They all seemed to have little to say to each other. Even the mayor realised the gaffe he had made and stood there licking his lips nervously. He couldn’t even offer anybody a drink with Todd and Richards half-way through their meal.
‘I just thought it my duty to see that you and the Chief Superintendent knew one another. . . .’
And then a fury of indignation seized the mayor.
‘After all, I am responsible for the morale, the well-being, of this town and it is up to me to see that this crime is solved as quickly as possible. People are afraid . . . Some are saying it is the work of a criminal lunatic and some, even now, are staying indoors after dark. . . .’
With that, Mr. Pollitt turned on his heel and made for the door in as dignified a way as possible.
Kenneth Todd shrugged his shoulders.
‘Mr. Mayor seems to be losing his head under the strain. All of us are anxious to see the end of this affair, most of all me. Meanwhile, please excuse his outburst. Perhaps you and I, Chief Superintendent, could meet tomorrow to discuss matters. I am quite at your service and will be in my office all day if you care to call there. It is late now and I hope you will excuse us if we get on with our meal. . . .’
‘Of course. I’m sorry you have been disturbed. Good night.’
But before he reached the door, the anxious head of Hopkinson appeared round it. He hurried to Littlejohn.
‘There’s a police sergeant waiting to see you in the hall, sir. They’ve found the dinghy in a place called Strine Cove, some distance round the coast. They’ve towed her in to Portwich where the technical men are examining her. The sergeant wishes to know if you have any instructions?’
‘Not at present, thanks, Hoppy. I’ve had enough instructions for one night. I’m going to bed now.’
Hopkinson looked surprised. He glanced anxiously at the book in his hand in which he’d been making notes. Then he put it in his pocket.
The sergeant was standing in the hall waiting for the results of his visit. Littlejohn went to him, thanked him for his report and bade him good night. The sergeant, who must have been expecting exciting new moves following the information, also looked surprised and then smiled broadly and took his leave.
‘He’s a cool one’ he told the night staff. ‘After I broke the news, he thanked me and went straight to bed.’
At the bar, the mayor was trying to impress the stragglers.
‘I’ve put my foot down. I told them to get a move on. This is a murder, not a picinic. . . .’
‘Thass right,’ said a sympathiser, and bought him a double brandy.
Chapter 3
Strange Interview
The Town Hall clock was striking eight when Littlejohn awoke. Then the carillon battled hesitantly through All Things Bright and Beautiful. He hadn’t slept very well, because the clock chimed the quarters and struck the hours all through the night. Although Littlejohn didn’t know it, there was contention going on between the regulars of the Trident and the burgesses of Fordinghurst; the former agitating for the stoppage of the clock during the hours of darkness and the latter, with the exception of the mayor, stubbornly set against any silencing of what had been going on for over 300 years.
When Littlejohn looked down from his window the sun was shining over the port. Already some of the boats had left and the white sails of early risers were visible on the horizon. On some of the other craft, still tied up, men were tinkering about making ready for off and the crane was busy hoisting containers from a ship which had arrived during the night.
On his way to breakfast he met a new arrival, a sunburnt hearty man who was obviously in on the tide and was shouting greetings familiarly to the staff and anyone else interested.
‘Here we are again. . . .’
There were dregs of coffee and the remains of bacon and eggs on the cup and plate still on Littlejohn’s table. Albert arrived solicitously brandishing a menu card.
‘Has my colleague had breakfast already, Albert?’
‘Yes, sir. He was down about eight and I saw him later entering the police station.’
Littlejohn ate a leisurely breakfast and read the morning paper. One or the other of the local reporters had done well for himself and his effort occupied a column and a half. There were pictures as well. The body being carried ashore to the ambulance and another of Littlejohn and Hoppy talking with Bradfield at the door of the police station. That ought to please Hoppy!
MURDER AT SEA
SCOTLAND YARD GALLED IN
The quiet little yachtsmen’s paradise, Fordinghurst, suddenly found itself on the map yesterday . . . The mayor, Mr. Samuel Pollitt, was confident that the case would soon be solved. ‘Although this is a quiet little place, our C.I.D. is first-class,’ he told me. . . .
‘Where is Todds’ warehouse, Albert?’
‘Right opposite over the bridge, sir.’
There was a swing bridge across the river where it joined the harbour, and a main road ran along the far bank. Beyond, a long low building with a traffic entrance under an archway. It might at one time have been a small brewery built of stone and a large extension in brick had been made later. Littlejohn lit his pipe and strolled across.
He found himself in the older part of the town. Behind Todds’ place there were old houses and some narrow streets and, by the waterside, a neglected shipbuilder’s yard with a small partly-finished boat on the stocks.
Littlejohn made his way through the archway and into the cobbled yard beyond, where lorries were being loaded with cases of bottled red and white wine. Casks were standing about in corners and there was a pleasant smell of alcohol on the air. It emerged from a wide doorway labelled Bottling Dept. A man standing for long in the main blast might find himself half-drunk in a very short time. In passing, Littlejohn examined one of the empty casks and a workman taking tally in a book of all the crates which were loaded paused to greet him.
‘Good morning, sir. Those casks are getting a bit out of date now. They do say that soon the wine will come over in tankers. . . .’
The new wing stood on one side of the yard and there were the administrative buildings indicated by a sign, Offices. Littlejohn crossed the cobbles without any interference from the group of men handling cases and rolling barrels around. After so much shaking and hurling about, the reverential serving of the wine by waiters and fussy drinkers seemed a superfluous ceremony.
The offices were modern and airy and the faint scent of wine pervaded them as well. Littlejohn halted at a door marked Counting House Inquiries. Enter., and following the instruction found a young girl occupying a cubby-hole a little larger than a sentry-box and filing her nails. She took his card, read it with no sign of emotion, and disappeared leisurely into the interior.
‘Mr. Todd will see you. . . .’
Kenneth Todd, with his greying hair carefully cut and plastered down on his head, his washed-out blue eyes and his lined face, was nondescript. He looked older than his years. He had been stated to be 47; he looked nearer 60. Which was perhaps not to be wondered at, if, as seemed to be the case, he was devoted to his business and little else, had been under his mother’s thumb until late in life, and had borne the burden of his spendthrift brother’s misdoings into the bargain.
Todd wore a well-cut grey suit and a white shirt, both of which emphasised his sallow complexion, and he was perfectly groomed. Not a hair out of place. One would imagine him to be thorough and finicky in all he did. Everything neatly in its place, every move carefully thought out, not much imagination, and little, if any, humour.
‘Good morning, Littlejohn. Please take a seat. I won’t be a minute . . . ’
He put his head round the door of an adjacent room in which a typewriter was clacking busily. He gave instructions to someone unseen and shortly afterwards a girl with her legs showing almost to her waistline entered with a decanter of wine and glasses on a silver tray.
‘A glass of wine . . .?’
He poured out a glass for each of th
em with the precision of long practice and then sat down behind his desk, crossed his legs, and sighed.
It was a pleasant, red, full-bodied wine very different from the vin ordinaire in which the firm was said to specialise. Todd drank without any fuss. None of the tricks of squinting at the colour, sniffing the bouquet and smacking the lips around the first mouthful. Littlejohn guessed that the wine had been served ready decanted to keep the label secret. Todd seemed the sort who kept the doings of his left hand hidden from his right.
It was all done in a methodical, careworn way and Littlejohn began to wonder how long they were going to be before they got down to brass tacks.
‘You are doubtless in possession of details of my brother’s murder . . .?’
It came out suddenly, à propos of nothing much.
‘I have all the police reports, sir.’
Todd rose and paced up and down the room as though carefully weighing his words and wondering how to express them. Then, suddenly, like a man at the end of his tether under prolonged pressure, he resumed his seat and began to talk.
‘You know, then, that my brother led a rather . . . a rather strange life. One might even call it wild or irresponsible. He had many queer friends. . . . I’m sorry if I seem to speak thus of the dead, but you will doubtless come upon the information one way or another, if you haven’t heard already. You may as well have it from me.’
He filled up their glasses again, more, it seemed, for something to do than anything else.
‘My brother, although a director of the family firm, did little to further our interests. He was a spendthrift. He almost ruined us once. My mother had to sell her jewellery. . . .’
Todd had grown quite uninhibited already about his brother’s character and history. He seemed set on taking advantage of the interview to get the resentment of years off his mind.
‘He would never have remained on our board if my mother had not insisted. For almost no services whatever he drew a small salary, director’s fees and interest on his shares. He had no dignity or consideration for our family.’
‘He was married?’
‘Yes; and treated his wife badly. She is a refined woman of great integrity and has tolerated his conduct only out of consideration for the family and her children.’
‘There are children then?’
‘Two young boys, at school. I have had to pay their fees for many years.’
‘There were other women in his life?’
Littlejohn thought he’d better put the question mildly, but Todd had no such scruples.
‘He had quite a number of mistresses in the course of his rackety career. They came and went. The occasion when he almost ruined the family occurred when he became co-respondent in a sordid divorce case. A married woman was his mistress and her husband sued Hector for all he’d got and more besides. The company wasn’t doing very well at the time. Our French suppliers had suffered a bad wine season and we made a loss. It was touch and go. . . . You’d have thought Hector had had his lesson. But no. A year later, he was as bad as ever.’
‘It is important that we should know as much as possible about the state of your brother’s personal and financial position at the time of his death. His murder might have arisen through a woman.’
Todd shrugged his shoulders wearily.
‘It’s a wonder it didn’t happen before. I did my best to keep posted about his philandering. I had no wish to have our family embarrassed again by his folly. But, strange to say, he didn’t appear to have any affairs in process with women at the time of his death.’
In process! That was a good one! Todd might have been discussing wine blending instead of his brother’s antics.
‘He had recently broken off a liaison . . .?’
‘The lady had done so. She must have met someone nearer her own age. She was only 21. After she found his charm was wearing thin she changed her affections and ran off with a racing motor-cyclist. They won’t come back here. He left bills all over the place.’
‘What were their names?’
‘The motorist was called Charlie Blunt. I never met the girl. I think her name was Morgan. Her father is the landlord of an hotel in Portwich.’
‘You seem very well posted about your brother’s affairs, sir? Did you employ an inquiry agent?’
‘No. I didn’t need to do that. Our representatives visit most of the licensed houses within a radius of 50 miles from here. They therefore cover a good field for information and gossip. They keep me informed.’
‘You must have distrusted your brother very much, sir, if you commissioned your travellers to report all they heard about him in public houses. . . . ’
Littlejohn deliberately risked the impertinent comment to discover Todd’s reaction. Todd had his feelings well in hand, if he had any at all. He refilled the glasses with calm deliberation.
‘It was the best way I could think of. The representatives can be trusted to be discreet. They are old family servants.’
The excellent wine was spreading an atmosphere of relaxation and confidence and Littlejohn was sorry that he hadn’t yet got a full grasp of the case. He might have asked Todd some intimate questions.
‘I haven’t yet inspected the boat on which your brother died, but I gather it was a fine cabin cruiser. Where do you think the money for such an expensive purchase came from?’
‘He never told me and I haven’t yet had time or occasion to go into the matter. I don’t even know whether or not he’d paid for it. Until I have looked into his affairs your guess is as good as mine.’
Instinctively, Littlejohn knew then that Todd was not telling him all he knew.
‘Do you know who might have been with your brother on the boat on the night he was killed?’
‘I have no idea. If I knew I’d have told you right away.’
‘Where were you, sir, on the night of Mr. Hector’s death?’
Todd hadn’t thought of that one! He looked at Littlejohn and lowered his eyes at his steady gaze. Then he rose and paced the room again.
‘What are you getting at? Surely, you don’t think . . . ’
‘I don’t think anything. It was a simple routine question.’
Without any effort on his part, Todd’s hair seemed to have become suddenly dishevelled. He smoothed it down with one hand.
‘I was in London with our Paris merchants. I left Portwich by the morning train to London. I entertained them all day in between discussing business. We parted about ten in the evening and I went straight to my hotel room at the Imperial Palace and slept until seven the following morning, when I caught the 9.05 back to Portwich. I must have been in bed and asleep at the time my brother was killed. I never take the car to London. Driving there is appalling.’
‘When did you last see Mr. Hector?’
‘About eight on the night before I left for London. He called to see my mother. Money, of course. He wanted an advance in anticipation of his director’s fees and dividend. It was always that way. Now that he is dead I guess his debts will come home to roost.’
‘Did your mother provide the money?’
‘Yes. She always did. She gave him a cheque for £300.’
‘That, I suppose, he would pay into the bank?’
‘I’ve no idea. It was too large for him to cash in a public house. He made a practice of doing that with small cheques.’
‘I shall have to speak with your mother, sir. Would there be any difficulty about that?’
‘No. I suggest you call with condolences and then tactfully ask her the questions you have in mind. Please be careful, though. She is old now and although her mind is as alert as ever this has been a shock to her and she must not be upset. Is that understood?’
‘Of course. I will, if I may, call again to see you, too, when the case has been opened up and I need further help.’
‘Do that. I am in most of the day.’
Todd seemed uneasy. It was as if he didn’t wish Littlejohn to go. As though he felt that many
things had been left unsaid and he wanted to get them off his mind.
‘I’ve been very candid with you, Chief Superintendent. . . . ’
‘I appreciate that, sir.’
There was a pause. Outside, loading and unloading continued. The place was very busy and prosperous. Todd seemed detached from it all and didn’t even look through the windows to keep an eye on what was going on.
‘I suppose you think me disloyal to my brother’s memory in some of the things I’ve told you?’
‘No. As you said yourself, it was as well that the information should come direct from you. The truth from you is better than the surmise of other people.’
Another pause.
‘Have you anything else you wish to tell me?’
Littlejohn had been on his feet ready for off. Now he sat down again.
Suddenly, the telephone rang. Todd picked up the instrument with a gesture of annoyance.
‘Didn’t I say I wasn’t to be disturbed? What! A strike! Well, you’ll have to arrange to ship to another port. Try Lowestoft. . . . ’
And he hung up. The interlude had helped him to recover his balance.
‘I may as well confess to you that I never got on with my brother. Everyone in the town knows it. Your asking me where I was when he was killed makes me, in spite of your denial of it, think that I’m one of your suspects. I did not kill Hector. So forget it. I tolerated his conduct enough when he was alive. I will not suffer the final indignity of being suspected of this death!’
‘I have said nothing to make you think that.’
‘But it entered your mind. Let me tell you what I have had to put up with from Hector since we were children. . . . ’
It was fantastic. Either Todd was afraid of being a suspect, or even more, accused of his brother’s murder, or else he had a paranoid hatred of his brother, bottled up during Heck’s life, which was now suddenly released under the strain, and he was at the end of his patience. There was something almost Biblical in this hatred of one brother for another.
Murder Adrift Page 3