"He said he knew how to find out. He wouldn't tell me, but he said he would tell you. He was sure that Irons and Fannin were only in the gang like himself. The organizer, the brains, were in the background."
"And you think this Harborne-Smith may be in the know?"
"I'm sure he's something to do with it."
"Very well, Amy. You can go. If you find out anything more, ring me up at Grenaby parsonage, not at the police-station. It might be better for you to go home to Liverpool. We'll see later. . . ."
He saw Miss Maude again and she agreed to take Amy back to The Duck's Nest and finish the so-called argument about the price of the table napkins, just to prevent Jules being suspicious about Amy's errand.
At the police-station, Captain Kewley, Irons and Fannin were still there. They had been provided with cups of tea by the policeman in charge, but until Littlejohn returned, they were not to be set free. They had signed statements under the eye of lawyer Tremouille, who had now gone back to the office he kept in Ramsey, as well as his main one in Douglas.
Littlejohn read the statements. He had made up his mind to make no reference to the smuggling. It might, as yet, be dangerous to Amy.
Captain Kewley's testimony was to the effect that he had simply agreed to carry the pair as passengers and they had paid their fares. He did not know they were flying from the police and, as he had met them before and believed them respectable, he agreed to take them over.
It was all right for a tale. Superficially it held water. Kewley had a wife and family in Ramsey and wasn't likely to bolt and lose all he had; command, home and respectability. It was safe to let him take his cargo to Eire. He'd come back if he were sure they didn't suspect him of the smuggling game. After all, quite a lot of decent mariners did it. They regarded the Revenue as their natural enemy.
Captain Kewley had lost none of his assurance. He was smoking his pipe and glaring at the police. He gave Littlejohn a particularly dirty look.
"How much longer? The Jonee Ghorrym's under steam and ready for off. There'll be a row about this. I acted honest in my dealin's with these two. You can't say I didn't. You can't hold me. . . ."
"No. . . ."
Littlejohn laid down his statement and puffed his pipe.
"No. . . . Let him go, officer. He'll be on call when he returns to port. Right, Captain Kewley. You're free. But don't try any tricks. See you come back."
The captain spat in the fire.
"What do you mean? My living's here; I'm not one to run out on my responsibilities. I've done nothing wrong and I've told lawyer Tremouille to take a note of all this and be ready to take proceedings for unrightful detention. I know the law. . . ."
"I'm sure you do. You'd better think it over when you're on the high seas and have time for thought. Bon voyage, captain."
"To 'ell with you. . . ."
Captain Kewley stamped from the police-station and back to his ship without so much as a look back.
"What about us, Inspector? I was only trying to get away for my health. Can I go with the Jonee Ghorrym? I can get to the south of France if I fly from Dublin. . . ."
Irons was fawning and begging in turns.
"I told you, Mr. Irons, you were staying here till I said you could go. You've forgotten that, and tried to slip away. I want a long talk with you. . . ."
"But I told you all I know. . . . I didn't withhold anything, sir."
"We'll try again and see if you can't remember something else. Meanwhile, Fannin will be detained in custody on a charge of house-breaking. And this time Fannin, don't try rough stuff on the police. Did anyone help you when you broke away before?"
Littlejohn was determined to tell none of them what he had learned from Amy.
"No. The man who took me in the car was a bit free and easy. He gave me a cigarette and as he lit it, I got my hands up. . . . I'm sorry, sir. I was scared. . . ."
He still looked scared. All his truculence had gone, his face was dirty and his hair unkempt. His eyes were red rimmed from anxiety and loss of sleep.
"Put him in the cells, officer. You'll get your reward for repaying the kindness of the constable at Castletown so generously, Fannin. . . . And now, Mr. Irons, we'll have our little talk."
They led Fannin off and Irons licked his lips and backed away.
"Sit down, Mr. Irons. . . ."
Littlejohn started to fill his pipe.
"Now. . . . Let's begin at the beginning, Mr. Irons. When did you meet the late Mr. Alcardi?"
"I didn't kill him. I've got an alibi. Captain Kewley knows I was aboard the Jonee Ghorrym all night. You can't pin it on me."
The contemptible rhinoceros saving his own skin! Littlejohn looked at the gross body, the slobbering lips, the uneasy eyes. . . . This wretch couldn't kill anybody! He was too scared of being killed first, or else being found out.
"Nobody's trying to pin it on you, Mr. Irons. But Alcardi's wasn't the only murder. There are others. When did you first meet Alcardi?"
"When he was interned in the camp. I used to go up there. I sold them mattresses and things."
"And what did Alcardi sell you?"
"He was good with his hands. He made souvenirs and sketches and asked me to sell some for him in the shop."
"You got friendly? So friendly that you trusted him enough to make him a partner in dirty work you had in hand?"
"There was nothing like that, Mr. Littlejohn. I swear. . . ."
"We don't want any more oaths. Yours are like pie-crusts. You introduced Alcardi to your smuggling friends. . . ."
Irons showed a bit of spirit for the first time. His servile manner vanished and his eyes flashed.
"What has Fannin been saying? He's a liar. You can't believe a word he says. He's only trying to save his own skin. . . ."
"All the same, it's true you and Fannin were in the smuggling trade. You roped in Alcardi. But the Italian was on a racket of his own. He was making little etchings of banknotes and making money for himself. He did it so amateurishly that he looked like bringing the police limelight on the lot of you. So you warned him off. The banks suddenly stopped being worried about the dud notes. . . ."
"It's a lie. I hadn't nothing to do with banknotes. . . ."
"But you had with smuggling. . . . Now don't deny it, Mr. Irons. We know all about it. But you were all taken for a ride. To put it mildly, the watches, liquor, nylons and banknotes were all small fry. The big game was that somebody duped you into murdering Deemster Quantrell. . . ."
Irons was on his feet, waving his stumpy arms, clinging to Littlejohn, frothing at the mouth.
"I had nothing to do with it. I never went near the court the day the Deemster died. You can't say I did. I got an alibi. . . ."
Littlejohn flung him off.
"Who was it told you that the Deemster was carrying round evidence which would put the lot of you behind bars for a long stretch? Who suggested that the ex-crook, Alcardi, who could move around like a cat, should dope the Deemster's cough mixture and, having put him to sleep, enable you to get back the evidence? Who gave you the bottle of so-called dope, which turned out to be prussic acid, to put in the bottle? And you sent the bottle by Fannin to Alcardi with instructions. . . ."
"It's all lies! I never . . ."
"We know all about it. No use denying it. And when you heard the Deemster was dead and Scotland Yard was on the job, you panicked. You warned Alcardi, sent him scuttering round for his life, tried to get away yourself, and took Fannin with you. You didn't think of murder, I know, but it was murder and that terrified you. . . ."
Irons was seeking a way out. He looked around as if contemplating a breakaway, licked his thick lips, ran his finger round the edge of his dirty soft collar, and sank in a chair.
"We was terrified. . . . That's right. We didn't know it was murder. We was tricked. Everybody does a little smuggling. I could tell you of well-known respectable men on the Island who . . ."
"We don't want to know. We want your story. Who put you u
p to the trick that ended in the death of Deemster Quantrell?"
Irons was still terrified.
"I don't know. I swear, I don't know."
"Don't be silly. Who gave you the bottle of poison and told you to send Alcardi?"
"I was told over the telephone and I don't know who it was. The smuggling was run by a syndicate, but we never knew who was at the top. He did all the arranging by telephone or else by letter which was always to be burned. He told me over the telephone. Yes . . . over the telephone."
The relieved look Littlejohn had seen before came into Irons' face as he concocted his tale.
"What about the poison?"
"It came by post. . . . The bottle in a little box. That was all."
"And you, of course, burned the box and the wrapping?"
"Yes."
"I don't believe you! You know who gave the orders. Well, you can cool off in jail till you make up your mind to tell a correct tale. You'll be charged with smuggling, passing forged notes, and we'll also hold you on suspicion of murder. That's enough for the time being."
"No bail?"
"No bail."
Irons looked relieved.
"I wish I could get you bail, Mr. Irons. You might start a mad career round the Island like Alcardi did, with someone's revenge keeping you on the move. What did Alcardi say when you rang him up and warned him I was after him?"
"He said he was getting out. . . ."
"Like the rest of you? Except that he was going to tell me things to save his neck from the rope. He had an idea of turning King's Evidence and somebody evidently knew it. Who did you tell he was on the run?"
"Nobody. . . ."
"Very well. The police will take another statement from you. You can have your lawyer if you like."
"I don't want no lawyer. I won't have a lawyer. They're all twisters. The lawyers is out to get somebody because their Deemster was killed. Well, I didn't kill him and I ain't going to take the rap. I'm goin' to defend myself and what I have to say will be said in court, not to you, Mr. Inspector. Where's the cell . . .?"
This was a new Irons. He seemed flushed with fresh confidence. Something in the course of the conversation had changed his outlook.
"Very well. Lock him up. He'll be charged before the magistrates to-morrow. . . ."
"When's the next General Gaol Delivery?"
The dealer, his fingers in the armholes of his waistcoat, was now truculent.
"Three weeks," said the sergeant in charge.
"Might as well make myself comfortable till then. . . ."
And they led Irons off, looking very pleased with himself.
"Let's get back to Grenaby," said Littlejohn to Knell. "I've had quite enough for one day. . . ."
As they passed the quay, the Jonee Ghorrym had cast off and was making for the open sea under full steam.
10
THE SECOND DEEMSTER
PARSON Kinrade greeted Littlejohn like a long lost sheep when he turned up at Grenaby late in the afternoon.
"I'd given you up, Inspector. It's good to put a sight on you again. I thought you'd got murdered yourself."
They took tea as Littlejohn told the Archdeacon of his day's work. Mr. Kinrade knew nothing of the background of the players in the day's drama. Irons, Harborne-Smith and his builder pal, Amy and Alcardi, they meant little to him. They were, for the most part, birds of passage, on the Island because of the low rate of income tax, or else to reap the harvest of the holiday season and then go with their pockets full.
"The only one I know is Tremouille. He's a good lawyer and, though his name seems to belie it, a good Manxman. Clever advocate, too, who practises at Ramsey as well as Douglas. He's well in the succession for the bench."
Maggie Keggin came and went with the tea things, sniffing and sighing from her private grief at the disreputable conduct of her grandson.
"I'll never get over it. . . ."
"Don't you worry, Maggie. There's a home here for you, as always, till all this blows over. It'll be all right, won't it, Inspector?"
"Of course. If what I believe's true, he'll not get more than twelve months, and then he can start again."
"Twelve months' prizzen! !"
Mrs. Keggin moaned, threw her apron over her head, and rushed from the room, feeling her way like somebody playing blind-man's-buff.
"Poor old darling. All the rest of her children and grandchildren are so good. This one's the black sheep. . . ."
The parson kept hemming and hawing as if he had something on his mind. At length he spoke about it.
"I ought to go to Peel before dark comes on. I was wondering. . . . Would you like to come along? I've to talk to the second Deemster about to-morrow's funeral. There are arrangements to be made and the formalities. . . ."
Littlejohn smiled and lit his pipe.
"Were you thinking we might go in the police car?"
The parson stroked his beard.
"Well . . . yes. Looney's tumbril's a bit rough after the car you're driving around in."
"All right, parson. We'll take Knell down to Castletown and then go on from there. That do?"
The evening was setting in, and the sun was going down over the moorland in the direction of Peel with the promise of another good day to-morrow. A farm tractor rattled past the vicarage gate on its way home, and the parson's hens, which had a predilection for roosting in the trees instead of the hencotes, were flying up one by one into the branches, falling down as their weight bent the boughs, and then launching themselves up again.
"Stupid things!" said Archdeacon Kinrade, as they watched them through the window.
Difficult to believe the strange things going on not far away! A gang of smugglers, a dead counterfeiter, a murdered Deemster lying ready for burial to-morrow, an unknown murderer skulking around, perhaps under their very noses, and a lot of fat hens incessantly jumping into trees and falling out again till, finally, luck favoured them with a good balance and they slept. . . .
"Could it be . . .?"
The parson changed the subject.
"Yes?"
"Could it be that you're barking up the wrong tree about this smuggling and forged notes? Might there not be some other reason, Inspector? Something more subtle, more evil, more complicated and human than simply a plot to shut Quantrell's mouth against the petty criminals . . .?"
Littlejohn gave the parson an admiring smile.
"You ought to have been a detective, sir."
"I can smell out evil, as I've told you before. These little men . . . Irons, Fannin, Alcardi. . . . They're the small fry, the supers of the drama, the walkers-on. The main characters haven't yet come on the stage. You agree?"
"With every word. We're as far away from the solution as ever. We've cast the net to-day, and caught a lot of little fish. But they might serve as bait for the big ones in time. Shall we go?"
Knell had been feeding in the kitchen with Maggie Keggin, who knew his old mother. He had been trying to comfort her in her trouble and anxiety about Kenneth, and Maggie had been weeping and keening about it. Knell looked ready for a good cry himself. He wasn't very steady emotionally after his knock on the head and the sudden change in Millie Teare's behaviour. . . . He was anxious to get a night off and see Millie. Hitherto, Knell had not been a very sentimental chap, but now, . . . Whereas, once he had thought of Millie as a good-looking girl whom a man would be proud to have walking out with him, a sensible one who would help him save his money, keep his house clean, cook well, and bring up the children nicely, now, he felt a sudden madness in his blood. He didn't care if he spent all his money on her, which was a change of face for a thrifty Manxman. Tears pricked the back of his eyes as he thought of her teaching a lot of kids at school. He once thought poetry effeminate. Now, all the Manx ballads of his childhood, the lovely lines of their own poet, T. E. Brown, came back to mind about Millie Teare. He kept muttering them under his breath and looking furtively round lest he be overheard and misunderstood.
&nbs
p; Woman, a word with you !
Round-ribbed, large-flanked,
Broad-shouldered (God be thanked !)
Face fair and free,
And pleasant for a man to see. . . .
Knell wished he could meet the Deemster's murderer face to face, perhaps trying to carry off or kill Millie Teare. He made a loud clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth to signify his own fist contacting the point of the murderer's jaw.
"Yessir!"
Littlejohn told Knell what they were going to do, that he could have a night off after a gruelling day, that he had been a great help, that he had better look after himself and Miss Teare more carefully than on the previous night, and that he might give the Inspector's kind regards to Millie. Knell, blushing, smiling, stammering, springing to attention, trying to drive the car, and thinking of the bliss to come, almost uprooted the gatepost of the vicarage on his way out.
The Castletown police had spent a very busy twenty-four hours. Nobody could help them about the duplicate key to the Deemster's quarters in the castle. How they'd sneaked the original key from the police-station was a mystery.
"It might not have been that key," said Littlejohn quietly, and they all looked surprised and waited for him to say more, but he remained quietly smoking his pipe and watching a coal boat manœuvre her way past the small swing-bridge into the basin, on the high tide. Two swans were swimming gracefully on the Silverburn, which entered the sea there. . . .
"We've checked all the regulars who were in or about the castle the day the Deemster died, sir," said the sergeant in charge. "Advocates and court officials, litigants, witnesses, the press, the police, and the locals who were spectators. There were one or two visitors there, as well, but we've been lucky, although we didn't know their names; they came by a motor-coach which left before the lunch recess. The court-house seems to have been empty more or less from the time they adjourned till the time they found His Honour dead. There was just a policeman tidying up the courtroom, one looking after Deemster Quantrell, and the custodian of the castle in his quarters with his family. The rest cleared out and went for a meal. One or the other could give alibis. I can't think of any that might have come back. . . ."
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 12