Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "So it all ties up. . . ."

  "Theoretically, yes. But we've to find a motive. A real motive. Not just that Hazlett wanted the money. Why did he want it; and why did he want it so badly as to strew the way to it with a lot of crimes?"

  "He's a lawyer. Perhaps he's been fiddling his trust monies. That's what seems to turn all good lawyers bad, sir."

  "We've also to find out the train of events leading up to this crime epidemic. For instance, how did Hazlett know about Finloe's death and Lysander's tricks; about Hunt and his share in it; and how came he to be connected with Gamaliel?"

  "I might have a quiet look around his office and the staff there. Perhaps we might get a crumb or two of information . . . ?"

  "Do that after breakfast. I don't need to tell you how. Meantime, I'll try to get some more background about Gamaliel and Lysander."

  "Hadn't we better put a man on keeping an eye on Hazlett? That fellow seems to have eyes in the back of his head. If he finds out we're on his trail . . ."

  "Right. But don't let him smell a rat, that's all. If he knows we're after him, as you say, he'll bolt . . ."

  "He'll wriggle out of it, if he can. For sheer getting out of trouble, give me a shady lawyer any day."

  At Scotland Yard, although it was only eight o'clock, some startling news was awaiting them. The Bishop's Walton police had telephoned to say that Theodore Hunt was dead. Fairclough had been arrested on suspicion of murdering him, for the man's head had been battered in by a stick or other heavy object. A Mr. Stroud, Mr. Hubert Stroud, had found the body and was calling in the Yard with a full account of it all. Meanwhile, the police were investigating the affair and would report later, inasmuch as it was connected with the Oates murders. In fact, Theodore Hunt had been out on bail when he got himself killed.

  Mr. Hubert Stroud was already at the Yard, complaining bitterly about being kept waiting to tell his tale. Littlejohn invited him to breakfast with Cromwell by way of recompense. Mr. Stroud graciously accepted.

  "Kippers fer me," he said rubbing his hands.

  "Well?" said Littlejohn when the brief repast was over. "What's it all about?"

  Mr. Stroud inserted a small cigarette in his large mouth and puffed hard.

  "I went up last night to see Mr. Fairclough. He owed me quite a bill. He told me about little Hunt. I was sorry . . . 'armless sort o' chap. Fairclough was a bit under the weather. His wife 'ad left 'im . . ."

  "I could have told you all that. What about the murder?"

  Mr. Stroud put his hat on, the better to ease his flow of thought.

  "It turns out Fairclough was ready to forgive his missus if she'd give up 'unt. That's what he intended all along; just to scare her by knowing a lot about her amoors, put 'er in a bad position and then seem big 'earted by forgivin' and forgettin' on condition she behaved in the future. Well, it didn't come off like that. She cleared out and left 'im."

  "We know that. . . ."

  Mr. Stroud sharpened a match and picked his teeth with it.

  "Hunt was let out on bail almost at once. Not havin' been actually charged with murder and only on suspicion of forgery, a lawyer pal of his gets securities for 'im, and Hunt's out in no time. It turns out that Hunt came straight away down to London to find a first-rate lawyer for himself; another pal of his, it seems. That's what the solicitor in Walton told the police while I was there. Then Hunt comes back to Walton."

  "Well. . . . It's taking you a long time, Hubert. . . ."

  "Don't be in a 'urry, Mr. Cromwell. Let me get it straight. Now, havin' seen Fairclough, I think after what Fairclough says about Hunt, I'd better call there at Hunt's place and tell him to watch himself. . . ."

  "You mean you called to see if you could touch him for a fee to keep your mouth shut. . . . ?"

  " 'Ere. I'm supposed to be helpin' you. Not that the police ever did anythin' for me. On the contrary, I can assure you. I said I called on Hunt to warn him."

  "All right. Go on. . . ."

  "I found 'im dead in the garden. He'd been battered on the head. He wasn't cold. . . . Now, Fairclough had been breathin' threats all over town about Hunt. In fact, as I told the police, the last thing he said to me before I left his house was: 'I'll kill Hunt for this.' What more could you want?"

  Stroud was still picking his teeth with his hat on. He looked malevolent at his own thoughts.

  "What are you brooding about?"

  "Fairclough's a poor fish, but you never know what a man'll do till he's driven to it. He must 'ave loved his wife."

  "It pleased you to put a noose round his neck, I guess, almost at once," said Littlejohn. "Many a man's said he'd kill his wife's lover. It's a way of keeping up his spirits and showing his manhood. Fairclough couldn't kill a rice pudding!"

  "Sez you!"

  "Wouldn't he pay your bill, or something, that you should suddenly testify about his threats?"

  "Look 'ere. I won't stand for your insinuations. I told the whole truth when the police asked me. This is what I get. I'll be going. I'm not co-operating if I'm not wanted."

  "Was Hunt in the house on his own?"

  "Yes. . . ."

  Mr. Stroud was sulking. His bottom lip thickened to twice its size and his moustache dropped from offence.

  "Was he wearing outdoor clothes?"

  "Yes. A sports suit, check cap, and dark glasses."

  Mr. Stroud played his trump card triumphantly. He leered at Littlejohn and Cromwell, removed his hat and then put it on again to show he was going.

  "Think that one out! Good day, gents."

  17

  THE CAFÉ IN KING'S ROAD

  MR. TEALE was anxious to talk. He'd been conveyancing clerk at Mathieson & Co., for nearly forty years. He'd never had a wrong word with any of his principals until recently and Mr. Hazlett had now started talking of dispensing with his services. And simply because he'd told Mr. Hazlett he couldn't do all the work of the firm and, added to that, not be sure of his pay when it was due.

  "I remember Mr. Leader, Mr. Curtiss and the Mathiesons, father and son, and they all spoke very highly of my work," he told Cromwell.

  The sergeant had kept a long vigil to get hold of Mr. Teale. First, he'd gone to the Home Counties Bank in Pimlico, where nice Mr. Macgreggor had told him the name of Mathieson & Co.'s head clerk. He had also asked Mr. Macgreggor a couple of questions in passing.

  "Do you know if the late Lysander Oates and Mr. Hazlett, of Mathieson & Co., were great friends?"

  "Yes, I've seen them paying in here together. As a matter of fact, Mr. Hazlett was in here once, early in the year, when Mr. Oates was paying in one of his big cheques. Mr. Oates looked as if he wished old Hazlett would drop down dead . . ."

  "You mean he was bored with his talk?"

  "No. Just annoyed. Old Hazlett's a great busybody and was looking over Lysander's shoulder at his credit slip. Any more news about the murder, Mr. Cromwell? Our people have been very decent about my share in the forgeries. . . . So far! If it turns out the money's napooh . . . well . . . it might be a different tale."

  "We're doing our best, sir. I hope it won't be long now. . . . "

  "So do I. . . ."

  Luckily, Mr. Teale went out for lunch instead of eating sandwiches at the office. He'd nobody to make sandwiches for him. He'd not been married very long; a girl thirty years younger than himself. She was always in bed asleep when he left home in the mornings. Mr. Teale called regularly at a café in King's Road, Chelsea, but they didn't treat him very well. He had an orange-shaped head, with fair hair, redolent of brilliantine, plastered across it. His face reminded you of a bloodhound; great baggy eyes, loose chaps and hanging dewlaps. He looked ready to burst into tears in his solemn moments. You got quite a surprise when he began to articulate; you expected him to bark. His wife said he was her living; you would hardly have expected her to marry him for looks or love. So, it is understandable that the waitresses at the café made him wait whilst they served the bright boys and smart men who came there.
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  Cromwell had been wondering how to scrape an acquaintance with Mr. Teale. He took the vacant seat at the little clerk's table and said it was a fine day. Mr. Teale preferred to brood over his paper.

  "Welsh rarebit and tea," said Mr. Teale to the waitress, who ignored him and took the order of a corner-boy who had just arrived.

  It happened twice again and then Cromwell spoke.

  "Waitress !" he called in a voice of thunder, and everybody stopped eating.

  "Yes . . . ?" said the waitress losing some of her impudence.

  "Did you hear my friend here order a rarebit and tea?"

  "No. . . ."

  "Well he wants one, and has said so about five times. Please get it at once and bring me the same."

  The orders—not that they were worth the trouble by the shrivelled looks of them—arrived in no time and Mr. Teale was a definite admirer of Cromwell's.

  "You know, sir, I wish I had your courage. . . ."

  "It's just my way of keeping the old flag flying, Mr. . . . Mr. . . ."

  "Teale's the name."

  "Mr. Teale. It seems to have become the habit for the world to push middle-aged nobodies like you and me around and for these bad-mannered youngsters to treat us with contempt. Well, sir, I've nailed my colours to the mast and I'll go down fighting. Nobody's going to push me around. . . . "

  Cromwell was amazed at his own verbosity. So was Mr. Teale. He said so.

  "I wish I could tell folk off like that. I'd have told my boss what I think of him. . . ."

  And he told Cromwell how, after a lifelong's faithful service with Mathieson & Co., and after earning the appreciation of all the deceased partners one by one, he had fallen foul of the survivor, Mr. Hazlett, simply because some months ago, he had complained about his salary not being available on its due date.

  "And the boss spending money like water. He said I'd have to wait a week or two until some securities he'd sold came in. The truth was, he'd overspent our income and we had to wait till more bills were due."

  "He'd got a nerve, Mr. Teale! What kind of a fellow is he? A young wastrel, I guess. . . ."

  "Not at all, Mr. . . . Mr. . . ."

  "Pook's the name. Cuthbert Pook. . . ."

  "Not at all, Mr. Pook. You see, Mr. Hazlett had been used to a good income apart from his legal one. In his day he was quite a big shot writing for the newspapers. Earned a large income. Now, though, they don't want him any more. He's heavy and what you might call learned. They don't like that stuff nowadays. Too much thinking required about it. They want what they can read while they're listening to the wireless or having an argument with the wife, Mr. Pook. He just got outdated and they didn't accept his writing any more. I know, sir, because I've been there when he's got his manuscripts back from newspapers and he's sworn something horrible."

  "But he still goes on spending? What on?"

  "Keeping up a big house, treating his family . . . He's not married but he shows off to a lot of nieces and nephews. Then he got speculating and didn't do so well. It was then we had to wait for our money. . . ."

  "You got it eventually?"

  "Yes; he seemed to get it from somewhere. Then he started staying away from the office quite a lot. It was when I complained that there was too much for me to do, that he said if I didn't like it, I could go. As if I'd get another job at my age. But he needn't think I didn't know what was going on. There was a woman about or I'm a Dutchman."

  "What do you mean, Mr. Teale?"

  "One day I got fed up with doing so much on my own. I sort of rebelled and boiled over. I put down my pen and said to Lucy—that's the typist—'Lucy,' I says, 'I'm takin' a day off myself. This weather's just in my line, and as we weren't paid last month, the old man can't say I'm doing it in his time.' So I up and off. I decided to go and see my sister in Rickmansworth. I went to Euston, and lo and behold! there I see the boss taking a train to somewhere or other. But it was the way he looked that struck me of a heap. Him that always was so proper in his dress, togged up in sports suit, cap, and wearin' a pair of sun spectacles. He beat it quick when he spotted me. Ignored me, he did, and never spoke of it after. Neither did I, for at the time I wasn't exactly on speaking terms with him, on account of my pay. But if he thought he was disguised, he'd better try again with me. I always was observant. I'd know the boss's ears anywhere. Bears' ears, I call 'em. No lobes . . ."

  "Did you know anybody called Oates, client of yours?"

  Mr. Teale grew secretive. He'd been in the law all his life and the confidence of clients was second nature to him.

  "Yes. . . ."

  "I knew two of them. Finloe and Lysander. . . ."

  "That's right."

  "Both dead now."

  "Yes. We were their solicitors. Did all their work. But they gave their executorships to banks, I believe. We lost touch with them, although Mr. Finloe's house deeds were with us till quite recently. I remember him writing for them shortly after his wife's death. Mr. Hazlett delivered them himself, because he was a lifelong friend of the family. Took them out to the country where Mr. Finloe lived . . . "

  "Would that be before or after Mr. Hazlett started to stay away a lot from the office?"

  "What's that to do with you? No offence, I'm sure. But we have to be careful in the law, you know. Come to think of it, it all started about then. Taking days off, almost a week he was away once."

  "Do you know two friends of the Oates brothers . . . Gamaliel and a man called Hunt, Theodore Hunt?"

  "Yes. Gamaliel kept a bookshop not far from us. A nasty bit of work, he was. Died in hospital the other day. Come to think of it, a lot of our old clients seem to be dying. . . . Quite an epidemic . . ."

  "I knew Gamaliel. Used to go in his bookshop . . . "

  "Yes, so did I. We were agents for the property on behalf of some trustees. I collected the rents and held a duplicate key. The boss talked of chucking Gamaliel out, because of the rent, but Gamaliel came in and they had a terrible row. I heard part of it; my room's right under Mr. Hazlett's. From what I could gather, Gamaliel had followed the boss on one of his days off and was being a bit facetious or perhaps blackmailing a little. The boss shouted he'd have him in gaol if he said another word. And I heard Gamaliel laugh till he coughed."

  "What about Hunt?"

  "Yes; we were his lawyers, too. I believe the Oateses, Mr. Hunt, Mrs. Finloe Oates, and many others were friends together in their youth. They seemed to stick to one another. Mr. Hunt called the other day. He wanted some legal advice, I believe. Very hush-hush. He and Mr. Hazlett were closeted and whispering for quite a while. I didn't overhear that, but I know the boss was very upset when Hunt had gone. . . . "

  Cromwell was mentally rubbing his hands. He'd never expected striking oil like this! Just as when you back an outsider on the off-chance and it romps home at a hundred to one! He paid for Mr. Teale's lunch and said he hoped they'd meet again before long. In this he was not insincere, for here was a star witness for the Crown in a murder trial!

  On his way back to the Yard, Cromwell suddenly was struck by Teale's funny bewildered look when it dawned on him that a lot of their clients were dying! In fact, it was nearly a massacre of their clients! Now that the probable murderer had been spotted, it all seemed so easy. They were all clients of Mathieson & Co.

  Littlejohn didn't smile when Cromwell reported to him.

  "It's got to stop at once. The man's gone mad. He's started killing right and left now to save his skin. I'd better go round and see Hazlett with a warrant, though I'll have the devil's own job persuading the Chief about it. We don't have to arrest lawyers every day. I want a friend of mine to be in at the kill, too. The Rev. Caesar Kinrade is the only one who's had a proper look at Hazlett in his murdering clothes. I'd better 'phone the vicar and see if he can make it. . . . "

  The telephone rang.

  "Yes. . . . Who? . . . Send him up. . . ."

  Littlejohn smiled at Cromwell this time.

  "You're in for a treat now,
my friend. Do you know who's at the desk below asking to see me?"

  "No. . . ."

  "Hazlett!"

  "Well, of all the cheek!"

  "He's on his way. You'd better stay and listen to this."

  There was a knock on the door.

  "Come in. . . ."

  There stood Mr. Hazlett, a model of legal rectitude in his black suit, spats, bowler and with his hair standing up en brosse, like a shaving brush.

  "Good morning, Inspector. You're engaged?"

  "No, sir. This is my friend and colleague, Cromwell."

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Hazlett. . . ."

  "I called to inquire about the Oates matters. I take it I can speak freely before Mr. Cromwell if he's your colleague."

  "Certainly, sir."

  Littlejohn looked Hazlett in the face. Strange, how after his talk with the Rev. Caesar Kinrade, he saw what the old parson had been getting at. Hazlett was an evil man. It was there in the green eyes, the thin nose, the mean lips, the cynical smile. The face of one old in pride and evil doing. Yet, without a warning, it might be taken for the face of any racing tout, black market operator, confidence trickster, or preacher of a cranky religious sect. This man was overflowing with conceit. A little notoriety as a writer, a little power as a critic to make or mar, and the evil was done. Then, suddenly, he had found himself shorn of his petty glory. He had become out-of-date and his editors and literary friends had returned his manuscripts. His pride had turned sour, he had hitched it to evil, and now the devil was rendering the account.

  "As you know, I was the Oates family lawyer. I think I've a right to keep myself informed. I hear, too, that Theodore Hunt, another client of mine, has been violently done to death by a jealous husband."

  "Who told you that, sir? The news certainly isn't in the papers yet."

  "The police found my name in some papers in his desk. He has no other relatives but his own mad sister, now, I regret to say, quite off her head . . . "

  "In what way can I help, sir?"

  "I wished to tell you that poor Hunt had a kind of vendetta against the Oates brothers, particularly Finloe. You see, Finloe stole the girl he loved and Hunt often swore he would get even."