“Oh. I thought it was some more of them newspaper men or nosey parkers. They’ve never bin away since the murder.”
She didn’t seem afraid of murder. On the contrary, she rolled the word round her tongue with relish.
The policemen descended and joined her.
A small old woman who lived in the cottage next door and had kept house for John Grebe in his lifetime. A widow of a retired customs officer, she looked about seventy, but was surprisingly nimble and intelligent. She wore black clothes and her white hair in a bun on the top of her head. Her bright dark eyes missed nothing. She held her head on one side and hunched her shoulder against it...probably a deformity.
“I’ve had reporters round, offering me money to get in the house, but Mr. Flewker, the lawyer, said nobody except the police was to come in unless he said so...Is it true that hussy Lucy Binks from the Barlow Arms has come into Mr. Grebe’s money and this house? Because, if it is, I’ve finished.”
“I really couldn’t say, Mrs. Sattenstall. Mr. Flewker’ll be over after the will’s published.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her to have wheedled it out of him. After all, since he quarrelled with Mr. Tom, Mr. Grebe hasn’t had anybody in the world as far as I know. Just what that hussy wanted.”
“Chief Inspector Littlejohn will be coming to look round. I’ve given him the key.”
“That’s all right.”
“Nothing else, Mrs. Sattenstall? Reporters and sightseers. No post or anything?”
The old lady fumbled in her pocket, which was somewhere in an underskirt beneath her voluminous outer clothes. She finally produced three postcards, which she held firmly, in spite of the efforts of Silence to snatch them.
“These didn’t come by post. I mean, not since Mr. Grebe died. He must have got them before.”
“But we searched the place.”
Silence was getting nettled.
“They were in the teapot there.”
On the shelf of the dresser stood an old-fashioned pewter teapot, glistening from Mrs. Sattenstall’s elbow grease.
“He used to keep some loose change in it and I went to it when I had to pay the milkman and the grocer and the like.”
She clung to the cards, intent on telling a full tale before surrendering them.
“...This mornin’, the bread man came to say we owed for last week, two and fourpence, so I went to the teapot for it. There I found these three cards. Mr. Grebe must ‘ave put them there for some reason or other. Why, I don’t know. Here you are.”
They took them to the window to examine them.
All three were cheap coloured picture postcards, sold for a penny or twopence because the views were out of date.
A picture of London Bridge with horse traffic crossing, but bearing the postmark of a week ago. The message and address were printed in bold illiterate pencil.
MR. J. GREBE ESQUIRE, ELMER’S CREEK.
So you’ve hiden youself away there have you.
I’m on my way you old swine, Leo.
Littlejohn examined it carefully. It was grubby and like the other two, bore a twopence halfpenny stamp. Probably it had been handled too much for fingerprints to be of any use.
The second card was of Warwick Castle and dated two days later than the first by Warwick Post Office.
Getting a bit nearer you dirty dog
Be seeing you soon and then. Leo.
The last effort bore a Tidmarsh postmark on the day before John Grebe’s death. A cheap view of a main street.
Right on your dorstep now eh. You’ll soon get vats coming to you dear old pal (I don’t think—) Leo.
Littlejohn put the three cards in his pocket.
“We’ll be crossing for the conference with the Superintendent and the rest of you after lunch, Silence. I’d like to keep these cards till then.”
They thanked Mrs. Sattenstall, locked the house, and then Littlejohn and Cromwell saw Silence off on his trip back on the Falbright Belle.
“What do you make of it, Cromwell?”
They were walking along the jetty back to the Barlow Arms.
“Who’s Leo, sir? He seems to have been out for Old Grebe’s blood. It looks as if the case won’t be so difficult after all. Once we can lay our hands on Leo, whoever he might be.”
“That may not be so hard, either. Did you get a look at Lucy, the waitress at the Barlow Arms?”
“I can’t say I did. I didn’t see her face.”
“She didn’t want either of us to see her. I just happened to get a quick glance by accident. I was sure I’d seen her somewhere before, but couldn’t bring to mind where. The name Leo has brought it all back.”
“Lucy Binks, Silence called her.”
“Yes, but it’s not Binks, at all. She’s Lily Fowler.”
Cromwell halted in his stride.
“Lily Fowler! Well I’ll be damned! But as I said, I didn’t get a look at her face. The Balham Bank robbery.”
“That’s it. Her brother was involved and she appeared in court to give him an alibi, which was rejected, and she almost went down for perjury. Her brother got four years and, from my calculations, should just be out of gaol...Leo Fowler.”
Cromwell thumped the palm of one hand with the fist of the other.
“An open and shut case. Old Grebe has been carrying on with Lily, or Lucy, while her brother’s been in gaol, and now that Leo’s out, he’s after the old man’s blood.”
“Yes, but why? John Grebe seems to have treated Lily very well. He’s even left her all he’s got.”
“Leo knew it and put Old John out of the way so that he and Lily could get it.”
“A bit risky.”
“The next thing is to find Leo.”
“The first thing is to have a word with Lily, or Lucy. Here we are.”
A smell of cooking in the Barlow Arms and a few guests, mainly locals, already starting to eat in the dining-room. Fred Braid himself was acting as waiter and didn’t look pleased about it. He shambled from the kitchen to the tables and back again, a scowl on his heavy, unpleasant face.
“Lunch is served,” he said over his shoulder as Littlejohn and Cromwell hung up their hats. Then he halted.
“New job for me. Lucy’s done a bunk. Waits till lunch is nearly ready and then clears out, bag and baggage, and after all we’ve done for ’er...What’s bitten ’im?”
Littlejohn was in the telephone box dialling the Falbright police.
Silence had just got back. No, Lucy Binks wasn’t on the ferry. There was, however, a bus which left just before for Freckleby. She might have got that and hoped to catch a train at the main line there.
“Lay it all on, then, Silence. She might even have thumbed a lift. She mustn’t get away. If necessary, put down road blocks.”
“Whatever’s the matter, sir? She’s only a waitress and, besides, she was on duty when the ferry left the night Old John was killed. We checked that when we questioned the Braids.”
“She happens to be Leo’s sister.”
“Leo? Who...? Good Lord!”
Littlejohn joined Cromwell in the hall.
“Nothing more we can do for the present, except be patient, not only with Lily, but also with Braid’s table manners. Come on. Let’s eat.”
Through the window of the dining room, which gave a full view of the promenade and the whole of Balbeck Bay, they could see first Mrs. Dixon emerge from the house and address her husband still among the carrots. Presumably the telephone. Dixon slowly followed his wife and in next to no time emerged clad in uniform and running. With all speed, he vanished in the direction of the main road.
With trembling hands, Braid served steak-and-kidney pie, swearing under his breath.
4 THE LONG QUEST OF JOHN GREBE
A VERY unilluminating conference with the Falbright police. The Chief Constable, Superintendent Lecky, Inspector Silence, and the two Scotland Yard detectives sat round a table and talked for two hours, examining reports and photographs, all to
little purpose. Specialists came in and out when required. The fingerprint experts had been all over the cottage and the bridge of the Falbright Jenny, but produced nothing helpful. The medical report was formal, but made by a very intelligent and careful man. A stab in the back had passed through the aorta and killed Grebe instantly. It also revealed cirrhosis of the liver which would soon have put paid to the old captain in any case. One sentence of the autopsy report interested Littlejohn:
The wound was a strange one. A savage gash, fairly deep, and then a long tapering wound right to the heart. It is difficult to even guess the type of weapon. Like a stiletto wound with part of the handle thrust in as well.
“Grebe was a heavy drinker then?”
Littlejohn was leaning with his elbows on the table and his cold pipe between his teeth. He was bored and wanted to get the session over, return to Elmer’s Creek, and live again for a while against the background of Old John Grebe.
“I never saw him drunk, but he could shift rum with anybody. When Grebe and his buddies settled down for a proper session...well.”
Silence nodded to emphasize his point.
“Who were his buddies?”
Littlejohn thumbed over the duplicate file they’d given him. It contained to the last detail all the points which the pompous fussy Chief Constable insisted on airing over and over again. But no names of Grebe’s friends.
“Mainly Captain Bacon, from Peshall Hall, and Dr. Horrocks. Sometimes Brett, the parish clerk, joined them. Grebe spent a lot of time with Bacon.”
“Who’s Bacon?”
“A retired director of a shipping line. A small set-up with about four coasters which plied between here and Liverpool and generally took short cargoes to and from places like continental ports just across the Channel, Scandinavia and Ireland. Bacon had some shares and was a sort of commodore of the fleet. Then, when he got past tossing about in the little tubs, he joined the board of the line. Six months after that, they got themselves taken over by one of the larger companies and Bacon, among others, made quite a packet. He bought Peshall Hall, which was empty at the time, and did it up. It’s not a large place, but too big for him, and what with his drinkin’ and such, he’s let it go to ruin again a bit. It’s said he bought it because it once belonged to his family and he’d always sworn if he ever came into money...”
It looked as if Silence was going to talk indefinitely and the Chief Constable was clearing his throat ready to stop him when the door opened and a bobby put in his head.
“Excuse me, sir, but we’ve got them.”
“Who?”
“Leo and Lily Fowler. The Freckleby police found them at the Junction waiting for the London train, sir. Lily had got a lift with the guard on the goods line from Elmer’s Creek, and Leo was waiting for her.”
“Where are they?”
“Over at Elmer’s Creek, sir.”
The Chief Constable turned mauve.
“What the hell are they doin’ there?”
“There must have been a misunderstanding about the instructions. Freckleby thought Chief Inspector Littlejohn’s headquarters were at the police station at Elmer’s Creek.”
Littlejohn daren’t catch Cromwell’s eye, otherwise they’d both have laughed.
“Well...Tell ’em to bring the pair of them over here right away. Were you saying somethin’, Chief Inspector?”
“Perhaps I could see them over there first? After all, they aren’t under arrest. Unless you think it better, sir.”
“The case is in your hands, Littlejohn. Do as you like. But I’d have thought...Are you goin’ over now?”
“Yes, sir. There’s nothing to detain us here at present?”
“No. Keep me fully informed.”
Over the river again and along the road to the Elmer’s Creek police station. It was a simple place, a little police office in the front room and a house behind. P.C. Dixon was waiting for them at the garden gate, saluted them, opened it, and led them inside. They could hear the children noisily playing and a dog barking in the back. Dixon left them for a minute to restore quiet.
“What are you all doin’ kicking up a row indoors? Go and play on the shore for a bit.”
Dixon insisted on Littlejohn occupying the only chair in the office. Cromwell leaned against the wall. There was a large map of the district on one wall, police notices on the others, and a coloured picture of Winston Churchill over the small fireplace which held a gas fire.
P.C. Dixon must have been holding Lily and Leo Fowler in the cells, for he quickly disappeared and returned hustling them in front of him like a dog with two sheep.
Leo was tall and thin. A bit elegant in a flashy kind of way. A long narrow face, with bright little dark eyes, a thin hooked nose, a sharp chin. His eyelids were heavy and hooded his eyes, and he looked exhausted. His thin hair receded from his narrow forehead and he wore it long in the neck. He had on a blue serge sailor’s suit with a shabby reefer jacket, and yellow shoes with narrow toes. He entered the room reluctantly, obviously opposed to anything the police wanted him to do.
This time they got a good look at Lily, too. She wore a costume with a green jumper underneath it. Out of her black waitress’s dress she looked better, even in her ill-fitting readymade clothes. She was dark and plump with fine eyes and a firm neck and voluptuous bosom. But now she wasn’t at her best. She seemed defeated. Her make-up was thoroughly dilapidated and the lipstick which remained here and there on her mouth was smeared about anyhow.
“Find them a couple of chairs, Dixon, will you, please?” Leo looked hard at Littlejohn and smiled with slow insolence.
“So it’s you, is it? And what are you doing in a one-eyed hole like this, Inspector?”
Cromwell took his hands out of his pockets and looked ready to smack Leo.
“That’ll do, Leo. Speak when you’re spoken to.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you. And by what right are we brought ’ere? You ’aven’t anythin’ on us. And you’ve kept us waitin’ long enough, too. Sittin’ in a stinkin’ little cell.”
“I gave you some tea, didn’t I?”
Dixon struggling with a couple of huge dining-chairs from his house behind, was quick to defend himself.
“Tea ! What I want to know is...”
“Did I tell you to shut up, Leo?”
Cromwell advanced half a step.
“We’re here of our own free will, then, and don’t you forget it.”
Compared with Lily, Leo was a poor type. They were said to be brother and sister, but, with the exception of the way in which Lily had tried to protect him in the past, you wouldn’t have thought it. Leo was a corner-boy, a smart Alec after easy money; Lily looked respectable, even in her shabby black suit.
Littlejohn lit his pipe and gave Leo and Lily a cigarette apiece.
“You first, Leo. Let me see, how old are you?”
Leo got to his feet and Cromwell pushed him down again.
“Behave yourself, Leo. It’ll be over all the sooner.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And Lily?”
“Twenty-eight.”
The answer came from the girl herself in a quiet resigned voice.
“Brother and sister, aren’t you? Is that a straight blood relationship?”
Lily replied.
“I’m his half-sister. As you know already from the other case, I was illegitimate and I was nearly two when Leo’s father married my mother and took me on as his own kid. Leo was born a year after they got married.”
“And you took his name?”
“For convenience. It avoided awkward questions, like.”
“You’re fond of Leo, aren’t you, Lily?”
“Mother died when we were seven and ten. I’d to look after dad and Leo.”
Leo shuffled in his seat and ground out his cigarette under his heel on the floor.
“What is all this? No need to go into all the fam’ly ‘istory, is there?”
; Littlejohn looked him in the face.
“I just couldn’t understand her being so fond of a chap like you, Leo. However... What were you doing here till you left a few nights ago?”
“A chap can call to see his sister, can’t he?”
“Was that all you came for?”
“What else?”
“Did you send for him, Lily?”
“He only came out three weeks since. I went to the prison to meet him. Nobody here knew, but you know about it all. He wouldn’t come with me right away. Wanted to see some friends, he said. I told him I could get him a job here. A week ago, he arrived.”
“Broke, I suppose, and after some money from you?”
Her eyes flared.
“After a stretch in jail, what do you expect? He wasn’t rolling in it. Matter of fact, he hitchhiked all the way here from London.”
“Sending postcards on the way?”
Leo suddenly looked interested.
“What do you mean?”
He was used to the police by now and there was malice in his voice.
Littlejohn took the three postcards from his pocket and flung them across the desk. Leo picked them up and examined them and Lily rose and looked over his shoulder.
“I never sent these.”
“I thought not. You wouldn’t be such a fool, would you, Leo?”
“Look ’ere. Wot the ’ell...? Are you tryin’ to pin the old buffer’s death on me? Because, if you are...”
“You’ve never seen those cards before?”
“I said so.”
“That’s not your writing?”
“Look. I’m not an educated bloke, but I can do better than that. W-A-T...wot. D-O-R-S-T-E-P...doorstep. I’m not as bad a speller as all that. Besides, I never set eyes on the captain before I got ’ere.”
“Are you sure?”
“What he says is right, Inspector.”
Lily was obviously speaking the truth.
“How did you come to know Grebe, Lily?”
“I met him in a transport cafe in Southwark, down by the docks. He called one day. I hadn’t been well and I nearly fainted at the time he was in. He was very kind and called to see me a day or two after. I said I was all right; just a bit run down. Then, what does he do, but offer to get me a job here? I wasn’t struck on the idea because I’m a London girl and I get bored when I’m out of town, but I wasn’t well and I wanted a change. So I came for the season. He looked after me all the time I was ’ere and said I needn’t feel short of a home. I could always call to see him at his place. Which I did, a time or two. Nothing wrong.”
Death Drops the Pilot Page 4