Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "We once investigated a murder where a dead dog came in. It had been poisoned by the same poison. . . . Here; let's get back and go through the list of local vets. I've got an idea."

  There were only three veterinary surgeons in Rodley and the third and most remote remembered a dog being brought for examination, post mortem.

  "I recollect it well. In fact, I think I've still got the report on my files. I'll look."

  He was a little bandy-legged man, dressed in riding breeches and hacking jacket. His hair was sandy and his eyes, too, with sandy eyebrows and eyelashes. He looked like a man with a great thirst and his complexion betrayed it. Behind the surgery stood a large building containing kennels and you could hear all the dogs yapping, barking and howling in misery.

  "Here it is. . . ."

  "May I borrow it? I'll see you get it back. How did it come to be done?"

  "I remember one night around late March a fellow . . . "

  "What did he look like?"

  "He kept on the doorstep in the dark while he talked, but I could see his spectacles and I think he wore a bit of a beard."

  "Right. Go on. . . ."

  "He had the dog in a sack. Not a pretty sight, I'll tell you. It had been buried once. He seemed a bit upset. Wanted a post-mortem. I said he'd have to leave it, and he did. He came the next night. . . ."

  "What about the results . . . ?"

  "I'm not much of an autopsy performer myself, but I'm lucky in having a pathologist friend from the local infirmary. He said, being as it was me, he'd come and do it. He took out the organs and examined them in-his own lab. His report said poisoning by a fair quantity of arsenic. To amuse himself, he went further than that. He told me the dog had eaten some pork pie as its last meal and that had probably contained the dose."

  "You passed that on to your client?"

  "Yes, and he nearly went off his head. He ground his teeth. 'The swine,' he said, 'I'll kill him for this.' I didn't make much of it or take it seriously. I thought perhaps the dog had been a nuisance to the neighbours and they'd doped a piece of pie and thrown it over the fence. O.K.?"

  "Yes, thanks. I'm very much obliged. . . ."

  It was late when Cromwell got back to the police station. There was a message there from Littlejohn saying he was getting the midnight back to London from Liverpool and would be glad if Cromwell would ring him at the Liverpool police office when he got in. The sergeant put through a call at once. Littlejohn told his colleague his story, and Cromwell told his. Montacute was surprised by a spate of exciting news. Lysander Oates had been found dead in the mine at Snuff the Wind, and evidence pointed to Theodore Hunt as the murderer.

  "And the Inspector says he wants you to consider exhuming the body of Mrs. Finloe Oates. Her dog was poisoned by arsenic and it looks as if it died through eating the remnants of a pie which her husband must have doctored to kill her. Lysander found the dog, dug it up, had it post-mortemed, and jumped to the same conclusion that I did. He must have taxed Finloe with it and Finloe died of shock or fright. The swine must have been paving the way for marrying Florrie Judson. . . ."

  11

  ARSENIC AND HANDWRITING

  DIGGING up a body is a horrible job, especially when there is little purpose except curiosity in it. The confirmation that Mrs. Oates had died from a dose of poison would really lead nowhere. It would simply settle the fact that her husband had poisoned her. But Finloe Oates was dead and past paying the price. Even Lysander, who was presumed to have found out the crime, and, in his fashion, avenged it, was not there to answer questions. He, too, was dead. All the same it had to be done. The necessary order was obtained to sanction the exhuming, which was performed by night. Nobody knew what was toward in Netherby churchyard, except P.C. Mee, three men from Rodley, one from the Home Office and the two Scotland Yard detectives. An old lady who lived near the churchyard rose at three in the morning for a dose of bicarbonate of soda, peeped through the curtains, saw lights cautiously bobbing among the tombstones, plunged back in bed, drew the clothes over her head and forgot her flatulence in her terror.

  The organs of poor, neglected Mrs. Oates—once so fair and the cause of strife among friends—revealed arsenic and plenty of it. The experts said there had been enough in the food to kill five more women. And that was that. It added another shocking chapter to the drama of the Oates family, and little else.

  Meanwhile, the handwriting experts at Scotland Yard had been busy, too. The writing on the note Littlejohn had found in the Isle of Man had to be established as that of Theodore Hunt beyond doubt. First, an authentic copy of the schoolmaster's handwriting was required. That was easier than they expected. Littlejohn telephoned to the Superintendent of Police at Bishop's Walton and asked for his help. The Superintendent laughed ironically. He had plenty of specimens. His son attended Dalbay Hall School and his copybooks were plentifully sprinkled with caustic samples of just the thing Scotland Yard were asking for. A special messenger arrived very promptly, bearing two grubby, ink-bespattered exercise-books with Superintendent Slatter's compliments. Both bore the stamp of Dalbay Hall, with a statement, in atrocious printing, that they were the property of Thomas J. Slatter, of Form IIIb, and then, in larger and more appalling lettering, "ALGEBRA" and "SCRIPTURE".

  The handwriting expert, who had boys of his own and was also skilled enough to do their homework for them when they couldn't do it themselves, had to be reminded by his colleagues that they weren't concerned with the Journeys of St. Paul and Quadratic Equations, but with Theodore Hunt's comments on them. There were many, for Mr. T. J. Slatter's average mark out of a possible twenty, was about three or four.

  "The chap at Bishop's Walton ought to blush at sendin' out stuff like this for others to see," said the calligraphist. "Ashamed of himself, too. My boys always get top marks. I see to it they do. . . ."

  They concentrated on two statements.

  "See me after class. You don't seem to know what you are doing at all. Disgraceful ! Do it all again."

  "St. Paul, as far as experts know, never set foot in Cornwall! Do you mean Corinth? Shocking work! See me later."

  Whatever young Slatter had suffered through quadratics and the wanderings of the apostle, he had elicited comments which settled once and for all that the note found at Snuff the Wind had been written by Hunt. This meant another trip north for Littlejohn, and a hasty one at that.

  It was late afternoon when Littlejohn arrived at Bishop's Walton and he thought it best to call at the police station, thank the Superintendent and enlist his help.

  "He's gone to Mr. Hunt's, sir," said the sergeant-in-charge. "There's been a fearful shindy there, sir, and they sent for him."

  The sergeant had made no overstatement; the house in Abbott's Walk was like bedlam when the Inspector arrived. Slatter and two constables were in the stately drawing-room, and between them, battered, dishevelled and hysterical with rage, was Hunt. His clothes were dirty and disarrayed and his face was blackened like that of a chimney-sweep.

  Littlejohn took Slatter aside and asked what it was all about. The Superintendent was very sheepish himself. A large, beefy countryman, he looked ready to explode.

  "I sent off the copybooks on the quiet, so that my son wouldn't know; but he found out, it seems. He must have seen me taking and addressing them. I did it at home. He says he read the address on my blotter. What does he do, but goes and tells it round the school. Hunt must have got to know and jumped to conclusions. He packed a bag and was going to run away. . . . I don't often take a, stick to my kids, but this time . . ."

  Slatter smacked his lips at the thought of the sufferings of Tom, junior.

  "But why all this commotion?"

  "His sister caught him packing and thought he was leaving her for good. She has outbreaks now and then, but this has beat the lot. She enticed him into the coal cellar some way and locked him down there till he promised not to go. Hunt tried to get out through the coal-hole in the alley. Good job one of my men was passing and hea
rd Miss Hunt screaming and saw Hunt emerging from underground. He sent for me just as I was in the middle of giving my lad what-for for letting me down. . . ."

  "Where is Miss Hunt?"

  "The doctor's been, given her a sedative, and put her to bed. She'll be all right. A lot of this is just playacting to get her own way, if you ask me."

  "I'd like a word with Hunt alone, if I may, but perhaps you'd better stay around, sir."

  "With pleasure. Have him all to yourself. I've had enough of him. This isn't the first time we've been here on similar errands. He can't control her when she has a bad bout. . . . "

  Hunt had quietened down. They'd given him brandy and he had recovered somewhat. After a wash and a change of clothes, he looked presentable again. Littlejohn had to tread warily, for the letter he had found in the Isle of Man had not altogether put a noose round the schoolmaster's neck. There were some features about it which required fuller explanation. The expert had said, for example, that under the microscope, it looked to have been burned systematically to suit somebody's purpose. At certain spots, the flame consuming it seemed to have been snuffed out by someone wearing gloves. But one thing of vital importance had been revealed. Whoever had written the letter had also forged the cheques and documents to Silvesters' Bank! And Hunt had written the letter !

  "What made you wish to run away, sir?"

  Hunt was sitting on the couch, as pale as death. His skin looked like parchment moulded on a skull. His pride and poise had gone and he knew there was a policeman standing on the other side of the door.

  "I didn't want to run away. It was my sister's impaired imagination. She suffers from bouts of illness and fancies things when the attacks come on. She locked me in the cellar as I was going for coal. . . ."

  Hunt was so sorry for himself and confused that he started to weep. Tears ran down his cheeks and he shook with hard, distressing sobs. Obviously he was at the end of his tether.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Hunt, but this won't do. I have a number of things I want you to explain, please. You need not answer my questions, and if you do, I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence. . . ."

  "Go on. Go on. . . . Give me full measure and overflowing. I've deserved it. My pride has brought me down again."

  It was growing dusk outside. The streets were quiet and a lamplighter—quaint survival—paused to light a gas-lamp at the corner. Slowly, Hunt crossed the room and switched on the lights in a beautiful lustre chandelier.

  "Well?"

  "Please look at this, sir."

  Littlejohn took the partly burned letter from his pocket and spread it on a small table.

  "Where did you get that? I sent it to . . ."

  He stopped suddenly, his eyes vacant, the truth dawning on him.

  "Have you been to the Isle of Man?"

  "Yes. I found there the dead body of your friend Lysander Oates. He'd been murdered."

  Hunt looked dumbfounded and then a sudden burst of energy, which he didn't know how to dissipate, seized him. He ran to the window, looked through it, as though contemplating another dash for freedom, cooled his forehead on the pane for a second, and then turned and ran back to Littlejohn with little prancing steps.

  "I didn't do it. I didn't. . . . I never went to the Isle of Man. . . . I told him so. . . ."

  He seized the lapels of Littlejohn's jacket and shook the Inspector in a frenzy of strength.

  "Control yourself. This letter implies that Oates asked you to join him there and you said you would. . . ."

  "I didn't. . . . I did not. . . . It's been burned to make it look as if I'd gone. . . . Somebody's been trying to hang me. . . . But I won't stand for it. . . . "

  He took hold of Littlejohn and shook him again.

  "If you don't calm down, I'll take you and lock you up for the night. Now, sir! Explain what you mean."

  There must have been a streak of madness in Theodore Hunt as well as in his sister. From rage he turned to suavity, as if about to convince Littlejohn once and for all.

  "Allow me to disabuse your mind. . . . "

  Just as he might have done a class at school! You could almost see him gather his teaching gown round him in a pose of scholarship. He opened a drawer in the bureau and took a sheet of paper.

  "Follow me closely. . . . "

  Hunt placed the burned document on top of the plain sheet and, after a brief pause, started to write. His pen flew across the paper, piecing new words to those of the letter, restoring those destroyed by fire.

  "There!"

  A shout of triumph ! The constable put his head round the door.

  "All right, sir?"

  "Yes, thanks. . . ."

  Littlejohn didn't even raise his head. He was so engrossed and fascinated by what Hunt had done.

  Dear Lysander,

  Thanks for your strange message. I really don't understand why you have taken yourself off to that godforsaken spot. I cannot join you there immediately. Term does not end yet and I am very concerned to finish it with dignity. Nevertheless, if you urgently need help, I will come as soon as possible. I will join you there at the end of May. I write this in haste to catch the post and I hope you will not mind the delay. Something must have gone sadly awry to call forth such a cry for help.

  Best wishes,

  Yours as ever,

  Theo. Hunt.

  "Well?"

  Hunt was triumphant. He even smiled, forgetting his troubles.

  "Very ingenious, sir, but not convincing enough. What made you write it?"

  Hunt sobered down. He was beginning to realise that his position was dangerous. He grew excited again.

  "I know you won't believe me. It all sounds absolutely fantastic. But I swear it's the truth. On the memory of my mother, I swear it. Oates telephoned me from the Isle of Man. He said he was in terrible trouble, and would I go there at once?"

  "But couldn't you answer him by 'phone at the same time?"

  "That's just it! I know you won't believe me. But you must. What am I to do, if you don't? You'll think I killed Lysander myself and I didn't. I swear . . ."

  "You wrote instead of answering by 'phone. Did you want time to think it over?"

  "No. Oates spoke to me. The line was terrible and I could only just make out what he was saying. Even then, I guessed some of it. He asked me to go to him without delay. Life and death, he said. I started to argue. 'I can't hear you,' he said. I got in the end shouting so loud that people in the street looked in at the window. Still he couldn't hear. It must have been the under-sea cable went wrong. In the end, he said, 'I can't hear a word of what you say. Write to me to-night and say when and how you're coming.' He ought to have known I couldn't just pack up and go right in term. I wrote at once. I felt very annoyed. . . . "

  "And you wrote in the terms of the letter you have just reconstructed?"

  "Absolutely. Someone has burned it to incriminate me.

  "You say the telephone call came from Oates in the Isle of Man?"

  "Certainly. He was there. Where else should he ring from?"

  Littlejohn went to the door and called in the constable.

  "You have a local telephone exchange in Bishop's Walton?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Please go there now and trace this call. Ask where it came from and what was the state of the line at the time."

  The Inspector jotted down the time and date of the incoming call mentioned by Hunt.

  "And now, Mr. Hunt. There was a picture of the Isle of Man hanging on the wall there last time I called. Why has it been removed?"

  "Really, Inspector. I know you have certain powers, but surely not those of demanding details of how and why I choose to arrange the furniture of my home. One tires of pictures, you know. One likes a change, now and then."

  "I suggest the change was due to your fear of the exact spot in the island shown on that picture being discovered. You told me it was in Wales."

  "Did I? I must have been dreaming. I too
k it down for a change. . . . "

  "That won't do, sir. I must warn you that unless you tell me the truth about your relations and your dealings with Lysander Oates, you run a serious risk of being charged with his murder."

  Hunt's eyes glazed and he struggled again to keep his self-control.

  "This is ridiculous ! He was my friend. Why should I kill him?"

  "For the fortune in his possession. The fortune you helped him to get by forgery!"

  "This is fantastic! Murder! Forgery! What next?"

  "I do not need to tell you, sir, that Lysander Oates appropriated all his dead brother's means by forging documents during the time he kept his death secret. He sold all his investments and drew his balance from the bank by documents which you helped him to forge."

  "Utter nonsense ! Utter rot! Have you gone mad?"

  "Very well, sir. You will be taken to the police station and there charged with the murder of Lysander Oates and with the forgery I've mentioned. We have proof of your guilt there, too. We have tested your handwriting. . . ."

  Hunt suddenly made a wild spring at Littlejohn, like a savage animal at bay. The Inspector stretched out a long arm and held him off, whilst Hunt clawed and flailed the air trying to grip him by the throat. Littlejohn seized him by both arms, lifted him bodily and sat him down hard on the couch.

  "Now behave yourself, or I'll handcuff you. For the last time, do you wish to tell me the truth, or do I call the constable and have you arrested?"

  Hunt sat there, panting and twisting his lips. He couldn't keep still; shuffling, waving his arms, flexing his legs.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "About the forgery, first."

  Hunt was on his feet again, walking up and down, halting, turning on his heel, gesticulating.

  "I did what a real friend would do. I helped Oates right a wrong, that's all."

  "How?"

  Up and down, up and down. Hunt paced the carpet with little prancing steps, recovering his control as he related his ethical venture into crime.

  "Lysander quarrelled one night with Finloe about the way he'd treated his wife. . . . I didn't go into the full details. I hate sordid domestic squabbles. I was too amazed, too, at what Lysander asked of me. In the course of the quarrel, Finloe dropped dead. Lysander came to see me all the way from London. He was in a terrible state. Would I help him?"