, but they did. It seemed funny to everybody at the time, Dodd buying a new house and the Excelsior nearly bust.’

  ‘I’ll be off to Strathallan Road, then. How do I find it?’

  The bobby conducted Cromwell to a large map of the neighbourhood which covered one wall of the charge room and laboriously gave him directions.

  It was raining hard outside and Cromwell borrowed a police car; the driver took him straight to the Dodds’ new house. It stood in a long road of new property, with houses springing up like mushrooms. Rows and rows of them and excavations still going on. Water the colour of milky tea poured from the new sites, along the gutters of the road, and vanished down the grilles. There was hardly anyone about. The builders’ men had fled for shelter from the rain and were drinking tea in half-erected properties.

  Cromwell turned in at the gate of Dodd’s bungalow. He winced at the name. Dunromin. It somehow sounded like Dodd. It was one of the better type on the estate, standing in about half an acre of land, and the front garden was only half turned over.

  A woman passed with an umbrella raised and a dog dragging along on a tight rein.

  ‘There’s nobody at home,’ she said.

  Cromwell wondered how she knew, but hurried along the asphalt drive and rang the bell. There was a peal of bells behind the door. But no answer. The inquisitive woman with the half-choked dog was waiting for him.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you there was nobody at home…’

  And she went on without another word, obviously satisfied at having won the rubber.

  ‘Now what?’

  The driver of the police car asked the question rhetorically, for he knew his advice would be asked.

  ‘I might say the same to you.’

  ‘She might have made it up with her dad, now that Dodd’s dead. Like to try?’

  ‘Where does Alderman Vintner live?’

  ‘You’ll never guess. In a new road not far from here. It’s called Vintner Avenue. Named after him. A continuation of the council estate, the new streets of which were called after the reigning aldermen. That is, all except Alderman Drain and Alderman Bastard. The streets luckily gave out before their turns came.’

  ‘Vintner Avenue, then. What’s the name of the house? Chez nous?’

  ‘No. Tudor Nook…’

  They found it easily. It was twice as large and twice as ostentatious as any house in sight. Olde Englyshe style, with a garage for four or five cars. The newly planted trees were dripping with rain and the flower-beds in the sodden lawns were a mash of black earth and clay. Cromwell sought the bell-push under the huge porch. Another peal of bells sounded indoors. An elderly housekeeper answered. She looked hard at Cromwell.

  ‘Is Mrs. Dodd at home?’

  ‘You from the undertakers? Because…’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘She won’t see you. She’s not seeing anybody.’

  A voice from inside said ‘who is it?’ and Mrs. Dodd appeared to find out for herself.

  ‘I’m Mrs. Dodd. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m from the police, Mrs. Dodd, and I wonder if you could spare me a minute.’

  ‘You’d better come inside instead of standing in the rain…’

  She led him through a large hall. There were two snarling tiger-skins rugs on the polished floor, primitive weapons hung on the walls, which were panelled in dark oak. On one panel hung a large portrait in oils of Alderman Vintner in his alderman’s livery, or whatever it was…

  ‘Come in the morning-room.’

  The room was small and comfortable. There was a refinement about it which, at first, puzzled Cromwell. After the disorderly array in the hall, the ferocity and bad taste spread about there, this quiet little place seemed incongruous, a spot apart and free from the aggressive domination of whoever had built and furnished the house. There was a portrait of a woman with a dark, gentle oval face over the fireplace which caught Cromwell’s eye as soon as he entered the room.

  ‘It is my mother. She is dead.’

  Mrs. Dodd, perhaps feeling his interest and answering an unasked question, as though it were of some importance. To Cromwell it certainly explained much. The mixture of taste and vulgarity in the house, and the personality of Mrs. Dodd herself. She was a mixture of the picture in the hall of her father and that of her mother. Her dark features and oval face were those of one; the sensual mouth and arrogant, rebellious eyes and manner were those of the other. It perhaps accounted for her attraction to Dodd, her quarrel with her father, and her lack of any signs of grief at the tragedy in her life.

  Cromwell found it difficult to explain his visit.

  ‘I called at your own home, but found it empty, so thought I’d see if you were staying with your father…’

  It sounded a fatuous introduction and she seemed to think so, too.

  ‘I am staying with him for the time being. I suppose the police know that we didn’t get on very well together. My father invited me back here… What has that to do with the police? How does it concern you?’

  ‘It isn’t really any business of ours, Mrs. Dodd. I’m sorry to intrude at a time like this, but there are one or two matters I’d like to talk over with you if you feel so disposed. You know this is murder and the sooner we settle certain problems, the sooner we hope to find out who committed the crime.’

  ‘I can’t help you. I suppose it is known to the police that my husband and I quarrelled before his death. I had left him and was with the children with friends in Wales. The children are still there and I am here. Is there anything else?’

  She sat down as though she was sure that wasn’t the end of it, and irritably told Cromwell to take a chair, too.

  ‘You will probably have found out why my husband and I disagreed. If you haven’t, I don’t propose to tell you.’

  ‘I hadn’t called to delve into your private affairs, madam. Just to ask you one or two questions about your late husband. First, had he any enemies?’

  Her face was stony and as she spoke, showed no signs of her feelings. The room overlooked the back garden and a gardener in a raincoat with a sack round his shoulders was working in the rain, banking up a row of brussels sprouts.

  ‘Enemies? Quite a lot, I would think. Anyone with money invested in that wretched joinery company, for example, would hate his guts. But not enough to kill him. None of them had courage enough to do that.’

  ‘Who would have courage?’

  ‘I don’t know and if I did I wouldn’t tell. It’s not up to me to put the rope round anyone’s neck. That’s the work of the police.’

  ‘Your father disliked him?’

  ‘Incompatibility of temperament, shall we say. Beyond that, I will say no more. If you called to try to get me to incriminate my father, you had better go.’

  She answered everything in an indignant voice, as though resenting his presence, yet eager to know what the police were doing in the case.

  ‘Have you found out anything which will lead to an arrest?’

  Her self-possession was wonderful. The only evidence of any tension at all was the occasional biting of her under-lip.

  ‘No. The whole affair is a complete mystery. What was he doing there at that hour and why were the two other directors there with him?’

  ‘He didn’t confide in me about his business affairs. I was away from home, as I told you, when the office was blown up and I’d no idea how or why it happened.’

  She was obviously a hostile witness, embittered with Dodd and all connected with him, probably through his affair with Fred Hoop’s wife. That was a matter Cromwell daren’t raise at the moment for fear of another explosion.

  He rose to go.

 
; ‘Did he ever mention the word Polydore in the course of conversation?’

  For the first time, she registered some feeling, but only briefly. Her eyelids flickered and Cromwell knew the shot had gone home.

  ‘No. What’s the idea…? Polydore? Who’s Polydore?’

  ‘It’s something which has cropped up in the course of our investigations, a word written on a scrap of charred paper. It may be nothing.’

  ‘It sounds silly to me. What is it? The name of a game? Or a man’s name? In any case, I never heard it before.’

  Cromwell gave it up.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Dodd, and thank you for receiving me so kindly at a time like this. I…’

  Someone was inserting a key in the front door, which was violently flung open. A large man struggled to pull down his umbrella and as he did so, spotted Cromwell in the hall. This made his performance with the umbrella much more difficult and increased his anger. He finally succeeded and flung the object from him in a corner of the porch.

  A large, heavy man with a square red face, who first groped in the hatstand for a stick, for he was lame, and then made for Cromwell like a bull at a gate.

  ‘You’re the man who’s arrived in the police car standing at the gate, aren’t you? Well, get back in it and be off with you. But first tell me what’s the meaning of this impertinence. Calling at my house when I’m out. I’m on the watch committee and someone’s going to answer for this.’

  He turned to his daughter who was standing at the door of the morning room, apparently enjoying this show of temper.

  ‘Has he been bullying you in my absence? What’s he been up to?’

  He stood between Cromwell and the door as though about to use his stick on him if he found cause for it.

  ‘This is Inspector Cromwell, Father…’

  ‘I don’t want to know who he is. I want to know what he’s been doing here. What’s he after?’

  ‘He came to ask a few questions about John, Father, and he’s been very polite about it. So you needn’t lose your temper and be rude to him. He’s just going.’

  ‘I can see that. The sooner the better.’

  He turned to Cromwell.

  ‘What need had you to call here with your inquisition? Anything you wanted to know about me or mine, you could have obtained by calling on me at my place of business. It’s a liberty to come to my home with your questions. A liberty you’ll pay for when I see the Chief Constable…’

  Cromwell was rattled.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Mr. Alderman. If you wish, I’ll call at your shop and explain what it’s all about. I wouldn’t take the liberty of discussing it any further under your own roof.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent. You’ve done quite enough…’

  Mrs. Dodd seemed used to her father’s tantrums and was waiting for the storm to die down.

  ‘And now, Mr. Alderman, if you’ll kindly stand away from the door, I’ll be on my way. I’m sorry to have troubled you, although it was your daughter and not you I called to see.’

  Through the open door, Cromwell could see the police car, standing beside the alderman’s own, with the driver looking anxiously through the window, half expecting the alderman to throw Cromwell out, neck and crop.

  A few sodden passers-by halted in their steps at the loud sounds of the alderman’s fury, surprised at a brawl in such an austere neighbourhood.

  Mrs. Dodd suddenly interposed, almost casually, as her father paused for breath.

  ‘The Inspector was asking if I knew the name Polydore. I said I didn’t…’

  There was a silence. The alderman was breathing heavily, almost snorting.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Polydore. The name’s cropped up in the case.’

  Vintner changed colour. Pale, and then redder than ever. His voice grew husky.

  ‘Here, young man, what’s all this about? I want to know what you’ve been questioning my daughter about…’

  ‘I’ll go fully into all that at the police station, if you care to call, sir. Or I could call on you at the shop, as you object to my asking questions here. Good-day, sir.’

  And he left Vintner standing gasping on the threshold, like a landed fish, and hurried through the rain to the car.

  Nine

  Takeover

  Littlejohn and Cromwell met late in the afternoon of their busy day of working apart and called at Scotland Yard on their way home to discuss the results of their enquiries.

  To supplement their information, they also had the report of the experts who had examined the wrecked Excelsior offices, the debris, and the bodies of the victims.

  No trace of a time-device to explode the dynamite had been found. The explosive had been in the form of blasting sticks, probably two of them. It was, therefore, assumed that it had been fired by a simple ignited fuse. This would avoid the complications of electrical detonation and enable the murderer to take to his heels at once after igniting his petard.

  As far as reconstruction went, it was deduced that the victims had been seated at a table in the main office; Dodd and Piper together, Fallows at some distance away from them.

  Beneath the offices was a cellar, once used as a storeroom and accessible by an outer door reached by a flight of stone steps from ground level. This door, usually kept locked, had been rescued in a badly charred and battered condition at some distance from the rest of the wreckage. There was a key in the outside of the lock. It seemed certain therefore, that the murderer had planted the dynamite in the cellar under the main office, locked the cellar door and left the key behind, perhaps where he’d found it.

  The full force of the explosion had been centred beneath where Dodd and Piper had been sitting. The heavy table had been blown over on top of Fallows and killed him by a crushing blow on the head. Dodd and Piper had been rendered unconscious or killed outright by the blast; in the former event, fire had finished the job.

  The papers the group of men might have been studying were charred and beaten out of recognition. The fire had severely damaged the clothes of Dodd and Piper and the contents of their pockets had been reduced to dust.

  On the other hand, the papers in Fallows’s pockets had been saved by the heavy table, but seemed to include nothing of importance in the case. The only item of any great interest was the envelope clutched in his hand, protected by his body. This had been used for noting down matters probably under discussion at the time of the explosion.

  Cromwell passed the envelope to Littlejohn.

  ‘I thought I’d better bring it with me. You know more about company finance than I do. It may be clearer to you than to me, sir.’

  ‘You flatter me.’

  Littlejohn examined the envelope.

  ‘O/D… 4,100… That’s plain enough. The Excelsior were overdrawn at the bank by that amount at the time, although, it seems, cheques had been issued which would take them over £5,000.

  ‘It’s the next item that seems silly to me, however. Takeover 5,000. Surely nobody would make a takeover bid for Excelsior. It’s bust and not worth taking as a gift, to say nothing of five thousand pounds.’

  ‘I agree with you. It’s not worth having as a gift. We’d do with some financial advice, Cromwell. The Fraud Squad might be able to help. Flight’s on holiday. We’ll talk to Newell, if he’s still here.’

  Superintendent Flight of the Fraud Squad was a financial wizard and the terror of all fiddlers, absconders, dishonest company directors and confidence tricksters everywhere. It was like him to go for his holidays in November. He couldn’t bear hot weather. His colleague, Inspector Newell, was a suitable supplement to Flight. He loved heat and couldn’t stand the cold. He went to sweltering overseas resorts every August and indulged in sun-bathing, surf-riding, and fishing for monsters. Flight was at present in Switzerland, high up in
the mountain, revelling in the cold. They made a good pair. Newell was a chartered accountant; Flight an ex-inspector of taxes.

  Littlejohn rang through for Newell, who sounded full of a cold at the other end of the line.

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  Which took about ten minutes as he traversed long corridors and descended flights of stairs.

  ‘It’s cold in here. Haven’t you turned on the heat?’

  Then he greeted them politely.

  A tall, nonchalant angular man, impeccably dressed and with a pleasant round face and pale blue eyes which had a frozen look which terrified his unwilling clients right from the start. He sneezed and blew his nose as he sat down, carefully pulling up his well-pressed trousers.

  ‘We need your help in a case we’re on, if you don’t mind, Newell. A case in which we’re turning on the heat, as you put it.’

  ‘Delighted. Tell me about it.’

  He vigorously rubbed his hands together, either out of eagerness or cold. Then he rose and turned on the electric fire.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind. If Flight hadn’t been away seeking the cold, I’d have been in South Africa seeking the heat. This weather’s killing me. Please go on.’

  Then Littlejohn outlined the business, brief history and financial position of Excelsior Joinery Company.

  They showed him the envelope first.

  Newell stared – stupidly, Cromwell later said – at the envelope and pencil notes made on it by Fallows. ‘O.D. That’s obvious. Short for overdraft.’

  Littlejohn and Cromwell could have told him that!

  ‘Takeover. That’s more of a problem. What did Excelsior have to take over? A decaying business, a lot of debts, some very dubious assets in the shape of machinery and a stock of timber. Perhaps, on the other hand, they’d a few debts to collect…’

  Newell might have been thinking aloud, but to Littlejohn his thoughts weren’t very helpful or inspiring. He was sorry Superintendent Flight was away. Flight had a knack of putting his finger in the sore spots of a case with unerring speed.