‘If you put it that way, Mr. Littlejohn, I must agree with you. Especially as I’m a county councillor…’
What that had to do with it, Littlejohn never knew.
‘…Let’s say I’m relieved he paid up before he left town. Twenty-five pounds is a lot of money.’
‘How long did he owe it?’
‘Over eighteen months.’
‘A long time, indeed. Were you pressing him?’
The tailor coughed politely behind his hand, as he did when fitting his best clients.
‘I’m afraid I had to threaten him with a writ, sir. One must live. I cannot wait forever for my money. I’ve my stock to keep up.’
‘And when you threatened to sue him, Ryder paid up.’
‘Yes. He called and paid in cash. I was very annoyed with him, I must admit. He’d always pretended how impecunious he was when I spoke to him about the debt. He even abused Mr. Scott-Harris for delaying in paying his wages. In my opinion, he was impecunious because of the amount he spent on drink and betting.’
‘Why were you annoyed when he paid the bill finally? I’d have thought you’d be overjoyed.’
Mr. Bidder eyed Littlejohn reproachfully for being light-hearted about his troubles.
‘I was annoyed to find out how much money Mr. Ryder really had. When he called, he produced the cash from a wallet absolutely bursting with money…even including a number of five-pound notes. And all the time he’d kept me waiting for my bill. It wasn’t good enough.’
‘Did he usually flaunt his money in that way?’
‘Of course not. Had he done so, I would certainly not have waited so long before threatening to have the law on him. I have met him from time to time in local hotels where I call occasionally as a matter of necessary sociability, and there I’ve found him singularly hard up. He was known to cadge…if I may use the word…cadge as many drinks as his companions would pay for.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Bidder. You’ve been very helpful. That will be all, thank you.’
Mr. Bidder coughed unctuously again.
‘You will not, I hope, sir, divulge the information. A business like mine is based on discretion. It would never do for my clients to learn that I acquaint others with the amounts of their debts. I cater for a clientele composed of the best people in the district and I must be careful of my reputation.’
He sounded like a banker, anxious about his overdrafts.
‘Of course, Mr. Bidder. Good day.’
Littlejohn tolled himself out.
It was raining again and the streets were muddy and miserable. Most of the population were at lunch and the square was deserted. A man who sold washers and refrigerators on H.P. was leaning against his doorpost looking miserable. He glared at the clouds overhead and wondered when the credit-squeeze was going to break and the sun come shining through again. A funeral passed; a hearse and three cars. The occupants of the last taxi were laughing among themselves. They seemed to be enjoying it.
Mr. Evans of the Swan with Two Necks was standing in the vestibule watching the passers-by. He spotted Littlejohn and made a pantomime of letting him know that lunch was ready. He tapped the bill of fare framed in a brass case to the left of the door, and rubbed his stomach to indicate that it embraced something appetising. Littlejohn signalled that he wouldn’t be long.
He called at police headquarters and asked them to send out a general enquiry, particularly to police stations in an area roughly bounded by Bradford, Selby, Birmingham, and Ely, for any news of the Black Arley Sedan, VB3007, Teasdale’s car found near the Dumb River last Monday. He needed information gathered between 7.00 p.m. and 7.00 a.m. on last Sunday night.
He also asked them to institute enquiries about Ryder’s movements since his disappearance.
Then, he went to his belated lunch.
11
Poste Restante
Cromwell had telephoned from Sheffield. He’d be in Basilden before nine. Littlejohn had dined, but had still an hour to spare before meeting his colleague at the station. Now, he was pushing open the door of the Bull’s Head, a new hotel built on the housing estate on the fringe of the town.
All around, the council houses spread as far as the eye could see, most of them lit up. Some hadn’t drawn the curtains and through the windows you could see families gathered round the table, busy at their evening diversions. In one house a small boy was practising the cornet; in another three girls were seated, heads down, doing their homework. Rows of electric street lamps illuminated the scene and, in a railway siding, they were noisily shunting trucks.
There were half a dozen of them round the bar, working men, well washed, in their going-out clothes and cloth caps, drinking beer. Another quartet were playing darts, as though the fate of the world depended on their throws. Their glasses stood on a marble table.
‘What’ll it be, sir?’
The landlord himself attended to Littlejohn. He was a little emaciated man, unlike the traditional publican, with a face like a greyhound’s and a small waxed moustache.
‘A bottled beer in a tankard, please.’
‘There’s a snug across the lobby. You’ll find it a bit quieter there.’
‘I’m quite happy here, landlord.’
‘Suit yourself.’
The room was hot and lighted by a single large electric lamp in a frosted globe. Advertisements for beer, cigarettes, and potato crisps hanging on the walls; beer pumps, and a few buns on a stand protected by a glass cover; a middle-aged barmaid, heavily made up, blonde and with a huge bosom, washing glasses and operating the beer-pumps. Rows of bottles on shelves behind, and a broken watch hanging over a sign. No Tick. Please do not Ask for Credit, as a Refusal often Offends. The place was foggy with tobacco smoke.
The landlord was at Littlejohn’s elbow, showing him the label on the bottle he was holding.
‘It’s the best that money can buy. A real good line.’
‘Did Chris Ryder ever call here?’
The landlord smiled a knowing smile and then winked at Littlejohn.
‘I hear he’s done a bunk. Bit of a slimy sort. A drink cadger, too. I never took to him. Yes; he used to come here one or two nights a week. He did the rounds of most of the pubs in town. Sort of levied a toll of drinks as he went from one to another, slapping his pals on the back and waiting for them to stand him one. Wonder where he’s bolted to.’
He prised open the cap of the bottle and carefully poured the beer in a tarnished pewter tankard.
‘Was Harry Wood one of his friends?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m just wanting a word with Harry. I called at his home address and his wife said I’d find him here.’
‘That’s him.’
A middle-sized, full-chested, swarthy chap of middle age. He had a shock of black curly hair and thick lips. He was waiting for his turn at the dartboard. It was obvious from his patronising manner, that he thought himself a cut above the rest and was merely playing with them as a favour. He flung his first dart. He wasn’t much good at the game.
‘Harry. This gentleman wants a word with you.’
The landlord turned to Littlejohn again.
‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’
An elderly man with a grizzled head and large, even false teeth turned from the counter. He’d been seeking an opening.
‘You’ve seen his photo in the Gazette, Leonard. It’s the detective from London. Am I right?’
It was his turn to wink now. He looked from one to another of his companions, proud of himself.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what does Scotland Yard want with me? Going to arrest me?’
Harry Wood stood in front of Littlejohn. His eyes shone with drink. Another shifty sort, a second-rate singer with a Chaliapin repertoire to which he’d never in the world be able to do justice.
‘Chris? Yes, I knew him right enough. Any idea where he’s hiding himself? I heard in town this afternoon that he’s vanished.’
For one who sang Figaro’s songs as encores, Harry Wood was singularly ill-spoken, humourless, and loud-mouthed. He seemed as if he couldn’t do anything without an audience.
‘Let’s have a drink at the spare table in the corner, Mr. Wood.’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
He looked all round to see that everybody was noticing his importance.
‘Same again, landlord, please.’
Harry Wood winked at the rest to show he was master of the situation and that Scotland Yard wasn’t going to put anything over on him.
Any more of their winking and Littlejohn felt he’d probably start doing it himself. With some of them it was like a nervous tic.
They sat at another marble top, which the landlord mopped free of beer with a damp cloth.
Harry Wood thrust his face close to Littlejohn’s. He smelled heavily of beer. That was what had prevented his reaching the top flight of bass singers. Beer. Beer and swank. He was swanking now. He felt he was in the public eye and was determined to hold the stage. He emptied his glass in one.
‘Same again, Leonard. Come on, Superintendent. You’re slow.’
The landlord served them.
‘These are on the house.’
‘You knew Ryder?’
‘I said so. Through meeting him here, that’s all. He fancied himself a bit of a musician. He’d once played the cymbals in a regimental band.’
He said it loud enough for all to hear. His eyes roved round the room, like a second-rate opera singer’s.
‘I can’t tell you where Ryder is.’
‘I don’t suppose he’d be likely to tell you. I came to ask if, at any time, you told him that you’d met James Teasdale with his hoop-la stall at Lowestoft Fair.’
Wood frowned. He was a bit taken aback by the sudden question.
‘Who said I’d seen Teasdale and who told you I mentioned it to Ryder?’
All eyes were on Littlejohn this time. It was awkward trying to get information from this conceited half-drunken singer in front of an audience, but it didn’t matter much. Littlejohn didn’t lower his voice.
‘You were in Norwich and he was in Lowestoft, not far away, at the same time, weren’t you? Teasdale with his hoop-la at the fair; you singing at the musical festival.’
Wood recovered at the mention of singing.
‘I reckon they didn’t treat me fair there. I admit I was off colour. I’d a hell of a cold. But I reckon I put on one of my best shows for all that. I never sang “Chronos the Charioteer” better. Know it? It was the test piece.’
‘You took a day off in Lowestoft and you saw Teasdale?’
Harry was in the limelight again. An important witness. He was going to make the most of the job. The man with the teeth and grizzled hair interrupted him, however.
‘You never told us, Harry.’
‘Why should I tell you? I’m discreet, if I’m nothing else. He’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter. But while he was alive, I didn’t want to do him a bad turn by blowing the gaff and letting his wife know. You see, he’d a woman with him. A smasher, too. A young bit of stuff like a gipsy. A perfect Carmen and I wouldn’t mind singing with her in opera either. Where is she now that Jimmie Teasdale’s gone? I wonder what she could see in him.’
‘So you told Ryder all about it?’
Wood’s face darkened. He eyed Littlejohn defiantly.
‘So what?’
‘He was as likely as anybody to tell the family, wasn’t he?’
‘Of course he wasn’t. I just thought he’d be tickled to death to hear about Jimmie being a Don Juan. Imagine Jimmie singing Don Juan’s serenade…’
Wood thereupon bellowed a few deep lugubrious bars and looked round for admiration. None came. They were all watching Littlejohn.
The man with the false teeth couldn’t contain himself.
‘That was a good one. Imagine what old Scott-Harris would have said if he’d got to know his precious son-in-law was running a bit of young stuff at the fair…’
‘Shut up! Who’s asking you?’
‘Look here, Harry…’
The landlord intervened.
‘That’ll do, Tom. The Super wants to question Harry. You don’t often get a chance to see a thing like this, you know.’
It was developing into a rickety-rackety Irish comic scene. Littlejohn and Harry Wood fighting it out at the bar like a lawyer and a difficult witness and the rest like the public in court, half drunk, their mouths open with curiosity.
‘What you want to know for?’
‘I want your help, Mr. Wood. It seems nobody knew of Teasdale’s double life till you told Ryder.’
‘Who told you? Did Ryder?’
‘No.’
‘Who did, then?’
A fresh trio of customers appeared in the doorway and stood like pillars of salt, trying to make out what was going on. The landlord put his finger to his lips dramatically to keep them quiet and winked at them, too. They tiptoed in and shut the door with exaggerated gestures. One of them was drunk already.
‘Who told you?’
‘We have our own sources of information.’
‘Somebody was listening in, then, while I was talking to him quietly. It was in here. At that table in the corner. Somebody with long ears.’
He glared at the man with the teeth.
‘You’ve no need to look at me. It wasn’t me. I’ve something better to do than listen to other people’s gossip.’
‘What did Ryder say when you told him?’
‘I told him to keep it dark. It didn’t seem fair to spoil Teasdale’s bit of fun. He’s had a lot to put up with from his wife. However, he must have blabbed it all over the shop.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Then somebody overheard what I said.’
The others had lost heart. They had been expecting something dramatic, some revelation which would take Harry Wood down a peg, but now the Superintendent was drinking up and getting ready to leave.
‘Did you speak to Teasdale at the fair?’
‘I said how-do to him, if that’s what you mean. He was surprised to see me, I can tell you. He turned pale at the sight of me. And then he pretended he didn’t know me and said I must have mistaken him for somebody else. As if I had. Why, I’d know him anywhere, in spite of his dark glasses and his fancy suit.’
‘You don’t mean to say he was disguised? Well! That beats the band.’
Nobody took any notice of the man with the teeth. They were now hanging on every word again.
‘And that was all. You left him without insisting?’
‘I left him. I wasn’t going to have an argument or a row with him, although I could willingly have punched him on the jaw at the time for the high-handed way he talked. Mistaken him for somebody else, indeed! It was Teasdale. And you could have knocked me down with a feather when the girl suddenly appeared and asked him for small change. You could tell by the way they behaved, too, they were sweet on one another. I’ll bet they were carrying on. If his wife had got to know, she’d have killed him. But I wasn’t going to be the one to spoil his bit o’ fun.’
‘Somebody did.’
Dead silence. A man with a squint, munching potato crisps with toothless gums at the end of the bar, stopped chewing.
‘Tell us some more about the girl,’ he said.
They all laughed with relief. Harry Wood put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, thrust out his chest, and looked pleased with himself.
‘That’s one thing I won’t do. I found her first.’
The landlord and the barmaid
started refilling the glasses.
‘Have this one on me, Super.’
They were all anxious to buy Littlejohn a drink. Scenes like this didn’t happen every night. They’d have a lot to talk about afterwards.
‘I must be going. I’ve to meet somebody.’
‘The murderer?’
It was obvious they’d find things a bit flat after Littlejohn left, but he bade them all goodnight and made for the station.
Outside it was raining again. The curtains of all the windows on the housing estate had now been drawn and the place seemed asleep. Littlejohn had to pick his way among the puddles of rainwater which lay about the uneven pavements and in the road. Beyond the estate it was worse. Here, private builders had been having a field day. A short stretch of unadopted road was riddled with potholes half-full of soft clay and water like cold tea. In the dark loomed the silhouettes of half-built bungalows, excavation machinery, and concrete mixers. There wasn’t a soul about.
When he arrived at the station, the ticket collector told Littlejohn that Cromwell’s train would be late. Someone had put a sleeper across the line a mile away and the diesel had run into it.
‘It’s a mercy it wasn’t derailed. We’ve sent a steam loco to pull it in to Basilden. It won’t be long.’
Eventually Cromwell arrived safe and sound. There didn’t seem much wrong with the front of the diesel, but Control, whoever that might be, had insisted on precautions. The driver of the steam locomotive was jeering at the man in the diesel cab.
‘You want to get a proper engine…’
Littlejohn was glad to see Cromwell again. He was fed up with ploughing a lonely furrow in the back o’ beyond. Cromwell was lugging the bag which he always had with him when they were on an important case together. It held everything necessary from law books to handcuffs and finger-print tackle. He was wearing his cap, too, which implied either that he was taking his ease or there was a wind about somewhere. They found a stray taxi, drove down to the Swan with Two Necks, installed Cromwell in his room, evaded Heck, and ordered supper for an hour later. Then they went to the police station where Littlejohn introduced his colleague to the personnel, which consisted of a sergeant, a constable, and the reporter of the local paper, who was busy writing up the cases dealt with in the day’s petty sessions. The rest of the usual staff had gone to the policemen’s ball, which was going on in the town hall two doors away. They could hear the drums and saxophones churning out a foxtrot and a large car was leaving with His Worship the Mayor, wearing his chain of office and a top hat.
The Body in the Dumb River Page 12