Tremouille and Miss Caley were writing excitedly like a couple of competitors in a shorthand contest.
"It wouldn't have done for Morin to be recognized, even by a boy scout. . . . So. . . ."
Morin lit another cigarette. He truculently used his own lighter this time.
"All you want is proof to frame it on me. But you ain't got it. So what?"
"I admit I have no proof. It's all circumstantial. . . . Not enough to arrest you on."
"Then we're wasting our time. Let's go."
Morin rose to his feet.
"Wait! Sit down. I've not finished, Morin. There are other dead men in this case, you know. Irons, for example. First, Charles Cosans, then Jules Morin, and finally, and ridiculously, Charlie Wagg!"
They all looked at Littlejohn as if he'd gone mad.
20
THE PARTING SHOT
THERE was a sudden silence. The two scribblers ceased their writing and Miss Caley eagerly turned over a page. It looked like an anti-climax. Littlejohn filled and lit his pipe slowly. Knell took out his own notebook and consulted it soberly, after taking a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from a case and putting them on. Until Littlejohn's arrival, Knell had worn his glasses only in secret for close reading. Now, having several times seen Littlejohn wearing his own, he felt reassured and slipped them on to look more official and scholarly.
". . . But first, there's Alcardi, who kept an art shop on Douglas promenade. Alcardi was a small-time sneak-thief, a good engraver, who thought he'd make a pound or two forging banknotes. This got him in the clutches of Irons, who was able to make use of him as a handyman in the Duck's Nest work. Useful with his hands, Alcardi also made the keys for Morin. Having killed the Deemster and Willie Mounsey, Morin, with his usual guile set about putting the blame on Alcardi. Through Irons and Lamprey, he roused our suspicions of Alcardi, then through Irons, and Colquitt, told Alcardi we were after him, presumably in connection with the counterfeit notes, the keys and, through them the murders. He even took the trouble to leave traces of prussic acid in Alcardi's shop to confirm our suspicions. He hoped to get Alcardi to leave the Island on the Jonee Ghorrym and thus turn suspicion from himself—that is, Morin—to the Italian on the run. But Alcardi didn't act as expected. Instead, he tried to get hold of me and tell the extent of his crime. Better to get a stretch for counterfeiting than hang for murder. Morin was lucky. When Alcardi called to see me at Grenaby, I wasn't there. After that, Morin saw to it that he was kept away from me until he could deal with him, one way or another."
You could have heard a pin drop. Tremouille had stopped writing in his diary and had put it away. Miss Caley alone was active; doing her shorthand like grim death because her boss had told her to do it. When Littlejohn paused, you could hear her pencil moving as she got down the last words. Amy clutched her throat, her eyes wide. Now and then, when the fumes of tobacco died down, you could smell her strong, cheap scent on the stuffy air of the office.
Morin seemed the coolest of the lot.
"Go on. . . . Most interesting tale. . . . You can't prove a word and we might just as well all be wasting our time. . . ."
"Morin set Fannin and Colquitt, as well as some of Mr. Parker's roughneck labourers, to keep an eye on Alcardi and stop him going to the police-stations. The idea seems to have been to shanghai him off on the Jonee Ghorrym, then, they could do as they liked with him. They'd got to give the police the impression that Alcardi was on the run for murder, for there was another act in this drama ready to start. Amy was all primed for her part as Alcardi's mistress. In apparent secrecy, she was to get hold of me and tell me Alcardi's so-called confession of his murder of the Deemster. It was a complicated tale, and she implicated all the gang except Morin. I half believed it though, until I saw her all dressed up on the night of Mr. Parker's party at The Duck's Nest. She had become a femme fatale, the death of her so-called lover, Alcardi, meant nothing to her; she was obviously all got-up and agog to please someone else. . . . Morin. The whole trumped-up story about Alcardi was to lead us away from Morin, for, having joined himself in the desperate effort to keep Alcardi as our suspect, he came up with him, haunting the vicarage, in the small hours, intent on telling me his tale. And when Morin and Alcardi met, Alcardi drew a gun and shot at Morin, who thereupon killed him. . . ."
"No proof. . . ."
Morin lit another cigarette. He was pretending to enjoy himself, but his long black hair was lank and damp with a sweat of fear. He was beginning to look like a cornered animal. Amy's eyes were fixed on him in apprehension and with dog-like devotion. She looked ready to die for him. . . .
"The next thing was to get Irons and Fannin away to keep them quiet. Fannin was just a stupid youth gone wrong, but Irons knew most of the story. When we arrested Irons, Morin was desperate. He began to lose his grip. He didn't know what Irons would say. So he went to see Irons in jail, pretending to be his business partner wanting to consult him. What Irons said in jail to Morin, we may never know, but it settled Irons' fate. He may have blackmailed or threatened. Morin took a great risk. Helped by Amy, with whom the rather forlorn Colquitt had fallen in love, he hung round the jail, desperately intent on poisoning the food he'd persuaded Irons to send out for during his first visit. Colquitt had been dressing-up as a character called Charlie Wagg, whom visitors were supposed to hunt down for reward. A man in a moustache and an overcoat too large for him. The Douglas police heard such a character had been hanging round the restaurant where a constable went for Irons' supper. . . ."
Morin was now sitting up and taking alarmed notice. He hadn't thought the police would get so far. He shouted to Tremouille.
"Are you listening, lawyer? If they try to frame this over me, you're my lawyer, ain't you? Are you taking it all down?"
Tremouille didn't even answer.
"News reached Colquitt that someone like Charlie Wagg was involved in the death of Irons. He got fright, bolted to the mainland as Charlie Wagg, and came back as himself. Charlie Wagg had left the Island never to be seen again. Colquitt was arrested this morning and he's now in jail. . . ."
Morin threw out his arms.
"There you are! Colquitt. Didn't I tell you? He did it."
"Colquitt had a perfectly cast-iron alibi at the time of the crime. After lending you his makeup, he went back to the office and had some beer and talked for an hour with a decent old night-watchman, who confirms Colquitt's statement. . . . I haven't much more to say. . . ."
All eyes were on Littlehjon. If he hadn't much more, it was vital to them all.
"You, Harborne-Smith, Lawrence Parker, Tremouille and Captain Kewley, will be charged with smuggling, to start with. So far as I know, you're not implicated in the murders, though how much you suspected is another matter. Parker will also have to answer for the incident of putting Captain Teare's remains in the lime-pit. Amy Green will beheld pending serious charges of complicity in murder, and as for you, Jules Morin, I arrest you for the murder of Alexander Irons and . . ."
He got no farther.
Morin was on his feet, his back to the wall. In his hand an ugly revolver.
"Put up your hands everybody. . . . Anyone not putting up hands, I'll shoot at once. I've shot plenty together before. This is nothing to me. . . ."
Slowly, like voting at a meeting, hands were raised, all eyes glued on Morin's pistol.
"Littlejohn and the police. . . . Quick. . . ."
Littlejohn put up his hands and spoke.
"Now, lads," he said to the constables. "Do as he says. We want no heroics and no widows. This man isn't going to get away and, if he leaves this place, we shall get him. . . ."
Morin sneered.
"I ought to plug you, Littlejohn. You caused all this. Maybe I will. . . . But let me tell you, before I do, I'm going from here and nobody's gonna stop me . . . nobody interfere . . . see? I've got a motor-boat in the harbour and you're going to stop just here for half an hour till I get on my way. And in case anybody wants to follow, Amy's goin'
to see they don't. . . . Aren't you, Amy?"
Amy gave him a puzzled, questioning look.
"Yes. Amy's just as good with a gun as me. She can shoot straight as me. Her father was a gunsmith. . . ."
"My father was a banker, but I've no money. . . ."
Harborne-Smith couldn't resist the effort to be clever.
"Shut up, Smith."
Morin grinned at him and wagged his gun.
"Now. . . . All turn your backs to me. . . ."
Hands in the air, they started to turn. All except old Parker, who couldn't move and whose hands wouldn't go above his head. He sat there, his immovable eyes on Morin, one hand trembling on the table, the other on his lap.
Then, before anybody quite realized what was going on, Humphrey Parker's right hand appeared above the desk. In it was a large old-fashioned revolver. His finger jerked on the trigger and kept jerking. A stream of bullets hit Morin one after another. At each shot, the Frenchman's body quivered with the impact. His gun slithered from his hands and, as Amy tried to get it, a bullet struck her on the breast in the V of her blouse. The pair of them fell together, their bodies intertwined. . . .
Old Parker's finger kept on pulling the trigger long after the magazine was empty. Click, click, click. . . .
Everybody seemed to move at once. The police stood at the doors, Knell knelt down by the two bodies, touched them, and shook his head. Littlejohn looked at Humphrey Parker. He was sitting like a dummy, his eyes fixed on the gun, now lying on the desk before him. In the confusion, Morin must have spasmodically fired one shot. There was a hole through the crown of Parker's old-fashioned hat. . . .
Miss Caley was concerned only with the old man. She must have cherished for him all the compassionate love she'd never been able to lavish elsewhere. She held his head and gave him brandy from a little bottle.
"Are you all right, Mr. Parker? You shouldn't excite yourself. . . . Remember what the doctor said. . . . There, there, Mr. Parker. He's going to be a good, quiet Mr. Parker now. Isn't he . . .?"
Her arm was round his neck and the old man laid his head on it.
"Yes. . . ."
They were all on their feet and two constables had gone for something to cover the bodies. The sergeant was telephoning for the ambulance to take them away.
"Yes. . . . Yes. . . . You know Parker's builder's yard on Ballure. . . . It's there. Get crackin'. It's urgent. . . ."
The rest of the Duck's Nest gang stood around waiting for the next move.
Tremouille was on his feet, nervously polishing his monocle. He put up his hand.
"Quiet, please. I've something to say. . . ."
All eyes turned to him in surprise.
"I am amazed at the turn of events. . . ."
His feet firmly planted, one hand playing with the cord of his eyeglass, he looked like an advocate in court.
". . . I admit I was a shareholder in the steamship company. I also admit I wasn't careful concerning where the profits came from. . . ."
Harborne-Smith flushed an ugly purple.
"You bet you weren't. What we're getting's coming to you, too, Tremouille. You needn't try to be pious now. . . ."
"I admit this is ruin for me. But neither I, nor you Harborne-Smith, nor Parker, I venture to say, knew that murder was involved. . . . We knew of the crimes but did not associate them with our affairs. . . . Let me speak. . . ."
The rest were getting restless.
"All I wish to say is this. Throughout this meeting, if I may call it such, Mr. Humphrey Parker has assumed the part of chairman, supposedly on the side of the law. . . ."
Old Parker raised himself from the supporting arms of Miss Caley and cast a malevolent glance at Tremouille. Both his hands were trembling, beating a tattoo on the desk before him.
". . . Such a pose is intolerable. Who provided the money for the Jonee Ghorrym when we acquired her? None of us. We had no money. He lent it to us and we were his nominees, the guinea-pigs who held the shares on his behalf. I myself drew up the trust deeds for the holdings. He still actually controls the ship. Who found capital for the smuggling venture. . .? The same man. Who arranged the scheme for carrying and hiding the contraband in his vehicles posing as contractors lorries, and in his old property on the Curragh? Whose workmen were really the handymen of the smuggling business?"
Tremouille pointed an accusing finger at the old man.
"Humphrey Parker had been the brains of this business since its inception. He didn't murder Captain Teare, I admit, but he sent for Kewley. . . . Didn't he, Kewley? You knew Mr. Parker from other days, didn't you?"
"Yes. . . . And he told me what he wanted and he paid me my bonuses. . . ."
Humphrey Parker just sat and blinked, his eyes more ghastly with hatred than if he'd spoken the words of evil.
Tremouille was still pointing at him.
"He renovated The Duck's Nest, he had us all in his grip because he could ruin us if he wanted. He was old and with one foot in the grave and wouldn't suffer if he blew the whole racket wide open. . . . We . . ."
With a gesture Tremouille made it all clear.
"He is an accessory of all that has been done. His money has financed it, his brain—quite alert in spite of his useless body—has organized it all, and he has known all that has been going on and said no word of condemnation. It is strange that now that the police have shown-up the whole scheme and those guilty of the many crimes, he should pretend to be the patron of law and order. . . . He has done that because he feared he himself might be murdered by the ambitious Morin. Already half-dead, he still feared death."
Tremouille hung his head. The rest followed in a whisper.
"I am a member of the bar. The law is sacred to me. I have betrayed my trust. I will take what is coming to me. But now that matters have reached their culmination, I will see to it that justice is done to all and this evil thing shall be cleared up once and for all. . . ."
He sat down trembling. There was something pathetic and even dignified in his final ruin.
Old Parker rose to his feet and with a great effort pointed a shaking finger at Tremouille.
"Liar. . . . Liar. . . . You pettifogging little lawyer. . . . I'll. . . ."
And he fell face forward across the desk. Miss Caley screamed.
"Mr. Parker. . . . Dear Mr. Parker. . . . What have they done . . .?"
Humphrey Parker had had a final stroke. They carried him away completely helpless and he died on the way home.
Kewley, Harborne-Smith and Lawrence Parker were condemned to long terms of imprisonment. Tremouille was past harming. He hanged himself with his braces in his cell on the night of his arrest.
It was quite dark when Littlejohn, the Archdeacon and Knell reached Grenaby parsonage. The old man was upset by the day's events and could hardly speak for emotion, until they once more ran through the ring of trees round the hamlet and heard the river driving its way under the bridge. The very atmosphere seemed to change. "It'll get you. . . . You'll see," Colquitt had said, and it was true. This seemed a new and peaceful world.
Knell left them at the door.
"I'll see you to-morrow, Knell. And thanks for all your help. Without you, I'd never have managed it, and I shall see you are commended to the proper quarter."
Knell's heavy breathing could be heard in the dark. He was a proud man and was itching to get off to St. Mark's and celebrate it and give a full account of it all to Millie Teare.
"Good night, sir. Good night, Mr. Kinrade. . . ."
His feet crunched down the path and they could hear them for a long time, until he reached the car at the gate, started it up, and whined off in the distance, noisily changing gears as he took the hill.
The night was clear, with stars. Out at sea the siren of a steamer sounded and the owls in the trees began to hoot. They went indoors where Mrs. Keggin was laying the table.
"It's all over, Maggie. . . . Kenneth won't come to much harm now. . . ."
She burst into tears, thr
ew her apron over her head, and groped her way to the kitchen.
On the table under the window lay a fishing-rod and a shot-gun, just where the Archdeacon had left them when they'd called for him earlier in the day. He touched them gently.
"I suppose you'll want to be getting home, now. All this will have made you weary of this place. . . ."
Littlejohn could hardly hear what he said.
"On the contrary, sir. It's all the better for what we've done. Now I can really enjoy it. To-morrow the holiday begins. . . . We'll both be afoot as soon as you're ready. And heaven help the rabbits and the little fishes."
They sat down together in the lamplight before the homely meal, the parson said grace, and they fell to, like the old comrades they were.
It was then that Littlejohn realized that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. . . .
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?
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 26