Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  Somehow, Fatty, with his pig-eyes, his sloppy mouth, and his indecent sense of humour, rattled Knell. In the course of a split second Knell imagined Fatty approaching Millie Teare with those huge oustretched arms, and he advanced a pace to meet him. Then, he side-stepped, buried his left in the pneumatic folds of Fatty's abdomen and, as his adversary bent with a grunt, caught the huge fat jaw a rousing blow with his right. Fatty stood upright like a ramrod for a second, squinted horribly, his legs slowly grew bowed, and he laid himself on the ground before his remaining quartet.

  "Beat it for help," said Littlejohn, and Knell flew round the party as fast as his legs would go. Monoculous, in the background, tried to follow, brandished his spanner, failed to see Fatty's spade standing upright where he had left it, mixed himself with it, and fell flat on his face. The rest, momentarily nonplussed by the tactics, turned, divided and began to mill around. The two in the rear, including the staggering Monoculous, tried pursuit of Knell and then gave it up, but succeeded in preventing his taking the car. He vanished round the corner, running steadily. Littlejohn slammed the door, wedged it from behind with the two spades and waited for events.

  Fatty rose, assisted by his pals, shook himself, spat and kicked at the door.

  "Come out an' take wot's comin' to yer. . . ."

  Baldy was disgusted. He thrust Fatty aside and made himself dictator of the crew.

  "Come on out, or we'll BURN you out," he roared in a fruity voice, almost chuckling with sadistical anticipation. "Moe. . . . Just bring along the can of petrol. . . ."

  Moe, the man in the boiler-suit and with a single eye, opened the latter wide. He had no can of petrol. Baldy put his finger to his lips to show he was simply being cunning. Baldy was the only craftsman of the party. He hid his villany behind a respectable mask of plumbing. . . .

  Inside, Littlejohn sat on the floor behind the door and lit his pipe.

  Outside, Hook was trying to tear down the door with his claw, which he also used as a jemmy when he burgled.

  "Come off it, 'ector," said Fatty to Hook. "Yore on'y wastin' time. We got a crowbar, 'aven't we? And there's five of us to one, ain't there? Let's rush the door, an' if it doesn't give then, we'll crowbar it open. And then leave 'im to me, see? I got a score to settle with 'im on account o' wot his pal done to me. . . ."

  They gathered themselves together in what seemed to Littlejohn a solid mass, withdrew down the path, thundered up it again to the door, met it with a crash, shattered it, and pitched into the room where Littlejohn was braced to meet them with a shovel. Then they all halted and turned to the door. Outside there rose a shrill noise like that made by angry bees. It grew nearer and nearer and became recognizable as the concerted shout of young voices.

  Fatty, inspired by the new menace to finish his job, stretched out once again his enormous arms to seize Littlejohn. Before the huge paws could close, the Inspector's right fist smote him on the left jaw. The blow made Fatty behave strangely. He rocked on his heels for a moment and then, like one in a dream, leaned forward and presented the right side, which Littlejohn obliged by punishing with a left like a cannon-ball. For the second time, Fatty's eyes rolled until only the whites were visible, his legs slowly subsided, and he sat on the ground with a bump, oblivious of what was going on around him.

  17

  THE BATTLE OF BALLAUGH

  THERE is no ballad about the battle of Ballaugh, but though unsung, it was a famous victory and is still talked about, especially in parts of Bolton, Lancashire.

  Knell pounded to the end of the track from the curragh of Ullymar and to the main road which joined it about half a mile from the old croft where he had left Littlejohn. Once or twice as he cantered along, Knell was tempted to return and pound the five invaders to a jelly, for, inspired by his new love for Millie Teare, he felt disposed to take on all comers. Commonsense prevailed, however, and he kept straight ahead. At the highroad, he halted, panting, looked to right and to left and snorted with dismay. It was about noon and there was not a soul or a vehicle visible. The only sign of humanity in the vicinity was the lodge of an invisible mansion, standing behind wrought iron gates. The gates were closed and on a clothes-line behind the cottage hung a well-darned pair of men's underpants, two shirts, and a lot of articles of feminine underwear which Knell recognized as such in a general way, but could not accurately name, for he had lived alone for so long with his octogenarian mother, who believed in wool next the skin and was greatly addicted to red flannel. He opened the great gate, knocked at the door of the lodge and got no response, for the gatekeeper was at work on a distant farm and his wife had gone to Ramsey. Knell continued his marathon run along the drive, until it opened on a wide lawn which fronted a graceful house. The sight which met his eyes as he halted to reconnoitre caused him to give a broken-winded cheer. . . .

  It was the last day on the Island of the troupe of boy scouts from Bolton who had won the first prize for deportment at a distant jamboree and earned themselves an all-in holiday in the Isle of Man. Their treat had been overclouded by the death of their comrade, Willie Mounsey, at Castle Rushen, but instead of bringing their vacation to a close, the organizers had toned it down in keeping with the tragedy and, after Willie's body had been returned to the mainland, they tried to make the best of the few remaining days. Knell found them being entertained to a garden party by Mr. Christopher Gelling, Member of the House of Keys, Captain of the Parish. Fifteen of them were sitting at a long table, eating ham sandwiches, meat pies, soda cakes and trifles, and washing them down with tea and lemonade. At one end of the table sat Mr. Gelling urging them to tuck-in, and at the other, Mr. Buzzard, their scoutmaster, a little, wiry, earnest man, with a small sandy moustache, a sharp manner and a sharper blue eye. Knell reached Mr. Buzzard's side in a few long hops and spoke huskily to him in gasps. Mr. Buzzard rose, beat upon the table for silence and addressed the lines of eager faces with mouths full to capacity and jaws chewing rapidly.

  "Boys! The police need us. They are being attacked by a crowd of hooligans responsible, we believe, for the death of Willie. They want our help. . . ."

  It was like the starting gun of a cross-country race.

  Mr. Buzzard gave rapid orders, the scouts seized their ash staves from a large heap, lined up in single file, right-turned, and left the field at the double.

  "Come back and finish when you've won," shouted Mr. Gelling after them, and then ran indoors to telephone for the police at Ramsey.

  Knell removed his hat and coat, carefully placed them on the table with the leavings, and joined the reinforcements in his shirt, trousers and braces. Two boys, inspired by accounts of Everest, had brought with them ropes for rock climbing, in the forlorn hope that the Manx mountains might be snowcapped. With the ropes coiled round them, they ran lopsidedly with the rest. . . .

  The Enemy at Ullymar re-acted strategically. When the solitary astonished eye of Moe fell upon the approaching mass of the rival army, he turned and called to his comrades.

  "A lot of kids!"

  Littlejohn was just emerging into the open from the cottage and Baldy, the crafty one, acting true to type, flung the piece of heavy rubber piping he carried full in the Inspector's face. Before Littlejohn could recover, he and Hook were upon the Inspector, bore him down and tied him by the wrists and ankles with a piece of dirty rope lying in the garden. They would have murdered him, then and there, if they'd been quite sure of not being found out. Then they turned to face the foe.

  The Ullymar gang lined up and tried to defend the gateway to the house. Both armies halted momentarily and then someone on the scouts' side shouted a war-cry.

  "Up the trotters!"

  It was the legendary name for Boltonians, their pride, their famous football team, and the honour of the scouts of St. Oscar's. Knell, who, having lost his wind from his first run had been lagging behind, thereupon trotted into view, couldn't stop in time, ran right into the middle of the defending party, staggered and fell. This was lucky, for the spanner of
the man in the overlarge overalls, whirled through the air where Knell's head had been, found no mark, carried Moe through with its energy, and he lost his balance and fell across Knell's prostrate form. Both men raised themselves, but Monoculous, only able to see what was going on on one side of him, missed the sight of Knell's raised fist, and only knew of it as it caught him full on the receding jaw and put him to sleep.

  The remaining trio of hoodlums were surrounded by uniformed boys, milling round, beating about with staves, clutching their opponents and one another. High above the melée, the iron hand of Hook kept rising and glittering malignantly, only to be smitten down again and again by an ash pole. Luckily for the scouts, their massed attack prevented the toughs from using their weapons. They wriggled and toiled to get their gross bodies free, their arms back for blows, their big boots swinging for hacking kicks, but they struggled in vain.

  In the doorway appeared the huge bulk of Fatty, his wits now cleared after Littlejohn's blow, shaking his head like a dog out of water. He cast his pig-eyes round and they fell upon Littlejohn. He raised his enormous hobnailed boot to kick the helpless Inspector in the ribs and then, like young David, a boy let fly with his catapult. A small white stone, carefully selected from the beach, smote Fatty Goliath on the nose. One leg raised for the kick, the huge man pirouetted on the other like a burlesque ballet dancer, uttered a wild cry which distant superstitious Manx people thought was that of the fabulous Tarroo Ushtey, the Water Bull, and met mother earth for the third time. Shaking himself he rose unsteadily, lowered his head, and rushed into the fray, failing by his tactics to see the rope now held taught in his path by the mountaineering section, tripped, fell on his face and was trussed up and tied before he knew where he was.

  Hook and Baldy were hard pressed, but not yet vanquished. Like giants possessed they flung the clinging scouts from them, one after another, only to be again assailed by reserves who crowded round like furious bees. Finally Hook got his great claw free and raised it like an engine of doom above the head of the scoutmaster. A loop of rope from the rock-climbers hooked itself on the damnable weapon, which hung in mid-air for a perilous second, and then jerked spasmodically down on the head of its owner. Hook thus rendered himself unconscious and was tied up like a silkworm in a cocoon of hemp. . . .

  The man with the cauliflower ears and the broken nose, had throughout the fight been behaving in punch-drunk, dimwitted fashion, sparring, weaving, shadow-boxing on the edge of the skirmish, resisting with a head like a rock, all the blows of staves which fell upon him. Finally, a small boy in large spectacles, climbing on the gate with an old bucket, fell down upon Broken Nose as he passed beneath, still sparring at nothing, and thrust the receptacle, like the casque of a knight of old, over the Ears and the Nose down to his shoulders, and swinging on the handle, bore the roaring pugilist to earth, where, with suffocating muffled cries, he was sat upon by six boys.

  Then they discovered that Baldy had taken to his heels across country, followed by three adhesive lads who, in the heat of the chase, ignored all danger.

  "Stop! Stop, boys!" bawled Knell with the last of his wind. And in true scout fashion, the boys obeyed. Baldy did not, and discovered too late that he was in the bog. He thought he could flounder through a shallow pool, but soon found his mistake. He sank to his waist in brackish water, but it did not end there; he continued to vanish before their eyes. Roaring and clawing the air, Baldy disappeared from view. First the cruel face, then the bald head. The bog seemed to gobble-up Baldy. At length, two arms with hands convulsively opening and closing were all that remained in view. Knell, lying on his stomach, hooked a rope round the wrist of one arm before it finally sank into the hideous slime, and they slowly drew out the collapsed thug like some ghastly monster from underground. It was difficult practicing artificial respiration on Baldy in his casing of evil-smelling mud, but they restored him to consciousness after half an hour's toil. Only to find he had completely lost his wits. That night, Baldy died of fright. . . .

  The police van arrived when the battle was over. They bundled the toughs inside and it was only then that the scoutmaster got angry and rebuked the boys for turning what could have been an easy victory into a rabble by their eagerness. Somebody had untied Littlejohn and he took their part. He thanked them all, the boys formed fours, marched back to Mr. Gelling's mansion, where their hacked shins, broken heads, barked knuckles and black eyes were attended to, and they were then regaled on more sandwiches, pies and mineral waters, which they disposed of to the last crumb and drop. Then, the ice-cream arrived. . . .

  Littlejohn and Knell were sorry they couldn't stay to celebrate the victory.

  "It's half past one Knell. . . . I want to get back to Douglas in time for the arrival of the boat. Can we make it?"

  "Easy."

  With the cheers of the scouts to help them along, the two detectives, having promised autographs and a farewell celebration the following day, drove off to Douglas.

  Littlejohn and Knell turned in at the police-station in Ramsey. The motley gang from Ullymar were already in the cells, having their wounds attended to. Fatty had a plaster in the form of a St. Andrew's cross over almost half his ugly mug and a pad of lint over one eye. Hook had recovered consciousness and had a lump the size of a pigeon's egg where his steel claw had smitten him to sleep. Moe, the monoculous one, had somehow got himself a broken collar-bone. Broken Nose alone seemed unhurt and every now and then, at times which might have corresponded with the ringing of the starting-gong at a professional fight, kept leaping to his feet in his cell, prancing on his toes, and boxing with an adversary nobody could see.

  "That's 'im," roared Fatty as Littlejohn entered his cell. "That's 'im. Book 'im for trespass. Broke into a private resindents, he did, and was a-burglin' of it. When we arrived about our buildin' business, wot did 'e do? Set on us as if he'd like to kill us. Set on us maglinantly. Look at us. That's wot 'e done. It's trespass an' assault and battery. . . ."

  "Charge the lot with smuggling and assaulting the police," said Littlejohn and left Fatty, glaring over his St. Andrew's cross and roaring abuse.

  Littlejohn spoke to the sergeant in charge.

  "There's quite a little job for you, as well as looking after that motley crew. I want you to keep an eye on a number of people and see that none of them leaves Ramsey. . . . Here's a list."

  Jules Morin.

  Amy Green.

  The Parkers, father and son.

  Dr. Harborne-Smith.

  Tremouille, the advocate.

  The sergeant whistled.

  "Quite a lot! What have they all been up to, sir? Not all smugglin' with that riff-raff in the cells?"

  "Worse," said the Inspector. "Get your men to call and see them all and tell each one except Amy, that there's a meeting of the Jonee Ghorrym Company at Parker's office at five o'clock to-day and they'd better all be there. Then, when your men have seen them all personally, they're not to let them out of sight. If any one of them tries to bolt, he's to be arrested on suspicion of smuggling, and held. Follow?"

  "Yes, sir. This little lot's likely to cause an unholy to-do in Ramsey. It isn't often we get anything like this."

  "I'm sure it isn't. By the way, the Jonee isn't in yet, is she?"

  "No, sir. She's due, though. Captain Kewley wirelessed he's on the way back from Dublin and should dock around five. Do you want him held, too?"

  "I guess not. He'll stick to his ship and she won't turn round and get away very lively, will she?"

  "We'll see she doesn't, sir. . . ."

  "Thanks. And now for Douglas."

  They took the T.T. road over Snaefell again.

  "Are there any special features in the Manx Clarion, Knell, which might call for a reporter disguising himself?"

  Knell turned astonished eyes on Littlejohn. He'd grown used to unorthodox ways, but this was a new one.

  "Why, sir? I can't think of any."

  "I've just got an idea, that's all. The funny little man in
the overcoat that's a bit too big for him. The man they said was in the fish-and-chip shop where Irons' supper came from and who, as likely as not, dropped the poison in his coffee. I think it might be Colquitt, the reporter from the Clarion. . . ."

  "But surely, sir. . . ."

  "In fact, I'm nearly sure it is, Knell. That's why I want to be there when the boat arrives. . . ."

  They had reached the summit and were now descending the fine road down to the town. To the right the mountains and to the left, the wide bay and stretch of blue sunny sea, with Douglas Head sheltering the port like a great arm. On the skyline a whisp of smoke and then, almost too small to see, a ship riding on the horizon.

  "There she comes," said Knell. "That's the Mona on her way in. We've plenty of time. . . . But what's this about disguises, sir?"

  "I believe Colquitt's quite a dab hand at disguises and makeup. Some connection with the theatre, they said. Now, I've met the funny little man twice. Once coming over on the boat and again at Castletown with a party of sightseers. You can disguise anything almost, except a pair of ears. And, as you know, a good policeman always looks at ears when it's a case of identity. In fact, I always notice them, just as a matter of habit. Don't you? I'm sure you do."

  "Oh, yes. I always notice ears, sir. . . ."

  Knell had his doubts about recognizing the same ears again, but he didn't say so. In fact, he brooded, he couldn't recognize Millie Teare by her ears if she were disguised. He made a mental note about this great rule of expert investigation.

  "I wondered where I'd seen Colquitt's ears before when I first met him. It was on the little man. That's why I wondered. . . ."

  Knell smote the wheel a blow with his hand, made the car wobble, and righted it.

  "You're right, sir. Charlie Wagg! !"

  It was Littlejohn's turn to look surprised.

  "Charlie Wagg?"

  "Yes, sir. All summer the Clarion's been running a sort of competition. They have a reporter moving among the holiday crowds, on the beach, in motor-coaches, at the pictures. . . . Wherever there's a crowd. It's known he's in town every day and the competition is to find him. He talks to people and then prints things they've said and done, in the next edition. The idea is to recognize him, say 'Are you Charlie Wagg?' and if it's him, you get a five pound note. . . ."