Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  Cromwell said he was, but he lied. He remembered the succession of county court judgments against Mr. Gamaliel for debt and wondered where in the world he could raise ten, not to mention a hundred pounds to lend anyone. There was something fishy about it all. Oates was connected with the fake picture racket in all probability and Gamaliel had taken money from him, too. . . .

  "I have to go out . . . I have a sale to attend. I can't waste any more time with you. So, if you will oblige . . . "

  How did Gamaliel make his money? Selling odd books for a few coppers a time, poked away all day in a cellar, hawking faked pictures, being sued for debts he couldn't pay. . . .

  "Do you hear me?"

  "Yes. I must be going. Did you know Lysander Oates's brother, Finloe? Did he ever mention him?"

  "No . . . I didn't even know he had . . ."

  "Come, come. You mentioned his sister-in-law. Surely he needed a brother for that!"

  "I was just going to say, if you'll allow me to go on, I didn't even know he had a brother till he said his brother's wife was dead. . . ."

  "He hasn't a brother any more. . . . Finloe Oates is dead. He was murdered. . . ."

  "So that's what you're after? Why didn't you say so at first? I suppose you think I did it. . . Or, at least, one would assume you did, the way you've been questioning me. I never saw Finloe Oates; never wanted to see him. For that matter, I wish I'd never seen Lysander, either. . . ."

  The bookseller was in a rage again. Strange, whenever you got him on a raw spot, he flew off the handle. Cromwell wondered what was stinging him now.

  "Why? I thought Lysander Oates was a good friend of yours. You said so. Did he nearly land you in gaol by his bad faking of pictures, or something, and did you hate him for that?"

  The eyes flickered but otherwise still showed no sign of life. But Mr. Gamaliel was again swollen like an angry frog.

  "Say that before witnesses; say it before witnesses, I say, if you dare. I'll have you broken for that. . . . I . . ."

  "Now, now. You know you just missed trouble with your pictures, Mr. Gamaliel. We know all about it. . . . "

  "That's over and done with. It was a mistake and you know it. I willingly repaid the money and the case was dropped. It had to be. I acted strictly bona fide. . . ."

  "All right. I'm not saying you didn't. But you seem to hate Lysander Oates for something, Mr. Gamaliel."

  "Nothing of the kind. I only said I was sick of all this inquisition about him. Why should I be pestered? Now, go away and leave me in peace. My heart isn't good and this sort of thing upsets me."

  "I'm sorry. But we must find Oates, you know. We can't leave a stone unturned. We want to question him about his brother's death. . . ."

  "Surely, you don't suspect . . . ?"

  "I said we wanted to question him. Do you know where he might have gone?"

  "I don't know and I don't want to know. And now, good-day. I must be going myself."

  "Just one more question, sir. Had Oates any other friends in the neighbourhood; someone who knows a little more about him than you are prepared to say . . . ?"

  "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  Gamaliel, who had been putting on his raincoat in a frantic pantomime of hurrying off, turned, his movements cramped by the fact that he had both sleeves half-on. His paunch protruded hideously from between the two edges of the garment.

  "You haven't been very helpful, you know. Lysander Oates spent a lot of time with you; yet you say you never talked, you know little or nothing about him, and have no further interest in him. He also, I believe, indulged in a little forging, or faking of modern masters; yet you say you know nothing of his financial affairs. . . . "

  Gamaliel struggled with his raincoat. He had thoroughly entangled himself in the sleeves and folds of it and this added to his fury. Finally, with a rending sound, the seam gave way and left him with two parts dangling from his shoulders. Cromwell reached out a hand and sorted him out.

  Mortimer Gamaliel sat down and put his head between his hands. Then, slowly, he raised his face and his dull eyes fixed themselves on Cromwell's face.

  "You want to pin this on me, don't you? You want to bully me into confessing I killed him. Well, you'll have to try again. I'm going straight to my lawyer. . . ."

  "I thought you had a sale to attend. . . ."

  Outside, the painter was busy on the railings again. Up and down, up and down. He kept casting his eyes in the direction of the two men silhouetted by the flames of the fire at the far end of the cellar. He watched what he thought was Cromwell struggling with Gamaliel, saw the bookseller raise his hands to heaven as he cursed the detective, saw him thrust his face close to that of Cromwell. And then the painter seemed to make up his mind. He carefully placed his brush in his paint-can, wiped his hands on his trousers, and descended to the cellar. Gamaliel was shaking his fist in Cromwell's face and threatening to have the law on him.

  "You'd better be careful," said the painter to Cromwell, as though he were calmly passing the time of day. "That fellah's got a loaded revolver in his pocket. I see him looking at it to see it was all right this mornin'. I see it all through the winder, like. . . ."

  Quickly, Cromwell's long arms shot out. He seized Gamaliel in a firm embrace with one arm and with his free hand sought the bookseller's pockets.

  " 'Ere, 'ere, 'ere," said the painter and with measured tread approached the struggling men, grasped Gamaliel's jacket by the collar and drew it half-way down his back, locking his arms at the biceps. Then he sought one pocket with the familiarity of experience and tugged forth a large, old-fashioned revolver. Cromwell released the bookseller and took the weapon from the workman before he realised that it had gone.

  " 'Ere, 'ere. . . ."

  "Police."

  "I thought so. . . . Good job I got paid in advance.

  Expect he's in for a stretch now."

  Gamaliel had flung himself exhausted in his armchair. He'd had an awful morning and didn't feel well.

  "I haven't done any harm. . . . "

  "What have you got this for? People don't go about with loaded revolvers if they don't mean harm."

  "That they don't," said the painter. "I thought that when I see 'im with it. . . ."

  Mr. Gamaliel raised a livid face.

  "You get out! Go and get on with your painting."

  The painter patiently shrugged his shoulders.

  "No business o' mine, except I want pay in advance for my work. . . ."

  "Clear out. . . ."

  "Well, Mr. Gamaliel; I'm waiting for what you've got to say. What's this gun for?"

  "My own protection. . . . I'm afraid. I'm in terror for my life."

  "You'll have to do better than that, sir, if I'm not to take you along with me for illegally carrying arms."

  "It's not illegal. I've got a permit. I carry large sums after sales sometimes. It's true. I'm afraid of Lysander Oates. He said he'd kill me. . . . He's out to get me, I know he is."

  The bookseller was almost on his knees begging to be believed.

  "Why should he want to kill you?"

  Cromwell couldn't keep the contempt from his voice. The fat man was beside himself with cowardly fear. His words wouldn't flow. He opened his mouth but nothing came.

  Cromwell bent, seized him by the lapels of his coat and shook him.

  "What were you blackmailing him about?"

  "I wasn't . . . I didn't. . . . "

  "Come on; let's have it."

  "I didn't blackmail him. He owed me money. I asked him for it. He said he'd see I got it and then he never came near for weeks. I went to inquire at his rooms. His landlady told me he never showed up till late at night and went off good and early in the morning. I got up early myself one day, anxious to catch him and get my money. Then I got curious what he was doing so mysteriously and I followed him. He booked a ticket to Netherby. I was just behind him, next but one in the workmen's queue at the ticket office, with a man between him and me. I gave it up t
here. Two nights later he came with the money. I just casually asked if he'd been to his brother's for it. . . . My God! . . ."

  Gamaliel was shuddering at the thought of it. He took a bottle from the shelf over the fireplace and drank from it. The air grew heavy with brandy fumes.

  "Well?"

  "He went mad. . . . Tried to choke me. 'I'll kill you for this,' he said. 'You've followed me. What do you know?' I said, 'Nothing; I only happened to be on the station at the booking office . . . !' What could I say? Luckily for me, the policeman on the beat here tries the door about eleven each night and just then he called and found it loose. He put his head in. I made an excuse to get him to stay. I said I had a book which would interest him about the police. Oates cleared off and so did I as the officer left. I stayed in an hotel near St. James's that night. I was terrified. . . . Next day I kept away. Then, I rang up Oates's landlady. She said he'd gone abroad. With that I came back, but I got a revolver. . . . A friend of mine lent it me. . . ."

  "I guess you were blackmailing him about something, though . . ."

  But Mr. Gamaliel wasn't listening. Overcome by fear and emotion he had collapsed.

  5

  BRANCH BANK IN PIMLICO

  THE Home Counties Bank branch in Pimlico hadn't been open very long and the young, alert manager greeted Littlejohn eagerly. He thought he'd called to open an account. His smile assumed an air of bitter resignation when he heard the Inspector had called on police business.

  "We've only been open three years and naturally we get a lot of ragtag and bobtail until we get used to the locality. Is it about another dud cheque?"

  "Not exactly. I understand that Lysander Oates banks with you, sir. . . . "

  The manager was a bright young fellow of about forty with a fresh complexion, blue eyes and a small moustache. The eyes lit up. Here was something big! He told his second in command, a stocky youth with a heavy handlebar moustache, that he wasn't to be disturbed and led Littlejohn into his private room, the furniture and light green carpet of which had not yet lost their bloom of newness.

  "I'm glad you've called. It seems Mr. Oates has disappeared. The police and Silvesters' Bank at Rodley have been interested in him, too. What can I do to help . . . ? "

  A callow junior tapped on the door and entered with two cups of tea.

  "First of all, sir, what kind of an account did he keep?"

  The young manager looked cautiously over the rim of his teacup.

  "I know your dealings with customers are very secret, but this is important. Finloe Oates, Lysander's brother, has been murdered and Lysander has vanished. There's a question of the spiriting away of Finloe's funds—quite a small fortune—and we want to know if Lysander had any hand in it."

  The manager, Mr. Donald Macgreggor, carefully laid his empty cup in his saucer. He came from a line of cautious Scots and you could see his mind working as he carefully pondered what was the right thing to do.

  "Yes," he said quickly, at last. "Yes; I think he did have a hand in it. But let this be understood, sir, if you please: anything I tell you will be kept strictly confidential by you, personally, and if you want to make it public, you'll give me the proper legal protection of the courts. . . ."

  A bright young chap, thought Littlejohn. He'll go far. He was right . . . but that doesn't concern us here.

  "I agree, sir. First, did Lysander Oates pay in to his credit, at intervals, three drafts drawn by Silvesters' Bank on their London office?"

  "Yes, he did. They were payable to his brother. I remember them well. Naturally, I asked him what it was all about. We need to be careful. . . . The drafts were payable to Finloe Oates, endorsed by him, and thus, technically, payable to bearer, which enabled us to credit them to Lysander's account. He was a decent client, you know. Perfectly straight and above board, with a good balance of his own always here. We took the drafts for his credit."

  "What was the amount in all, sir?"

  "Just a minute. . . ."

  The manager went to get the ledger himself.

  "Let me see. . . . Seven thousand in all . . . paid in in three instalments. Then, there was another credit for three thousand pounds later. That was paid in by post. . . ."

  "Ten thousand in all. . . ."

  "Yes; and all withdrawn in one pound notes, in four batches."

  "Didn't he leave any balance?"

  "Three pounds. . . ."

  Mr. Macgreggor's face drooped. At one time it had looked like being a very nice account. Now . . .

  "Since then, there haven't been any transactions in the account."

  "Did he explain what it was all about?"

  "Yes. Naturally, when he called for three thousand in cash, O'Brien, the cashier, referred to me. Mr. Oates said he was buying property and wanted cash for the settlements. He got quite huffy when I suggested a bank draft. He said that at present, the economic situation was such that the pound wouldn't be worth much if prices kept rising, so he was putting his resources in land and buildings. During the next week he had two more withdrawals which cleaned him out except for a pound or two."

  "I'm sorry to say that it was his brother's money he was handling. The drafts were from sales of securities; the cheque for three thousand pounds from proceeds of a policy on Finloe's life. . . ."

  "Good Lord! You don't mean he killed his brother! What about the endorsements on the drafts and the cheque for three thousand pounds . . . ?"

  Poor Macgreggor knew the answer before it came. He turned as pale as death.

  "Forged, I'm sorry to say."

  "By Lysander?"

  "Yes, or so it seems."

  "But . . . Well, he was always such a straight chap. I know one has to be cautious about endorsements, but I never thought of him as a rogue."

  "Neither did any of us. He seems to have gone completely off his head."

  "But whatever am I going to do? The bank is liable for the forgeries. . . . We'll have to make it all good."

  "Silvesters' are faced with the same problem. The point now is for us to find whoever has the money. They can't have spent it all. If we can recover it, well and good. So, you'll help us all you can?"

  "Of course. . . . I'll have to report this, though. I'll get sacked. . . . "

  "Not if I can help it. Older and more experienced men than you have been taken in here, sir. We'll do what we can."

  Macgreggor was so distressed he could hardly bring his thoughts back to the problem in hand.

  "I'd better go up to Head Office and make a clean breast of it right away. . . . "

  "You say it was taken in pound notes?"

  "Yes. . . . "

  "Clean or soiled?"

  "Soiled. We hadn't all those clean available. He took twenty soiled bundles of five hundred, all told. I paid him myself. . . . I must be a fool!"

  "Rubbish! Everybody seems to have thought well of Oates. How long has he been out of touch with you? I mean, when did he make his last withdrawal?"

  The manager looked wanly at the ledger.

  "April 27th saw the last withdrawal, sir."

  "Don't take it so badly. You're not alone in this, you know. There's murder involved and besides, the drafts you took for credit had been issued by the bank in Rodley against forged cheques. . . ."

  Mr. Macgreggor raised his eyes to heaven.

  "What a hell of a mess. . . . And just as I was getting along nicely in my job. Anything else you want to know?"

  "Do you know a man named Gamaliel?"

  "The bookseller, you mean? Yes. I hope he's not another, because I could understand it if he went the wrong way."

  "Why?"

  "Fishy. Decidedly fishy."

  "In what way?"

  "He nearly got gaol for a phoney picture deal. Passed a fake off as a modern master. He got a smart lawyer and they brought it off as a mistake. But he was lucky."

  "He keeps an account here?"

  "Yes."

  The manager started to look cautious again.

  "A good on
e?"

  "On and off. He was in very low water at one time. Then he got friendly with Lysander Oates. In fact, Oates introduced him here. I guess his previous bankers turned him out. I'd a bit of trouble with him at the start. Drawing cheques when he wasn't in funds."

  "And then?"

  "He borrowed from Oates, or I assumed he did."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Oates drew out several sums of money and, later, Gamaliel paid part of it back in his own account. I recognised the notes. Looks as if he'd been borrowing."

  "Or something else."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Blackmail, perhaps. Or, more likely still, Oates was in the phoney modern masters racket. He painted them and Gamaliel sold them and they shared the spoils. Oates must have insisted on doing the share-out himself."

  "Wait a minute; perhaps the ledger . . ."

  Macgreggor turned over the pages and then went in the office for the previous ledger.

  "Yes. There's a cheque paid in to Oates's credit for three hundred. Then, two days later, Gamaliel got a hundred from Oates and paid it to his own credit. Six months later, there's a similar set of deals. . . . Looks as if you're right, Inspector."

  "Now, can you tell me, in confidence, if Gamaliel has paid in any large sums lately . . . sums which might have been parts of Finloe Oates's money?"

  "No. Last April he drew three hundred from somewhere in cash and paid it in. Since then, he's been drawing out. This lot won't last much longer now that Lysander's gone."

  "Had you any reason for thinking Lysander Oates was going abroad, sir?"

  "Bolting? I haven't a clue."

  "He didn't ask you to get permission for him to move funds abroad or even obtain an allocation of currency for foreign travel?"

  "No. Let's confirm that with O'Brien."

  Mr. Macgreggor went to the door and called his subordinate, who arrived with great speed and glanced closely at his chief. It was evident he'd noticed how disturbed the manager looked and he began to be distressed himself, for he was fond of Macgreggor.