Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "That could be it. . . ."

  "It fits. Finloe's dead; so is Lysander. Hunt is in gaol and has a double alibi. I couldn't imagine his killing Lysander in any case. He's too soft and fastidious. Poisoning his quarry's wine or smothering him in his sleep—the woman's way—yes; beating his brains in and then carrying him to a pit shaft and dumping the body down it; no. I thought I might have got a lead from the passenger list on the Manx 'planes, but it's blank at Northolt. Five passengers one day; four another; and six another. In all, seven of them were native Manx; four were women on holidays, including two nurses; two children, an American, and a Chinaman. Not a very fruitful lot for a killing. I'd better be off to try Speke, Liverpool, to-morrow. Finding check-cap will be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. He might have crossed by boat. In which case, it's a forlorn hope; no passenger list and a ship-ful of holiday makers. All the same, while there's life there's hope. Let's go and see what's really biting Gamaliel. . . ."

  The matron of Pimlico Hospital saw Littlejohn and Cromwell herself and she was very grave and embarrassed into the bargain.

  "I'm sorry to say Mr. Gamaliel died this afternoon. I've tried several times to get you and I left a message for you to come as soon as you could."

  "We didn't get it. We've been out all day and just called for a few minutes at the Yard. What's happened, Matron?"

  "I really can't understand it at all. You see, it was the grapes you sent him, Mr. Cromwell. He ate a few of them and then became appallingly ill. We did all we could, but it was too late. He died of strychnine poisoning in half an hour."

  Cromwell stood transfixed.

  "But I never sent him any grapes. Why should I?"

  "Just after lunch, a box was handed to the girl at the reception desk. A small boy brought it and said he'd just to leave it. He'd been sent by a man from Scotland Yard. There was a card of yours on it, Mr. Cromwell. . . . Here it is. . . . "

  The matron had collected the box, the string and paper in which it had been wrapped, the grapes, or what remained of them, and Cromwell's card, with "Good Luck" printed on it in capitals.

  "Where have they got that from?" he asked, holding the card by its edges. "I haven't handed one out for . . . Oh, yes. I gave one to Gamaliel. He must have left it there and the murderer broke in and got it."

  Littlejohn turned over the wrappings and the box. On the neat brown piece of paper was written in good block capitals: "Mr. Gamaliel, Pimlico Hospital."

  "No fingerprints, I guess, but we'll take these and try. Now, Matron, tell me how it happened, please."

  "The girl at the reception, it seems, sent up the box without more ado. The sister, knowing that Mr. Cromwell had visited Mr. Gamaliel, and seeing the card, naturally thought the fruit above suspicion. She gave Mr. Gamaliel half of the bunch. There was no harm in his eating them and he seemed happy and reassured by the thought that you'd remembered him. A quarter of an hour later, he became violently ill. We couldn't understand it. At first, we thought he'd had a fit. Then it became obvious he was suffering from poisoning. We did all we could, but it was too late. . . . He died without a word. The doctor will see you later if you like. He thinks the poison was injected hypodermically in some of the grapes. He's found some suspicious specimens in the bunch and they have them in the laboratory now. Would you care to go there?"

  "In just a minute, Matron. What about the man in the next bed . . . or whoever it is?"

  Cromwell awoke from his brooding.

  "There was a chirpy little Cockney there, I remember. I didn't see him, but heard his voice. There were screens round his bed, but he sounded quite all right. Would he know anything?"

  "Let us go and see."

  The matron led the two detectives to the ward Gamaliel had shared with six others. The sister joined them and together they made for where Gamaliel's bed had been. Already, there was another patient asleep in it. They were so busy at Pimlico. The bed was the last in a row and in the next one the same Cockney was lying, reading with the help of a bedlight. He seemed surprised to have visitors at that hour.

  "Pity about Gamaliel, as he was called," he said after they had greeted him. "Awful nervous. . . . Tossing and crying in his sleep. Now, he's got 'is long rest, God 'elp 'im. It was awful while it lasted. I'd got a ringside seat, as you might say. I'll never get 'is face out of my mind. When he found out he'd been done for . . .!"

  "Did he say anything?"

  "Not a word. Gave up the ghost straight away. As though what he'd expected had caught up with him."

  Cromwell approached the bed.

  "How are you, chum? You seemed pretty bad when last I was here. Screens round your bed . . . "

  "I wasn't so bad as all that, really. Just been through an operation that . . . well . . . caused a bit of embarrassment. Get me? Sister was very good. We'll make you private, she said, didn't you, Sister? And with that round comes the screens and I've a snug little cosy corner of me own till the part that makes you blush is over. I remember you comin', sir. You was the only visitor that poor cove had from comin' in till the time he pushed off."

  "I heard you talking, too. You have plenty of visitors?"

  "Can't say I'm short of 'em. Wife and grown-up family of six. Never a dull minute, eh, Sister?"

  The sister smiled at him.

  "I'd a parson with me when you called, sir!"

  "Your own vicar?"

  "No. Sort o' haven't any vicar of me own now. No private and personal chaplain, so to speak. We sort of got out of it after the old rector of St. Mark's died. The one as married me and my missus and christened the kids. No, I never saw this one before. He crept round the screens, all quiet and meek, like, and asked how I was. Seemed attracted by your conversation, sir, as if he knew your voice."

  "Perhaps he did. What did he look like?"

  "Timid chap. Spoke as if he'd got a sore throat, high-pitched, like. Knelt down, and said a silent prayer to his-self for me. Lasted pretty long, too. All the time you were talking, nearly. Then he got up, said God bless, peeped round the screens and tiptoed out."

  "Did you see this fellow, Sister?"

  "No. He'd no business coming in like that, especially behind screens without a nurse. Just a moment. I'll inquire. I'll look at the rota on ward duty and ask the girls."

  Nobody had seen the little parson. It was admitted that he wouldn't have had much difficulty getting past the doors. Parsons were always coming and going, but they hadn't the run of the wards, of course; and to insinuate themselves behind screens round the beds was quite unheard of.

  "Had he a clerical collar?" asked Littlejohn.

  "Yes; but come to think of it, a queer-looking one. I recollect it looked like an ordinary one turned back to front."

  "Anything else peculiar?"

  Littlejohn and Cromwell knew the answer before it came.

  "Yes. He said he felt he just had to call and see us all, especially blokes like me, isolated and not able to see what was goin' on around. He'd been the same. Just come out of hospital himself after an eye operation. He wore dark glasses."

  14

  THE ANXIOUS PASSENGER

  MR. PIPE, the Cockney patient at Pimlico Hospital, hadn't been very helpful in giving a description of the clergyman in blue glasses. All he knew was that his collar looked queer, he was on the small side with a thin body and face, and his hair was plentifully plastered with sticky stuff like vaseline. He confessed that the smoked glasses had fascinated him and he hadn't taken particular heed of other features; especially when, for the most part, the clergyman had been kneeling by the bed with his face in his hands.

  "Whoever he was," said Cromwell as the two detectives made their way to Gamaliel's shop in Risk Street, "he'd got scared. He even took the risk of following me right to Gamaliel's bedside to listen in and see if Gamaliel was betraying him. There must have been something between them and the chap in smoked glasses couldn't let Gamaliel live to tell us what it was. . . ."

  There had been a key among the dead
bookseller's personal effects in the hospital and they descended to the basement and let themselves in. The first thing to greet them was the frantic cat which, in his haste, Gamaliel had forgotten to put out when he fled. It had been imprisoned several days and bolted before the newcomers and sought refuge in a side alley.

  The place smelled damp and musty, there was even a trace of leaking sewers on the air. And, of course, cats! Outside, the walls looked camouflaged, for the painter, finding the owner gone, had left his job half-done, and departed to another where his bill was more certain to be met.

  Nothing had been disturbed; the dirty dishes from Gamaliel's last meal, still on the table; a half bottle of milk gone sour; a catalogue or two propped against a teapot; and a part of a pork pie now in a high state of decomposition.

  The place had been locked; the windows were fastened and intact; only Cromwell's card which the sergeant remembered the bookseller had stuck in a letter rack on the wall and which was still there when last he called, had gone.

  "Somebody's been here, very quietly, since Gamaliel went in hospital. Perhaps my card gave him an idea. . . . "

  "He must have had a key, Cromwell. There's no sign of breaking in. . . ."

  "What about the painter you mentioned? Would he be likely to have one?"

  The question was suddenly answered by the appearance of the melancholy housepainter himself. First his trousers appeared descending the cellar steps; then his white coat; and lastly, his sad face with its drooping moustache. His cheeks were spotted with green, like the symptoms of a mysterious disease.

  "Hey!" he shouted and hurried towards them, as though they might be preparing to bolt at the sight of him. "Hey! I hear Gamaliel's dead. 'Oo's goin' to pay me the three pounds 'e owes me?"

  "How should I know?" snapped Cromwell. They were in the middle of a very baffling case and here was this spotted intruder hunting for his blooming three quid! "You'll have to find his executors. I'm not giving it you. But we want you. Were you here the day before Gamaliel went to hospital?"

  The painter sniffed and helped himself to a half empty packet of cigarettes left by Gamaliel. He caught Cromwell's bellicose eye and decided to content himself with a single one of its contents, which he lit and almost set his whiskers on fire in the effort.

  "Yes, I was. I did three quids' worth of work . . ."

  "Never mind your three quid. As far as I could see, you watched all that went on in this place . . ."

  "Look 'ere . . ."

  "Don't trouble to deny it. You know you did. Now throw your mind back to Gamaliel's last day here. . . . "

  You could see the painter throwing it back. Littlejohn smiled to himself and said nothing. It was a treat watching Cromwell handling London characters, his speciality.

  "Did anything particular happen?"

  "I did three pounds' worth of paintin' on tick . . ."

  "Cheese it! Something more important than that . . ."

  "You mean customers?"

  "Anybody."

  "The usual lot arrived. I never understood how Gamaliel made any money. Most of 'em seemed to come for a free read. Now an' then, somebody'd buy a book, but not offen. Let me see. . . . Yes . . . a chap in a cap an' glasses arrived. 'E pretended to be lookin' at books till the shop was empty, then he goes up to Gamaliel and they start talkin'. Gamaliel got excited, as 'e always did when money or such was mentioned. They looked like a pair o' plotters, specially the chap in the cap. . . ."

  "Smoked glasses?"

  "Yes. . . . How do you know?"

  "Go on. . . ."

  "'E seemed to be askin' Gamaliel a lot of questions and Gamaliel gettin' crosser and crosser and flappin' 'is 'ands, like he usedter. . . . It was about eleven and I was wantin' my tea. I come down the steps and they ups and looks daggers at me. 'Wot you want?' sez Gamaliel. 'Me tea water,' I sez. With that the chap in the specs decides to be off. 'E bends 'is head, so I can't see 'im proper. . . . I'll bet 'e was a Communist. Always thought that Gamaliel was up to no good. Only Communists could paint some of the pictures 'e hung on these walls. Look at 'em. . . ."

  With a paint-stained hand he metaphorically swept away a row of framed lines, blobs, splashes and fantastic washes masquerading as works of art. One of them had a cigarette-end gummed to it as part of the contents of an ash-tray.

  "Did you overhear anything they said?"

  "Yuss. I got good 'earin'. The chap in the cap whispers 'One word about this and you're for it. You know what I mean. An' out you go from 'ere, bag and baggage . . .' remember that because I'd just done three pounds of painting without seein' me money, and I thought 'another county court summons brewin'.'"

  "How did Gamaliel take it?"

  "Not so good. He took queer an' pale, 'ad a good drink from 'is bottle and told me to go to 'ell and take me tea with me."

  "Well, if I get to know the names of the exors. I'll let you know . . . "

  "You won't get to know, just because 'e owed me money. Just my luck. . . . "

  On the way back to the Yard they called at Lysander Oates's old rooms.

  "Hello, sir," said Mrs. Kewley. Littlejohn was evidently one of her favourites.

  "Hello, Mrs. Kewley. I'm here bothering you again. How's the granddaughter by the way?"

  "Fine, sir. An' they say she's just like me, the little love. What was you wantin', sir?"

  "Did anyone call here inquiring about Mr. Oates before I called, but after he left?"

  "One or two people. I forgot to mention it when last you was 'ere. I was that bothered about the baby comin'. That Mr. Gamaliel called to ask where 'e was, but I couldn't tell 'im anythin'. Oh, yes, an' another little fellow came, too. It seems Mr. Oates had done 'im a bit of work an' he wanted to pay 'im. When he heard he'd left, 'e got interested in Mr. Oates's rooms. He wouldn't take No, even when I said they was let, or as good as. We always 'ave a waitin' list for these rooms. He asked if I'd let 'im see the rooms, just in case. . . . Offered me ten shillin's. . . . So I took 'im up."

  "What kind of a man, Mrs. Kewley?"

  Littlejohn knew the answer.

  Mrs. Kewley who had been peeling potatoes, dried her hands as though the answer demanded all her attention. She brushed a wisp of hair back from her face.

  " 'E said his eyes was very bad. Wore sun glasses. But 'e didn't miss much, I can tell you. He spotted that picture you borrowed. . . . You'll let me 'ave it back, I'm sure, when you've done with it. . . ."

  "Certainly. You may depend on me. . . ."

  "He asked where that was. I told 'im, Isle o' Man, a favourite spot of Mr. Oates's. 'What part?' 'e sez. I couldn't tell 'im. An' with that, he takes out a pencil and sketches it on the back of an envelope. . . . "

  There was little more to ask. Littlejohn gave Mrs. Kewley a ten shilling note.

  "Buy the baby something, Mrs. Kewley. . . ."

  And he left her calling down blessings on his head.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell parted at Victoria, the Inspector to take a taxi for Euston and Liverpool; his colleague to pick up some fingerprint men and visit Gamaliel's shop again.

  At Lime Street Station, Liverpool, Littlejohn joined a party leaving for the Lingus 'plane for Dublin and got a free ride to Speke Airport. The officials there were very helpful and efficient. They produced the schedules of bookings on the day before Oates's death. It was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. There were scores of names. He decided on another tack.

  "Who would be likely to see each passenger on these trips? We'd better try two days before, and the actual date."

  The official wasn't perturbed.

  "The officers at the ticket bureau will be best. I'll get them along when they've finished weighing-in for the Dublin 'plane, though I can't swear the same men were on duty then. . . . "

  Two polite, good-looking young men in blue uniforms eventually arrived and apologised for being so long.

  "We're busy, you see, sir," said the taller and better-looking one.

  Littlejohn gave as good a descr
iption as he could of the mysterious man in blue glasses. The smaller officer spoke without hesitation.

  "Yes. . . . I recollect him. Let's look at the schedules, sir."

  He ran a finger down the names.

  "Here he is. . . ."

  Mr. J. F. Curtin.

  "He didn't arrive by the airport 'bus, I remember. He suddenly appeared, asked for the phone in a squeaky voice, and went off to telephone. He kept himself away from the rest of the crowd for the 'plane, right until they'd all gone to join it. The hostess had to hustle him. He looked a bit anxious. In fact, that's how I remembered him. We get a few queer cards here, with havin' the 'planes from Eire coming and going. Smugglers, even fugitives from justice sometimes. He looked like a fugitive, right enough. With his glasses and his cap pulled down. All the same, we'd nothing on him. . . ."

  "His ticket was for Ronaldsway Airport?"

  "Yes. . . ."

  "May I see the schedule again, please?"

  It had been the last 'plane of the day before Oates died.

  "Did this fellow have a ticket?"

  "Yes; he booked at London Office. . . ."

  "Ah. . . ."

  "The last seat we had, too. There was a football team crossing, so it made things a bit awkward."

  "Could I have a word with London from here?"

  "Certainly. Just excuse me, I'll put a call through."

  They turned up their records at London and luckily the booking clerk who had made the reservation in question was in the office.

  "Do you remember a passenger . . . J. F. Curtin . . . on the last 'plane on the date I gave you? A little fellow in dark glasses. . . ."

  "We get so many," answered a robust voice, "but, as luck will have it, I do remember him. We'd quite an argument. I told him before I phoned for his seat that he'd be lucky to get a place on the 'plane. I recommended he went from Northolt, where passengers weren't so heavy. He didn't want that. He was a bad passenger in the air. So, I told him that if he missed his chance at Speke he could always get the boat next morning. I was trying to be helpful, but he took it wrong. 'Never !' he said. 'I'm a worse sailor than a flyer. I'd die of mal-de-mer. . . .' However, we got the last seat. Someone had given it up through illness. . . ."