Death in Dark Glasses (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "Bit of a tall order. Why not take the afternoon B.E.A. service?" asked the man with the charter 'plane. He didn't like the look of the would-be passenger in glasses. He had a furtive way as if he might be up to smuggling something away. All the same, the offer was a good one. . . . An hour later, Hazlett was landing at Ronaldsway. It was just one o'clock. In Gedge Court, Sergeant Holmes was still watching the offices of Mathieson & Co. from his gloomy doorway and Mr. Teale was putting off his lunch as he feverishly cleared out his drawers ready for leaving the firm for good.

  The Rev. Caesar Kinrade was about to begin his lunch when the telephone bell rang.

  "It's that nice Mr. Littlejohn wantin' you, parson," said his housekeeper.

  "You sound a bit hoarse," said the parson just before he hung up. "A cold? I'll find you something when you get here."

  He turned to his housekeeper.

  "Lay another place for lunch. Mr. Littlejohn's on his way up; telephoned from Colby. Asked if I'd take a walk down to meet him as he feels like a breath of our fresh air and will send his taxi back at the bridge. I could do with a stretch of the legs myself. We ought to be back in a quarter of an hour. . . . "

  The vicar took his broad brimmed hat and stick and set out on his walk.

  On the way over, Hazlett had been doing some careful thinking between the spasms of nausea which attacked him in the air. How to get at Parson Kinrade was a puzzle. On no account must anyone see him and he couldn't be sure of the clergyman being alone. Then, Hazlett remembered a film he'd seen . . . They ran-down a man in a car. Made a bee-line for him and stepped hard on the accelerator. It looked like an accident and the speed of travel made the occupants of the vehicle unrecognisable. That would be a virtue, too, if the alibi functioned. Unlikely it would function, but just in case. . . .

  Hazlett told the charter 'plane to wait and as he left the runway, cast a keen eye on the car park. Nobody heeded him; the Dublin passengers were already assembling and the coming and going of other traffic was occupying everyone's attention. A parson and his wife drew up in a large ancient barouche. He carried a little bag and it was obvious that he was taking a trip and his wife was seeing him off. They parked their car without locking it and the wife, who had done the driving, did not even trouble to remove the ignition key. Hazlett calmly climbed in as soon as the owners were in the airport building and he drove away without anyone worrying in the least.

  First, to spy out the land. He asked a schoolboy the way to Grenaby and then drove hard to seek the vicarage. On the way, he noted the stone bridge over the river, the way the road narrowed, the overhanging trees which obscured the road, the absence of traffic and people. He then set out to find a telephone box. He had to drive back to Colby and there, speaking through his handkerchief, he held a cordial conversation with Parson Kinrade, who thought he was Littlejohn. Using his legal persuasiveness to the full, he asked him to take a walk to the bridge and meet him, as he felt like a walk and some fresh air after the trip.

  High noon at Grenaby was more ominous than midnight. It was so hot that all the birds had ceased to sing, the trees were silent, a shimmering haze hung over the road like transparent shades trying to materialise. The only sound came from beneath the bridge where the water rippled over the stones. It is a queer, lovely place at any time. It is said that funny things happen there; strange unholy beings haunt the dark river banks, restless spirits wander about the old mill and ruined dwellings. . . .

  Charlie Quinney, eighty if a day, emerged from his little cottage by the bridge, carrying a small pail in which to gather water from the stream to give his hens. There were no taps in his house and it was easier to go to the river bank and fill his bucket than pump it from the well. . . .

  Charlie's back was bent almost two-double. His long arms hung limply, with their great knotted hands, by his sides; he wore an old felt hat, shirt and trousers, with no collar; and his features were lost in a fortnight's growth of stiff grey whiskers. He sighed heavily as he crossed the bridge. Every day, it grew harder and harder doing for himself. The neighbours, few and far between, were nice enough, but he hadn't quite settled down among them yet. He was a "foreigner" from other parts. He'd only lived in Grenaby fifteen years. . . . The bent back disappeared down the slope to the stream and Charlie dipped his bucket in the clear water through which the trout shot, alarmed at the commotion. . . . The sturdy figure of Parson Kinrade, stick in hand, broad black felt shading his eyes, appeared descending the hill. In the distance a car whined, drawing nearer at great speed. . . .

  As Charlie climbed the bank and set foot on the road again, the vicar was entering the narrow space between the stone sides of the bridge; the car was flying towards him, dead set to hit him. For a brief second Charlie Quinney stood between the pair of them. He saw what was sure to happen. He could neither cry out, nor reach the parson to fling him aside, nor yet signal to the driver of the car, crouched, intent at the wheel. So Charlie did the only other thing. He flung the contents of his pail at the car. The water struck the windscreen with a noise as if Charlie had thrown half a brick, and spread, momentarily, an opaque mass, between Hazlett and his quarry. The car slewed wildly, struck the parson a glancing blow which threw him clear and prone on the grass verge, and then hit the stone bridge with a fearful impact. The women in the cottages up the hill rushed from the windows whence they had been spying on their vicar's progress, to their doors and then hurried to form a little crowd on the bridge.

  Hazlett was sitting at the wheel, crushed, but still conscious.

  "Leave me alone! Let me be!" he yelled as they tried to extricate him from the wreck. "My liver's ruptured. . . . "

  The doctor confirmed this later, when Littlejohn arrived post-haste at the cottage where Hazlett was lying. He was in the bed of the widow who lived there alone. They'd carried him as gently as they could, but he was too far gone even to take to hospital. Parson Kinrade, little the worse for his shaking, was sitting by the bedside, holding on the patchwork counterpane the hand of the man who had tried to kill him.

  "Hast thou found me, oh, mine enemy?" muttered Hazlett as Littlejohn, stooping at the low doorway, entered the room.

  Mr. Kinrade nodded a grave greeting to the Inspector and out of the corner of his eye looked sharply at Hazlett. The devil quoting scripture?

  "I'm done for, Littlejohn, but I almost gave you the slip. . . . Even now, you'll never hang me. . . . In the end, I wanted to show myself that, properly and intelligently done, crime would pay me and I'd leave the law behind and get away . . ."

  "Don't talk," said the doctor, a bony Irishman with pale blue eyes and a tired, kindly face.

  "Why not? Silence will do me no good now. I must finish comparing notes with Littlejohn. . . . Listen to this . . ."

  There was nothing they could do but let him continue. Hazlett's life was fading visibly away and the best thing was to get a confession if he would give it. He had broken his false teeth in the accident and they had removed them. His jaws had sunk and he looked indescribably old . . .

  " . . . You were right in most of your deductions. . . . I confess I felt fear in my belly when I knew you were on the case. Just my bad luck . . . ! Why did the fellow have to rob a bank and start the police nosing round the Oates house, just as I'd got it all set . . . ? Give me some brandy. . . ."

  Littlejohn took out his pocket flask. He had to hold it as Hazlett drank greedily. The lawyer was too weak even to raise his hand.

  "That's better. . . . It all started when Finloe sent for his deeds after his wife's death. . . . I had them. . . . I was curious to know why he was selling the house, so I called with them myself a few days after he asked for them. I went by road that time . . . in the evening. I had a bit of trouble with the car on the way; it was dark when I got there. The house was in darkness. I approached quietly and waited a while, wondering what to do. Then I heard sounds inside, but still no light appeared. It was a bright night with stars and I could see pretty well. The back door opened and Lysan
der came out, bearing on his shoulders what looked like a body. He crept down the garden . . . I followed him under the hedge. . . . He put stones in the pockets of the body and threw it in the pond nearby. Then, somebody's dog started a hullaballoo and he almost caught me red-handed. . . ."

  Hazlett paused, closed his eyes and gasped for breath.

  "He's done for," muttered the doctor.

  "Not yet, Doctor! I'm not leaving you till I've said my say, liver or no liver. . . . Where was I. . . . ? After that, little more . . . I never left the track of Lysander. I found out all you discovered later. I explored every avenue. . . . I was desperate for money . . . spent too much and tampered with some trusts. . . . I telephoned the bank and wrote to them for information as official solicitor of the Oates family . . . the bank had always known me as such and answered me fully. I pieced it all up . . . I knew Finloe's Will and guessed what Lysander was up to. . . . "

  Hazlett stopped again, asked for more brandy and then by sheer force of will, continued.

  " . . . I even followed him to Bishop's Walton . . . to Hunt's. . . . That stumped me for a bit. What was Lysander doing there? Then, I remembered our old days together . . . Hunt, expert at forgery. . . . Yes . . . Lysander got all but the house. I got that. Too good to leave behind, especially as I owed so much to trust accounts . . . "

  "What about Gamaliel?" asked Littlejohn.

  "One day . . . I followed Lysander on the train . . . Gamaliel must have smelled a rat, too . . . he was following him as well. Saw me and bolted. After Lysander disappeared, Gamaliel came to see me. Blackmail. Told him what I'd do to him. But the police were on his track. That made me uneasy. I tried to get him, but they put him away in hospital; I followed your man there to hear what was said. I was ready to bolt if he'd told on me. He hadn't the guts or the wits to do it. That signed his death warrant. I went to his shop with a key from my office to see if there was anything incriminating there. Found your colleague's card . . . Gave me an idea . . . That's all. . . . "

  "What of Hunt?"

  "Very persistent, Inspector. Can't you let me die with just one point unsolved? I wanted to get clear of it all, so thought of Hunt. He was in it up to his neck and was better dead. Full of misery . . . poor sort of chap . . . I discovered, in the way you said, how Lysander fled and where . . . I came over here and . . . "

  Hazlett gathered a new burst of strength. His eyes opened wider and he spoke more clearly. It was as if his own adventures were exhilarating him.

  "I killed him, hid him, and took his money. On the way here, I planned about Hunt. Got him to write a letter and arranged it to incriminate him. I stayed on the island till the letter arrived next day. I kept an eye on the mine and the chapel and I'd just planted the letter when Hunt turned up after all, in spite of his letter of refusal. He always was inquisitive. But I hadn't bargained for his bringing a woman. That annoyed me. I could have killed him on the spot. All the same, no jury would have believed an alibi given by his mistress. Little did I think the jealous husband, Fairclough, had set a detective to spy upon her . . . I slipped there . . . "

  Hazlett made a last effort. He was far gone, but hanging on like death itself. The skin of his face and head tightened, showing the hideous bony death's head beneath.

  " . . . I went back to the bungalow at Netherby to clear things up. I had to watch the post, too. . . . I did it by daylight. I had the excuse that I was Oates's lawyer. I had a key previously taken from the house. I was busy steaming open letters when suddenly I heard someone insert a key in the lock. My courage failed. . . . I seized the poker and slipped quickly in the nearest cupboard. A most unfortunate choice, for it contained the electric meter. The intruder had called to check the meter, came straight to my cupboard, and opened it. Where he'd got the key from, I didn't trouble to inquire. There was nothing else to do but kill him. . . . If he'd told that he'd found me hiding in the house . . . well . . . I was fortunate that nobody seemed to notice me or the electricity man enter the house, otherwise my panic would have cost me dear."

  The voice was now thick and rattling, and difficult to follow.

  "Then . . . of all things . . . Hunt came all the way to London to say he'd been caught for forgery! Would I get him off? I could have laughed aloud! Thinking you were still not convinced that Hunt killed Oates and the rest, quite ignorant of the fact that he had a safe alibi, I decided to put the final convincing touches on the case and close it. Hunt never mentioned the detective who followed him and his mistress. . . . All he said was Fairclough was as jealous as hell. It seemed easy. I put the glasses and cap by which I was known, on Hunt, after I'd followed and killed him. Little did I think I'd been identified already . . . and of all people by a sleeping parson, or at least, I thought he was asleep. . . ."

  Hazlett cackled. It was a death rattle.

  "Providence even sent its thunderbolts to protect you, sir, in the shape of a bucket of water! You looked old and sleepy on the 'plane that time. . . . You were my Nemesis, all the same. . . ."

  He reserved his last words for Littlejohn.

  "I'd got it all very nicely cut and dried, Inspector. Foolproof on paper. Just bad luck. . . . A runaway bank clerk, a sleepy clergyman, and, of all things, a dirty little divorce detective, were my undoing. . . . Well . . . I wasn't as clever as I thought . . ."

  And thus denouncing himself, Wilmott Hazlett halted in the middle of a sentence and died.

  Dear Reader,

  My name is Tim Binding. I am a novelist, but I want to tell you about George Bellairs, the forgotten hero of crime writing

  George Bellairs was bank manager and he wrote over fifty novels in his spare time. Most of them were published by the Thriller Book Club run by Christina Foyle, manager of the world famous Foyle’s bookshop, and who became a friend. His books are set at a time when the real-life British Scotland Yard would send their most brilliant of sleuths out to the rest of the country to solve their most insolvable of murders. Bellairs’ hero, gruff, pipe-smoking Inspector Littlejohn appears in all of them.

  Many of Bellairs’ books are set in the Isle of Man – where he retired. Some take place in the South of France. All the others are set in an England that now lives in the memory, a world of tight-knit communities, peopled by solicitors and magistrates, farmers and postmen and shopkeepers, with pubs and haberdasheries and the big house up the road - but though the world might have moved on, what drove them to murder, drives murder now: jealousies and greed, scandal and fear still abound, as they always have.

  So, if you liked this one, dip into the world of George Bellairs. In the coming months and years there’ll be plenty of books to choose from. Why don’t you join me, and sign up to the George Bellairs mailing list?

  •First thing you’ll get is a free book.

  •Then, from time to time I’ll send you publishing information.

  •In the New Year I plan to visit the George Bellairs’ archive. Who knows what I’ll find there. Letters, unpublished work? I’ll let you know.

  So join me in forming a George Bellairs community, you can sign up here: http://eepurl.com/ba6DNn

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Tim Binding