Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "I'll see to it, sir. Here's my key. . . ."

  Littlejohn caught the 'plane to the Isle of Man just after one o'clock from Northolt. The picture was wrapped up under his arm. He hadn't the faintest notion where to start looking for the scene, but he intended to find out as quickly as possible. He wanted to be back that night if it could be managed. Hunt's deliberate lie about the place being in Wales, when all the time he must have known it was Manx, had roused the Inspector's curiosity. Suppose Lysander Oates had made his hideout there. He seemed fond of it and it was the last spot anybody would think of going to, to find him. By a pure stroke of luck, Oates had forgotten the water-colour behind the wardrobe and Mrs. Kewley had remembered where the scene was. And then Hunt had played the fool with him. . . .

  Sitting next to Littlejohn in the Dakota was a ruddy-cheeked, stocky little man reading a copy of the Isle of Man Times.

  "Excuse me, sir. I've a picture here with me. I wonder if you could tell me where the scene was painted. I believe it's somewhere on the Island."

  The man looked at him over the top of his rimless spectacles and smiled a slow, kindly smile.

  "Are you an artist, then? Plenty of lovely places on the Island. . . . Let me see it?"

  He took it in his hands and eyed it over. Then he turned it upside down as if that might help him. He shook his head.

  "No. . . . I can't say I know it. So many places like that on the little island. Gorse and hills. . . . No. . . ."

  Slow and musical of speech and full of courtesy.

  "But I'll tell you who will know. See the parson in front there? That's the Reverend Caesar Kinrade, Vicar of Grenaby, a man who knows the Island like the palm of his hand. He'll tell you, sure enough. Walk along and tell I sent ye. I'm not coming with you; I don't approve of walking in mid-air."

  The Rev. Caesar Kinrade was dozing and it seemed a shame to wake him. He was very old and his features were lost in a froth of lovely white whiskers. He opened one blue eye and fixed it on Littlejohn and then opened the other.

  "Well, and what might you be wanting, disturbin' an old man's nap a thousand feet up? Sit down. . . ."

  There was a vacant seat beside the good man and Littlejohn took it. He opened his picture again.

  "Snuff the Wind," said the Rev. Caesar, without hesitation.

  "I beg your pardon, sir. . . . "

  "The place is called Snuff the Wind. . . . See the road there, the old mine chimney, and the Wesleyan Chapel that somebody made into a cottage. Are you sellin' pictures, or what is this all about?"

  "I'm a police officer, sir. . . . "

  The thick white eyebrows rose, revealing more than ever the bright blue eyes.

  ". . . I'm searching for a man who disappeared from London, sir. This is a mere clue, which might reveal his whereabouts. Can you tell me where I can find the place?"

  "It lies to the west of Granite Mountain, not very far from my home. I'd take you there, if you wanted to go, but I'm a tired old man in middlin' health and I've been to a conference and I want to get home to my bed. But Teddy Looney will be meetin' me at the airport in his old taxi and can take you on after he's dropped me, if you're so minded."

  "I'd be very grateful indeed, sir, if that could be arranged."

  "I'll be seeing you when we land, then. Excuse me if I finish my sleep. I don't like this new way of travel, except that it prevents staying the night in Liverpool for to-morrow's boat, and I can sleep in my own bed tonight. . . . "

  With that, the Rev. Caesar fell asleep again.

  They touched down at Ronaldsway at 15.20. The Rev. Caesar Kinrade joined Littlejohn and led him to where the oldest contraption he'd ever seen was waiting to take the parson home. It looked as if Teddy Looney used it for a hen-roost when he hadn't it on the road. The sun was shining and great white clouds threw enormous shadows across the gentle purple hills, decked in heather and flaming gorse.

  Teddy was a huge countryman with a round red face, blue eyes which looked right through you, and hands like hams. He touched his cap, which was decorated with cow-hairs, as though he'd been butting the cattle jovially as he milked them.

  "Welcome back, Reverend. . . . You keepin' pretty middlin'?"

  "Yes, thanks, Looney. And right glad to be home. . . . "

  The vicar turned to Littlejohn.

  "Believe it or not, this fellah's never been off the Island in his life. . . ."

  Teddy grinned broadly.

  "An' don't want to, either. Got all I want here. Don't hold with foreign travellin'. . . ."

  "Neither do I, Looney. Don't know why I keep going. And now, I want you to take me home and then run this gentleman out to Snuff the Wind. . . ."

  "Snuff the Wind? Doubt if the old bus'll do it. What's he wantin' there for? Not much to see there. . . . "

  "Was there ever such a man for an argument! Now, Teddy, do as you're told, ask no questions, and earn your money."

  "All right. If you say so, Reverend. . . ."

  They clambered in the old saloon, settled themselves on the hard seats, Teddy hoisted the parson's ancient Gladstone bag aboard beside him, and with a rattle and a shake, they were off.

  "I don't suppose I'll be seeing you again, Inspector. So good-bye and God bless you. . . ."

  Teddy carried the bag, shepherded the Rev. Caesar in the large old vicarage, and then resumed his journey with Littlejohn. They soon left the lowland farms behind, passed by deserted crofts and tumbledown houses on the intack lands, skirted vast tracts of peat, heather and blaeberry, all along an excellent road between high banks of turf, with gorse in full bloom crowning them. Then, round a corner, climbing all the time. More ruined houses of heavy stone, and, at length, an old chimney, slag heaps, mine-workings and a chapel.

  "Snuff the Wind," said Teddy Looney.

  "Do you live near here, Teddy?"

  "Grenaby, where Parson Kinrade lives. Are you reckoning on picnicking here, or gathering blaeberries, or what, master?"

  "I want to just have a look round and then perhaps you'll take me back. . . . "

  "You'll have to be quick then, master. It's milkin' time and nature won't wait for us. . . ."

  "Could you leave me and come back pretty soon, then?"

  "In about an hour and a half, if that'll do."

  "Yes; I forgot to ask what time the last 'plane leaves. . . ."

  "Eightish, to Liverpool. You'll not get on it without you've reserved a seat. The full season's on. . . . "

  "Can you ring up the airport, Teddy, from somewhere? Tell them it's for Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, on official business. Here's my card to remember it."

  Teddy was quite unimpressed. He took and pocketed the card without so much as a look at it. Foreigners and their ways didn't disturb him at all. He touched his cap and departed to his milking.

  Littlejohn stretched his legs, strolled around, and looked about him. On one side, the great mass of Granite Mountain with graceful hills rolling away on either side. Behind him the land sloped away to more fertile fields and beyond them was the sea, shining like silver in the sun of the late afternoon. He filled his lungs with the clean air, sharp with the freshness of the heights and scented with peat and gorse. A spout of clear water leapt from a hole in a wall and fell with a splash in a roadside brook. Littlejohn cupped his hands, drank, freshened himself by swilling his face, and dried himself on his handkerchief. On the heights it was still; down below an invisible train whistled and a little red bus came in sight and as suddenly vanished round a bend in the distant main road.

  The chapel was built just off the highway. It had evidently at one time, perhaps in the revival after Wesley's tour of the Isle, served the now ruined cottages of the crofters and a miner's house or two, in days when it paid to work the copper and lead lodes. Behind, the neglected mine, the slag heaps, the chimney, looked like the memorial to a forlorn venture.

  The chapel had been made into a country cottage by someone. It was in good repair, although some of the windows had be
en broken and were boarded up. The door was on the latch and opened to Littlejohn's pressure.

  Just one large room, recently whitewashed, with another door to a kind of little vestry, with a paraffin stove and a sink without taps or water supply. Water evidently came from the spout in the wall. The larger room was thinly furnished. A camp bed, a wooden chair, a seedy chest of drawers, and a canvas chair for lolling in. A pile of blankets neatly folded on the bed. Somebody had erected a stone hearth and chimney on one side. An oil lamp hung from a beam over a wooden table.

  Littlejohn strolled around. The cabinet held cups, saucers, cutlery, and a few tins of food. There was a pot of mouldy jam, a crust of bread, hard as iron, a bread knife and a corkscrew, a half-empty bottle of rum, some tea in a jar. . . . Other odds and ends, and, on the bottom shelf a rucksack . . . a knapsack, as Mrs. Kewley called it.

  Under the bed lay a suitcase. Littlejohn opened it. A few articles of clothing; socks, a change of underwear, a box of paints, some drawing paper and pencils. Then a book . . . The Compleat Angler, with the name Lysander Oates on the fly-leaf. Yes; this was where Oates had gone to ground. And then what? The appearance of everything pointed to Lysander having been scared and suddenly bolting without so much as taking a clean pair of socks or his precious painting tackle. The place had been tidied, so it might have been a sudden alarm . . . a visitor, some poking stranger, the police . . . Or perhaps Lysander had made this his bolt-hole until he could arrange things. By now, he might have crossed to Ireland.

  There was a folded paper on the otherwise bare table. The Daily Trumpet for April 29th. That must have been about the date of Lysander's departure, if he had departed. Obviously he hadn't been here for some time.

  Littlejohn turned to the fireless hearth. A lot of grey wood-ash, damp from rain coming down the chimney. On the hearth, a half-burned screw of paper. Gingerly Littlejohn opened it. He caught his breath. The note had been burned diagonally, but sufficient of it remained for the purpose.

  ander,

  Thanks for your strange message. I really don't

  you have taken yourself off to that god-

  join you there immediately. Term does

  am very concerned to finish it with

  urgently need help, I will come

  I will join you there at the end

  catch the post and I hope

  Something must have gone

  cry for help.

  ever,

  Hunt.

  The Inspector carefully folded the note as he had found it, took the copy of The Compleat Angler and gently placed it between the leaves, and in the large pocket of his raincoat. He turned over the rest of the dead fire, but found nothing more. Then he made for the kitchen and examined the cooking stove. No papers had been burned there, but the stones on which it stood attracted him. One of them had not been cemented-in like the rest. He returned for the bread-knife and prized the stone from its socket. There was a substantial little cavity beneath, evidently constructed by some former tenant for hiding money or other valuables. The old dodge of making the hearthstone one's strongbox. But this was quite empty, except for one tiny scrap of paper which Littlejohn spotted as he was about to replace the stone. A piece about an inch square, yellow, and bearing some words of print, part of a longer inscription.

  ME COUNT

  ICO BRA

  He thought for a minute. Home Counties Bank, Pimlico Branch! That was it!

  Suddenly footsteps sounded on the road, halting and shuffling, a pause, and then gently again. Littlejohn went to the vestry door and looked into the living-room. Through the open doorway a face was watching him, a tipsy-looking face, with many days' growth of bristles, many days' accumulation of dirt, rheumy-eyed from too much liquor. A tramp on the scrounge for what he could find.

  "Hi, you. . . ."

  "Me?"

  "Yes. Do you know this place?"

  "No. I'm from the north of the Island. Don't belong here. Came over for the haymakin'. Trying to raise me fare home to Dublin. Spare a copper, kind sorr. . . ."

  "You've never been here before?"

  "I said not, didn't I? I haven't . . ."

  "If you wanted to hide a body, what would you do with it in a place like this?"

  "I'd chuck it down the mine. . . . Here, what are you gettin' at?"

  "You seem to know all about the mine. When were you here last?"

  "End of April . . . Just passin' on the haymaking; going from the south to the north that toime. . . ."

  "Was anybody here, then?"

  "Yes. A fellah drawing water from the spoyt there. He gave me a bob. I knew I wasn't welcome, so I didn't ask for so much as a bite or a drink, though the good God blesses those as shares what they've got with the poor and needy ones. . . . "

  "That'll do. Is that all?"

  "What more should there be? And now can you spare a copper . . . ? Did you say a dead body?"

  It had just dawned on him! He looked at Littlejohn as if he had a corpse to dispose of and was asking for advice in doing it. With one wild whoop, he took to his heels and ran until his leaping figure vanished behind turf hedges in the distance.

  The mine! Yes; had Hunt been over, taken the money from the hiding-place under the stove, and thrown his friend's body down the shaft? Impossible to say, and the Inspector was in no position to go down the workings himself. Better wait till Teddy came back with his old rattletrap and send him off for help. But he hadn't to wait so long.

  The sound of vigorous singing was borne on the air, coming nearer and increasing in volume as it came.

  Victorious, my heart, yes, victorious!

  Away with our fears, away with our tears,

  In freedom more glorious love's bondman appears.

  More glo-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-ohorious,

  In freedom more glorious love's bondman appears!

  It was P.C. Maglashen, doing his rounds on a remote beat, pushing his bike and practising his piece for the forthcoming Manx musical festival. The singing faded, he halted, looked sheepish, and then glared officiously as he saw Littlejohn standing smiling at the door of the chapel.

  "The very man!"

  He looked anything but love's bondman. He was a very hot, portly, exasperated bobby, scenting trespass, theft, arson and the rest, and frustrated by being stopped in the middle of a romping bass run.

  "What you doing there?"

  When Littlejohn introduced himself and explained what he was after, the constable's chubby, clean-shaven face lengthened. He was not greatly impressed by Scotland Yard, but he was concerned that things had been going on over his territory. He solemnly propped his bike against the wall and entered the chapel, followed by Littlejohn.

  "It's been unoccupied for several weeks now, sir. It belongs to a man in Foxdale, who lets it for the summer, when he can find anybody who'll take it. Last year it was done up and let to a man from the mainland who said he was studying Celtic remains. Then, this spring there came another tenant."

  "Did you see him, constable?"

  "Yes. About end of April, he arrived. I saw him knocking around and spoke to him. But he didn't seem to want botherin'. . . . It was none o' my business to be sociable if he didn't want me, so I just passed the time o' day and went on. The weather was very bad and I don't see what he was wantin' here at that time of the year. He seemed decent enough. . . . "

  "What did he look like?"

  "Medium build, rather stocky, glasses and a bit of a beard. . . . "

  "Lysander Oates, right enough. Did he spend all his time here?"

  "Just went into Foxdale to shop a bit. They said he was an artist. Expect he was waitin' for better weather to be gettin' on with a bit of paintin'."

  P.C. Maglashen eyed the place all over, uncertain what to do next.

  "And then he went?"

  "Yes. Hadn't been here more than a few days. I guess the weather got on his nerves. One day when I passed, there was no smoke comin' from the chimney, so I popped my head in at the door. T
he hearth was cold and the place deserted. They don't bother locking-up in these parts and he must have just walked out. Though why he left all his things was a puzzle."

  "How deep is the mine-shaft here?"

  "You weren't thinking he'd tumbled down that, were you? He'd surely have more sense than messin' about there. Besides, what sense would there be in . . . ?"

  "How deep is it, constable?"

  "Not very. . . . Looks pretty deep and gloomy from the top, but that's on account of the blackness of the hole. Not more than twenty yards, if that. They dumped a lot of rusty barbed-wire and old respirators down it after the war."

  "Let's go and have a look."

  They crossed the moor for a short distance, struck across the slag, and there was the mine, a shaft descending through a heap of rubbish and protected by a rickety fence.

  "Some of the boys come walking out here and play about. No use fencin' it properly. They only break it down."

  Attempts had been made at one time to board the top of the shaft, but the timbers had rotted and fallen in. Now it was gaping wide. Plenty of footmarks all round where the boys had ventured close and peered down to see how far the shaft went.

  Littlejohn tossed a lump of shale down. A few seconds, and a thud.

  "There's water down there, too, though they do say not much."

  "I'm afraid someone will have to go down. I want to make sure before I go that Oates isn't at the bottom. . . ."

  "It's as bad as that, is it?"

  "Yes. That man had a small fortune with him. He fled from trouble on the mainland, came here with his cash and, I think, was followed by somebody who knew of the money. Now we've to find out whether he left peaceably or whether he was murdered and the fortune pinched."

  "Murder! I never remember a murder here since I've been in the force."

  "You are lucky. About one a day's my experience. Now what do you recommend?"

  "I'd better bike back to the village and get some tackle and men. . . ."

  But he was saved the trouble. Teddy Looney could be heard, miles away, flogging his old car up the hills, and soon he appeared, ruddy from his milking and eager to get back to his tea.