Death Drops the Pilot

by George Bellairs

  “She’s got a nerve, anyway. Thomas, Robert, Chickabiddy. Who does she think she is?”

  “I don’t know. But she won’t last long at this rate. Solitary drinking...She’s obviously tottering on the verge of D.T.’s. And nobody can do anything about it. I guess she realized what she owed to old Iremonger when it was too late.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “I’ve never had a word with Captain Bacon alone. Let’s try the Hall. It’s only a few minutes from here. He was a buddy of Grebe’s and put up some cash for the smuggling on the Euryanthe. I wonder how far he’s mixed up in all this. At any rate, we want a proper alibi from him.”

  “You don’t suspect...?”

  “No. I don’t know who killed Grebe, but I soon will. This day’s work should bring it to light. Thanks mainly to you, old chap.”

  Old chap! Cromwell glowed. He’d rather have that than all the medals in the world and all the tea in China!

  “But where do we go from here, sir?”

  “To the Hall.”

  They were there already. The main gates were closed. The lions rampant looked ready to fall upon the heavy metal gates and tear them apart. The lodge seemed lifeless, too. The door shut, and not a sound to be heard. Charlie the Cheat was probably somewhere with his dog, hunting rabbits for the pot or else with his pals drinking.

  Littlejohn opened the gate and he and Cromwell went through. He felt as he bent to fasten the latch that someone was watching him and, turning quickly, saw that the dark, handsome woman whom he’d previously assumed was Charlie’s daughter, was staring at them through the window of the cottage. Her thick hair was dishevelled and her eyes fixed and hunted-looking. Suddenly she withdrew and the Chief Inspector imagined her on the house-telephone, ringing up the Hall to tell them strangers were approaching.

  The drive with its double line of old trees was untidy. Moss growing over the gravel; tall, unkempt rhododendrons in shaggy clumps; sour earth; dead leaves; rank grass...all the way to the house, which suddenly came in view.

  The building wasn’t unattractive from the front and, at one time, must have been a fine place. Stone-built, low and flanked by two ugly towers obviously added later, it looked poverty-stricken and desolate. The lawn in front was neglected, the flower beds overgrown with weeds and grass, the roses gone wild.

  They rang the bell and, after a time, Captain Bacon himself answered the door. He didn’t speak at first, but his looks were enough. His jaw dropped and his purple cheeks flushed.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Could we have a few words with you?”

  “Couldn’t it have waited till I came to the village tonight?”

  “It’s urgent.”

  “Come in, then. You can hardly stand there on the doorstep.”

  He made way for them to enter. The air of the place smelled musty. Like carpets and hangings riddled with moths and dust. The hall was too big for its contents. Old furniture which seemed too small, a carpet which didn’t fit, shabby antiques out of keeping, and anything old and graceful already far-gone in decay. The paint had almost disappeared from the walls and woodwork. There were patches more vivid than the rest where large pieces of furniture or pictures had been removed. The unmistakable odour of dry rot hung about.

  Bacon, in his pride, had bought the home of his forefathers, and then he hadn’t been able to keep it up.

  They entered the living room, which might have been the only habitable one in the place, for it contained everything needed for day-to-day existence. Books, a writing desk too full of old papers to close properly, a dining table with the remnants of a hasty lunch still on a tray, a sideboard cluttered up with bottles, dirty glasses, apples lying in a pile without a dish, a banana...The furniture was heavy and ugly, the pattern of the frayed carpet had completely disappeared, the rug was in ribbons, and the fireplace in which a small wood fire was smouldering, obviously hadn’t been cleared out for days. In one corner stood a large brass oil lamp; in another a harp. Littlejohn wondered about the harp...

  “Well?”

  Bacon was smoking his pipe. He neither asked his visitors to sit down nor offered them tobacco or drinks.

  “Well...”

  “We’re just checking events again on the night Captain Grebe met his death, sir. You were at the Barlow Arms.”

  “I’ve already told you all I know. Horrocks and I left at ten o’clock. Horrocks walked with me part way and we parted at his door about ten past ten. I came straight on home. Nobody saw me after I left Horrocks, so I’ve no alibi. But I didn’t kill Grebe. Why should I ?”

  “You were involved in rather risky business with him just before the war, weren’t you, Captain Bacon?”

  Bacon grew dull purple again.

  “I don’t like the word risky, Littlejohn. It has an unpleasant sound.”

  “But it was risky. You financed the running of the Euryanthe between England and Germany, ostensibly helping refugees but actually bringing dope.”

  “Who’s told you that, because it’s a damn lie?”

  “Mr. Irernonger didn’t know his ship was being used for the drug racket, but his wife, Grebe, and their partners did. You and Dr. Horrocks were partners.”

  “We didn’t know about the dope till after. It must have been Grebe’s sideline. I tell you, there was no quarrel between Grebe and me on that score and I’ll trouble you to keep my name out of it. Or else, I’ll...”

  “You’ll what, sir?”

  “Don’t try to make me lose my temper, Littlejohn. I’m not the only one who thinks we’d have done far better without Scotland Yard interferin’ in this case. Our own police would have solved it long ago.”

  “In what way, may I ask?”

  “Plain as the nose on your face. That fellow Fowler...He was master of the Euryanthe when Grebe was runnin’ her. He nursed a grievance against Grebe because he, Fowler, got caught by the German police and spent a long term in gaol. He came here to settle with Grebe, and he did it. I don’t understand you, Littlejohn. Why haven’t you charged Fowler with the murder? What’s holding you back?”

  “I have good reasons.”

  “A hunch.”

  Bacon sneered and laughed a mocking laugh. He was trying to make Littlejohn lose his temper and was enjoying trying to humiliate him.

  “You seem to know all about the case, Captain Bacon. You’ve learned all the facts from somewhere and you’ve got it all cut and dried. Why weren’t you at court the morning Fowler came before the magistrates? Would it have embarrassed you to meet him?”

  “How dare you? I’ll...”

  “Or were you afraid? You and your friends are too eager to have Leo Fowler charged and hanged. Far too eager. I almost think you’re hiding something. You’re either implicated in this crime, or else you’re covering-up. Let me go on! All this crowd of villagers here...The postman, the landlord of the Barlow Arms, the local barber, Mrs. Liddell of the Saracen’s Head, your gatekeeper at the lodge, the sulky natives of the place. All hanging together in a conspiracy of silence led by their decayed gentry...Dr. Horrocks, Mrs. Iremonger, and you, sir. Even the bench of magistrates knows more than it will tell and fears to sit in court because of it.”

  Bacon bounded across the room and drew himself up in front of Littlejohn. He was at a disadvantage, because he lacked the necessary inches and had to stand on tiptoes to thrust his face in the Inspector’s.

  “I’ll break you for this. I’ve never had such impudence from an understrapper before. You’re behaving like a hooligan, Littlejohn. Yes, a hooligan. And now, I’ll trouble you to leave. I’ve no more to say to you and unless you withdraw what you’ve already said, I’ll report the whole matter to the Home Office. In which case, I presume you’ll deny you ever said it.”

  Littlejohn regarded the angry captain with a faint smile and looked down at him like a schoolmaster patiently waiting for a yelling pupil to shut up.

  “And now, sir, if you’ve quite finished abusing me, I’ll tell you one of the reasons for m
y call. I wanted you, as a magistrate, to sign a warrant for the arrest. But after your exhibition, I wouldn’t ask you in any circumstances. You don’t think I’m fit to hold my office as Chief Inspector. I, in turn, think you quite unworthy to hold the Commission of the Peace. I’ll go so far as to say, sir, you ought to be struck off the panel. Good afternoon.”

  Before Bacon could gather himself together, the detectives marched out of the room, down the shabby hall, and out of the front door. Behind them Bacon started to bellow.

  “I’ll set the dogs on you...Damned scoundrel. I’ll help you out of the grounds with a hound at your heels.”

  He flew in the direction of the kennels, waving his arms, shouting incoherently.

  But Charlie the Cheat had taken the dogs for a walk! Cromwell was the most indignant of the two.

  “For two pins I’d go back and beat the old swine up.”

  “Really, old chap. And you an officer of the law. Let’s go, and find Fothergill. We’re in for another exciting time there, I think.”

  From the main road, they could see the postman, still in his ill-fitting mufti, leaning over the wooden palings of his cottage in the field, talking to a man who looked like a farmer. His far-seeing eyes spotted the police officers and he waved his hand. Cromwell in reply made beckoning motions with the whole of his arm.

  “Let him come to us, sir. We’ve had enough of going after people.”

  “Have it your own way, Cromwell.”

  Fothergill showed no reluctance. He dismissed the farmer with gesticulations and strolled along the by-road to meet his visitors.

  “Once again, gents. Afternoon, Mr. Cromwell. Goin’ to give me my revenge to-night at the dartboard?”

  “We’ll see. The Chief Inspector wants a word with you.”

  Fothergill turned to Littlejohn with a smile on his face, but they couldn’t see whether his hidden eyes were smiling or not.

  “Only too pleased, sir. Any ’elp I can give?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no smile on Littlejohn’s face. His grey eyes were stone cold and seemed to bore right into Fothergill’s mind.

  “Yes, Mr. Fothergill. How long have you been blackmailing Mrs. Liddell?”

  Fothergill’s smile grew sickly and he looked hurt.

  “Me? Me, Mr. Littlejohn? Now, really...”

  “Don’t bandy words, Fothergill. Talk straight and quickly. Or else I’ll arrest you here and now as an accessory in the murder of John Grebe.”

  Fothergill removed his cap and mopped his sweating brows, and then all his swank and bounce left him. He even went at the knees and looked ready to collapse.

  “I didn’t do it, Mr. Littlejohn. I swear I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t do what, Fothergill?”

  “I didn’t kill Captain Grebe!”

  “Nobody’s accusing you of it, but you know a lot about it you haven’t told me. But first of all, what happened the day Jack Liddell died? You passed the Saracen’s Head just at the time Liddell met his death. You’d been rowing Mrs. Iremonger out to sea to put a wreath on the water and you left her on the shore to get a drink.”

  Fothergill’s jaw fell and his buck teeth protruded.

  “Who told you that, sir, because?”

  “Never mind the excuses. What did you see? I want the truth, this time. I know you were there.”

  “I was on my way for a drink and just as I came in sight of the Saracen, I saw Jack Liddell and ’is wife standin’ at the open door of the loft. Jack was movin’ a bale of hay and she was creepin’ up behind him. I stopped and watched.”

  “Were you hidden?”

  “Well. . . . They couldn’t see me from where I was, because of the hedge between.”

  “You were hidden and spying on them. That’s enough. Go on.”

  “Next thing, Jack had vanished, and when I got to the inn there he was, lyin’ in the yard.”

  “Did you go for help?”

  “No, sir. I was goin’ to go, but as I was on my way to the village for assistance, I saw the policeman and some others comin’ down to the Saracen.”

  “So you cleared off and did nothing. You even kept quiet at the inquest.”

  “What could I say, sir? I ask you. What could I say? Snyde ’ad told all he knew. I didn’t see Mrs. Liddell actually push Jack.”

  “You kept it all to yourself and later went to Mrs. Liddell and told her you knew everything, and you got her properly in your clutches. In fact, you’ve since behaved as though you owned the Saracen’s Head, sponging on Mrs. Liddell and throwing your weight about.”

  Fothergill tried to look indignant, but failed.

  “I’ve never been anythin’ but friendly, Mr. Littlejohn. If I’d told what I saw, I might ’ave got Esther Liddell in trouble, and after all, I didn’t see ’er push him.”

  “You told us that before. But you blackmailed her on the strength of it.”

  “I...I...”

  “Let’s leave that for the time being. What happened when Leo Fowler arrived? You were there, or turned up and started to throw your weight around as usual, I suppose. What did Leo say to that?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do, Fothergill, and I warn you...”

  “All I can say is that Fowler turned up, cheeky as you please, an’ started to bully Esther around. I ’appened to be there.”

  “I’m sure you did. Go on.”

  “You seem to ’ave got your knife in me for some reason, Mr. Littlejohn. I don’t know why. I haven’t done you any ’arm.”

  “I want to know what happened between Fowler and you.”

  “He assaulted me, Mr. Littlejohn. I’m not a violent man, sir, and I like to be left in peace. He nearly throttled me. He’s a terror when he’s roused and as strong as a n’ox.”

  “He asked you what you were doing there. Did you tell him the whole story?”

  “Certainly not. He asked me wot I was doin’ there as if he owned the place. I trust I be’aved with dignity. I told ’im I was a friend of the landlady.”

  “To which she replied?”

  “She wasn’t there at the time.”

  “But she entered into the argument later. What did she say? I want the truth, Fothergill, if you’re keeping out of grave trouble.”

  “She got nasty and accused me of takin’ advantage of her state of widowhood and ’avin’ no man about the place to protect her.”

  “Go on.”

  “It all came out.”

  Fothergill looked as if he wanted the earth to open and swallow him. People passing kept eyeing the conversing group and by evening news had flown round the village that Fothergill had been arrested.

  “What all came out?”

  Fothergill started to breathe heavily and roll his head from side to side.

  “It’s difficult to talk about some things, Mr. Littlejohn. I’ve per’aps been a bit free and easy at the Saracen’s Head, but I never wished any ’arm to Mrs. Liddell. As I said, all’s been done friendly, like. It was wicked of her to say it wasn’t...”

  “She told Fowler about your blackmailing her?”

  “Well...In a manner of speakin’.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Fowler just went berserk. He kicked up a ’ell of a row. There was nobody else there at the time, an’ a good job, too. Fowler raved and stormed and it was then he tried to strangle me.”

  “In other words, he wrung from you a confession about the kind of hold you had over Mrs. Liddell.”

  “You could call it that, but she joined in and got excited, too. After all the things we said to one another in the course of the ’orrible row, Fowler seemed to know everythin’.”

  “And then did he kick you out?”

  “Well, he didn’t exac’ly kick, but I went. I was glad to go, Mr. Littlejohn. As you know, I’m a man of peace.”

  “Did you get the impression that Fowler and Mrs. Liddell were in love or good friends?”

  Fothergill’
s bushy eyebrows rose and he sighed with relief. The limelight had left his own misdeeds and now he was eager to betray anybody to save his own skin.

  “Love? Friends? On the contr’y, Mr. Littlejohn. Leo seemed quite content to settle there, but not out of love. He actually said as...as I left, that he’d now take up where I’d left off. And he laughed a loud laugh.”

  “In other words, he’d make himself master and throw his weight about and sponge, just as you’d done before?”

  “You are ‘arsh on me, sir, very ‘arsh. But I’ve no ill feelin’s. I’m anxious to aid the law all I can.”

  “You’d better be, Fothergill. When was all this?”

  “The day before Grebe died. It was about four o’clock when I was at the Saracen, makin’ one of my usual friendly calls, and suddenly Leo turned up. He might ’ave owned the place. ‘Oho, Fothergill,’ ’e says. ‘I’ve a bone to pick with you and a few more...’ I told ’im I was glad to see ’im again, returned from the dead, in a manner o’ speakin’, and I told ’im point blank, that it was no wish of mine that he was left to ’is fate. Funny thing, but after all he’d gone through, he didn’t look much different. Thinner and sort of colder and bloodthirsty in manner, but you’d easy have reckernized him. He asked Esther, too, if she’d been on his side when the Euryanthe left ’im behind. She said, yes, of course.”

  “And you left him there in possession?”

  “You’d have thought so.”

  “How did Esther Liddell take it?”

  “That’s what I was goin’ to say when you mentioned them bein’ in love. As I was ready to leave, she told ’im he could stay there a day or two and then he must go. But Leo answered cold-blooded like, ‘I’ve been lookin’ for a place like this, dreamin’ of it, while I been away. A place where I can spend the rest of me days in peace. After all, you owe me that after the Euryanthe...’ and he laughed as if it was a yewge joke.”

  “Is that all?”

  Fothergill nodded gravely.

  “Except that in my opinion, Fowler murdered Grebe, as I said before to Mr. Cromwell. Fowler ’ad what the Yanks call a chip on ’is shoulder. He believed all of us aboard the Euryanthe had agreed to sail away and leave ’im, and he seemed to hold Grebe responsible more than all the rest. He said when he’d ’ad a meal and a drink and a bit of Esther’s company...as cheeky as you like he said that...when he’d ’ad a drink, he’d got a thing or two to say to Grebe. It’s my view he went off an’ killed ’im the next night.”