"What do they pay?"
"I don't know. . . ."
"Come, come. You drew the dividends. . . ."
"Leave me alone. . . . I'm not saying any more. I got the bid, I took it, and that's enough for you."
"They must have wanted them badly."
"I'm saying no more. I've told you too much as it is after the way you've treated me. And you bullied that out of me. I'll tell Tremouille when he arrives. It's against the law. . . ."
"Very well."
Lamprey was making a fuss of coughing and wheezing as they left. He spat in his handkerchief and carefully inspected the result.
"I expect I'll be spitting blood before morning. . . . And my back's started to ache. It's my kidneys. . . ."
Irons and Fannin had also been brought to Douglas jail. Fannin was quite different from Lamprey. He was busy working out a football pool when Littlejohn entered his cell.
"Might as well try my luck. It's money that counts. I'll bet Irons is getting different grub from me. He can pay. I haven't a bean. If I win a packet I'll make somebody wish they hadn't been born. . . ."
"Now, Fannin. . . . You help us and we'll help you. I want to know who told you to keep an eye on Alcardi the night you were last down at Grenaby vicarage. You were told he was trying to contact me there or elsewhere. Instead, you got drunk and lost him. Then you made your way to Grenaby and kept watch. To occupy your time, you tried to break in and blackmailed your old grandmother. Then, mistaking Sergeant Knell for Alcardi, you hit him. . . ."
Fannin was on his feet. He'd forgotten his football pools and his putative fortune.
"Irons has been talking, has he? The dirty double-crosser! He said he'd see me right."
"Were you told to hit Alcardi hard enough to kill him?"
"I said I wouldn't. I might be what you call bad, but I'm not a killer. I know how to use a cosh so's not to go all the way. . . . Irons said if I quietened Alcardi, they'd see to the rest and take him away and stop him from talking."
"Who's they?"
"Irons and his mob. I only know Irons. I got all my orders from him."
"Including the bottle of so-called dope you took to Alcardi?"
"So, he's told you that tale, too. . . . All right. Anything more you want to know? I'll talk, if you'll see me right and give me protection."
"Protection from whom?"
Fannin looked a bit sick.
"You saw what they did to the Deemster and Alcardi. . . ."
"They, again. Who?"
"Irons and his pals. . . ."
"Did you ever sail in the Jonee Ghorrym?"
"Quite a bit when they wanted an extra hand."
"Where to?"
"Whitehaven, Liverpool, Dublin. . . . And once to St. Malo and a place called Quiberon, south of St. Malo."
"What did you carry?"
"Goal, timber, bricks. . . . General cargo."
"And from France. . . . Quiberon? St. Malo?"
"That was a trip from mainland ports to France for produce. . . . Spring vegetables, early fruit, potatoes, and such. They're weeks ahead of home growers. . . ."
"And contraband?"
"Don't ask me. They wouldn't tell me. That's the truth."
"Very well, Fannin. I'll see what I can do for you, if you'll keep straight in future. Did you like Captain Kewley?"
"A surly devil, but if you work, you don't come up much against him."
Fannin was right. Irons was eating steak puddings in his cell for his late lunch. He raised his sad eyes as Littlejohn entered. His lips were slobbering and his jaws rotating.
"A bit o' lunch, sir. Nothing left now but to eat, sir. And then I put on more weight and my breathing suffers."
He was trying the heartbreak trick, sorry for himself.
"How long am I goin' to be here? I'll have to get to the south, you know. Another winter here and it'll be my last, sir. You'll bear that in mind?"
"You and Lamprey ought to start a private sanatorium, Mr. Irons. You with your breathing and Lamprey with his asthma and his bad kidneys. You're a pair."
Irons stopped eating.
"Lamprey? Is he in, too?"
"Yes. And Fannin. They've told me quite a lot. It seems, according to them, that you're the cause of all their misfortunes, Mr. Irons. You've a lot to answer for."
Irons breathed heavily. He broke a square of bread, mopped up the gravy with it, and chewed it absent-mindedly.
"What have they told you?"
"Mostly about the way you treated poor Alcardi. The bottle of poison. . . . The trail you laid for us to follow to him. . . . The instructions you gave to Fannin to follow him and slug him, and then you'd see to the rest when he was laid out. Were you going to slit his throat?"
Irons picked the bread from his teeth with his tongue.
"Now, now, Mr. Littlejohn. Come, come. I'm no murderer, sir. I am too sensitive to value yooman life so lightly. I have my principles, sir, though the police may not think it. And as for killing pore Mister Alcardi. I told Fannin to knock him out and I was going to take him away in the Jonee Ghorrym for a break over the water. You found me and Fannin, you know, and we intended to have Joe with us. But Joe was dead. I don't know who killed Joe, I do assure you. It was none of my doing. I was trying to help him. He wouldn't be helped. So I told Ken to make him be helped. Instead, the fool got drunk and coshed a policeman. What can one do with such . . .? After finding the big mistake we'd made with Alcardi putting him in a panic and getting him scared stiff, it was up to me to do my best. If he'd come to you, sir, you'd have seen him swing. I couldn't let him do it, sir. It was agin my better nature. . . ."
Irons shrugged his shoulders. Irons the philanthropist! He forked more steak pudding in his mouth.
"Who's we, Mr. Irons?"
"I don't know. I get all my orders through post, Mr. Littlejohn. I little thought where they was goin' to lead to once I had started on the downward path to destruction. I only know they'd got me and pore Joe in their grip because, as you know, I got innocently involved in the dud note racket. I was in it before I knew. They said they'd see I got a stretch for it if I didn't act as their mouthpiece. . . ."
"Rubbish! You know as well as I do that you simply committed a minor crime in passing the notes. You're not so simple, Irons, as to take a murder rap out of fear of a few years in jail. . . ."
Irons spoke with his mouth full.
"It was more than that! My life wasn't safe. You seen what they did to Alcardi and the Deemster. . . ."
"And the little boy. . . . Go on. . . ."
"The Deemster was on their tracks for something. I don't know what . . ."
"And Lamprey. Who did Alcardi make the keys for? Did you tell him?"
"Yes. I got it over the 'phone, sir."
"And someone had the desk key delivered to him. How was it sent and who got it?"
"Alcardi made the keys; two for the room in the castle and one for the desk at the Deemster's house. . . ."
"Why two for the castle . . .?"
Littlejohn knew now that his theory about X following Alcardi was right, but he wanted to know if Irons knew it as well.
Irons licked his lips. He was sitting on a small chair which his huge, flabby body completely enveloped. It made him look to be sitting suspended in mid-air without support.
"I don't know. . . ."
Fear was creeping in the fat man's eyes now. Littlejohn could see it, the bulging whites, the winking lids, and the tongue for ever busy moistening the thick lips.
"Who had the second key and who rifled the Deemster's desk . . .?"
"I don't know. . . ."
"How did you pass on the keys then?"
"I want to think it over. . . . I want to get it clear in my mind."
"Don't be stupid, Mr. Irons. Lamprey stole the keys and made impressions; Alcardi made the new keys and gave them to you; who did you pass them on to?"
"I—I was told to leave them hanging on a nail in the porch of my shop when I left for the night. In the morning
they had gone. . . ."
"And you didn't wait to see who collected them?"
Irons shrugged his shoulders. He had recovered his confidence and was now mopping up the congealed gravy on his plate with the last of the bread and eating it.
"I knew better than do that. . . ."
All right for a tale! Irons knew more than he'd say, but he was scared to death by the fate of others.
"Very well. You'd better think up a better tale, Mr. Irons, for when I come to-morrow. . . ."
But there was no to-morrow for Mr. Irons. He died that night in his cell. It was gluttony that caused it. Irons wanted fish and chips for his supper; he said he couldn't sleep on an empty stomach and would pay for his food. He also didn't like the prison tea; it made him retch. . . .
A constable, complaining at the indignity of it, went to the restaurant round the corner, where, before a large brass range, they fried fish and chips, and came away with a liberal helping of each and a large jug of coffee. As he did so, the Jubilee clock struck ten. Mr. Irons consumed his meal and drank the coffee and then started to die. At first, they thought his greedy eating had made him sick, but soon realized that it was more than that. When the doctor arrived, it was too late. Irons had given himself a heart attack through vomiting, an operation which he provoked by sticking his fingers down his throat.
There was enough arsenic in the coffee to kill half a dozen men.
The constable said he had merely put the jug down on the counter, till they'd wrapped up the fish and chips. He hadn't kept an eye on it; he was talking to the owner of the restaurant. The shop had been packed with holidaymakers buying alfresco suppers. . . . They'd all dispersed, they were strangers on holiday, and it was going to be a terrible job to find them again. They traced one or two of the occupants of the restaurant who lived in the vicinity, but they weren't much help. One old woman, who'd called for her son's supper, did recollect something vaguely. A man standing at the policeman's elbow eating his meal from the newspaper which held it.
"I jest reckerlect 'im. Eatin' his chips from the paper over the top of the perliceman's jug. There wasn't much room. . . . Packed like 'errings, we was. . . ."
"What did he look like, this man?"
"Smallish. Didn't see 'is face proper, but 'e was puttin' 'is fish an' chips in his mouth under 'is moustache. . . . I remember the moustache . . . and his cap . . . a dark one. Wore an overcoat, too. A bit too big for 'im, was the coat. Sort of clung over the backs of 'is 'ands as he eat his supper. . . ."
13
NIGHT AT THE DUCK'S NEST
MORIN was amazed when Littlejohn claimed his room for the night. At first, he said they were full-up, but the Inspector reminded him that Archdeacon Kinrade had already bespoken it.
"I didn't know it was for you. I thought it was for another churchman; a priest or maybe a bishop. . . ."
Dusk was falling and the promenade lights were on. There had been a gale warning over the wireless and small ships were putting into Ramsey Bay for shelter. Two local coasters, tied-up in the harbour, were getting up steam and the wind blew the black smoke from their funnels all over the place. Behind the town, the silhouette of North Barrule grew gradually darker and the Albert Tower on the hill at the back seemed more ominous and larger as the day failed. The navigation lights of the harbour shone fitfully and the lighthouse at the Point of Ayre flashed rhythmically. The town was quiet. All the shops were closed; only the glow from the half-deserted cafés on the seafront and in Parliament Street showed between the street-lamps. The first house of the cinema was ending and a thin string of people emerged from the swing doors and melted away in various directions. The pubs facing the harbour were lit-up and active. Drunken shouts could be heard and in one, somebody was singing in a passionate tenor, slightly off pitch. . . .
Then rises like a vision, shining bright in nature's glee,
My own dear Ellan Vannin, with its green hills by the sea.
The piano was out of tune, too, and the singer and the instrument had catches in their voices.
At The Duck's Nest, things were warming up. One of the rooms was reserved for a private party to celebrate an old man's eightieth birthday and guests in evening dress were arriving in cars. Littlejohn, his bag safely in his room, was sitting in the bar with the back of his chair to the wall under the portrait of the widow Clicquot-Ponsardin. Before he sat down, he looked casually at the back of the picture. There was a label on it.
Matelas Frères. Negotiants en Vins. Quiberon (Morbihan).
"You're a native of Quiberon, Jules?"
Morin, who had brought in the beer, because Amy was looking after the private party with the aid of a hired waiter, paused and eyed Littlejohn with his bright, crafty look. He shrugged his shoulders, raising the beer mugs he was holding as well.
"Maybe. . . ."
He was puzzled about how the Inspector knew it.
"Excuse me. . . . A party going on. . . . High jinks, eh?"
He hurried away to his kitchen. The cuckoo clock in the hall shouted eight times.
There were one or two people drinking in the room by now. Holidaymakers, by the looks of them, seeking a bit of light and high-life in the quiet town. Suddenly, the door opened and Colquitt, the reporter from the Clarion entered. He'd already had a drink or two and was flushed and talkative.
"Hello, Inspector. What brings you here? You're not one of the party, are you?"
"No. I'm just here for a day or so. Making routine inquiries about Alcardi and his connections with Ramsey. I thought I'd better stay over instead of travelling."
"Where are you staying?"
"Here. . . ."
Colquitt looked surprised. He raised his eyebrows.
"Lucky, aren't you? Morin's a bit choosey, you know. . . . What'll it be? Beer?"
He rang the bell and this time, Amy entered. She was dressed in her best uniform for the party. Black frock, starched apron and cap. And she'd had her lank hair waved. Her cheeks were rouged and she'd been using lipstick. She must also have been wearing one of the Misses Curphey's plastic devices, for she was no longer flat-chested. . . . Colquitt noticed it. She looked quite attractive and he passed his arm round her waist and started to caress her flanks. She bridled.
"Leave me alone. . . ."
Her eyes held those of Littlejohn for a minute and she smiled slightly.
"You think because I'm not invited to the party, I'm nobody. But you'll see. . . . A double whisky for me and a pint of bitter for the Inspector. . . ."
Colquitt sat by Littlejohn.
"Still enjoying yourself, eh? Like the Island? It gets you, doesn't it? Blunts your liking for work. You'll see. . . ."
He said you'll see to everything, as though quite sure of the future.
"I'm here reporting on the party. It's old man Parker's. He's eighty. . . . Father of Parker, the builder you met the other day. He's old and had a stroke a few years since, which made him bad on his feet and took the use of his arms a bit. He sits there like a waxwork most of the time, but he was determined to celebrate his four-score. . . . His friends and some of the nobs of Ramsey are coming. . . ."
Amy was back with the drinks.
"Put it down to me, Amy. I'll pay at the end. I'll be here some time watching the party. Taking notes ready to print 'em. . . . The power of the press . . . what?"
He drank half his whisky at a gulp.
"You're looking quite pretty, Amy. Why aren't you always like that? Has Jules been makin' a pass at you?"
She tossed her head and flounced to the door.
". . . Old Parker, by the way, is still the tyrant, in spite of his age. Owns the contractors' business and won't let his son, Lawrence, even have a share. Lawrence works for a wage! Can you beat it? Every day the old man's nearly carried to his desk at the office and sits there like a mummy, glaring, muttering orders, complaining about what's spent . . . and Lawrence does the work. No wonder Lawrence is bitter. The workmen hate him. The firm can't keep workmen. Lawrence follo
ws them round seeing they do the job properly. No workman worth his salt's going to stand for that. Here's health!"
He drank another large mouthful of his whisky and soda.
Littlejohn found himself thinking of the morose, middle-aged Parker, dominated by the will of a helpless old man. Parker, who followed his workmen round seeing they made a proper job of it. Parker who was one who controlled the Jonee Ghorrym. . . . Parker who might have followed Alcardi, seeing that he did the job properly, too. . . .
Through the glass panels of the bar door, you could see people entering for the party. They were bringing in old Parker, now. A small, red-faced wisp of a fellow, with a mop of white hair, and malicious eyes set in a skull which was almost that of a dead man already. He wore a dinner suit and shuffled along with his son on one side and a plain, fat woman with hennaed hair and a lot of sparkling jewellery, on the other. The woman wore an evening gown which showed a lot of bosom and fat flabby arms. You couldn't hear what she said, but she seemed to be shouting orders to her husband on the other side of the shuffling man. The old paralytic kept grinning malevolently at her in approval. Between them they were leading Lawrence a dance. . . .
"What did I tell you. . . ."
Colquitt rang the bell for more drinks.
"My turn, sir. . . ."
"Not at all, Inspector. My guest. . . . Hello, Silas! You waiting-on to-night? Same again, Silas. . . ."
A man like an ostler took the orders. He wore a waistcoat with sleeves, a green apron, and a soiled white collar and white stock. A jockey gone to seed. . . .
"Silas is the handy man. A warned-off jockey. . . . Hullo, here comes the Count de Tremouille. Just look out for his wife. She's the belle of the Island. . . ."
Tremouille had shed his funeral weeds and was in full evening dress. Well-groomed and ruddy, he looked like a visitor from an embassy ball. He wore a monocle on a black cord over his white vest. He was followed by a tall, striking woman with dark hair and eyes and a beautifully moulded face. The broad brow, fine features, delicate arched nose were spoiled by the sensual, unhappy lips. She wore a pale green evening gown with a bodice like a tulip, from which her exquisite shoulders and neck emerged as from a flower itself. She seemed to be nagging Tremouille about some cocktails.
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 16