Calamity at Harwood

by George Bellairs

  “And Mr. Williatt?”

  “He’s one o’ them writers, sir. I did hear ’im say that he couldn’t ’ave had a better experience if he’d paid a fortune for it. Made capital out of it, he said.”

  “Mr. Burt certainly seemed to have got together a faithful lot of tenants. They’ve hung on here with great fortitude, Stone. What about the other two, Hartwright, is it?”

  “Oh, them. Americans they are and before the thing started, they’d fallen for Mr. Carberry-Peacocke and his talk. When the ’auntin’ began proper, they was a bit scared at first and talked of takin’ theirselves off. But after Mr. Peacocke ’ad his say, they fell in with the rest.”

  “H’m. Well, if it’s as I think, I guess none of them will be disturbed further. With the police in the house, the ghosts will probably be well and truly laid.”

  As if to give the lie to Littlejohn’s confident assertion, there was an appalling bump from the flat next door. This was followed by sounds of breaking china, overturning furniture and screams for help. Noises suggesting the passage of a whirlwind followed on the stairs and in the hall. Brass ornaments and pictures could be heard flying about. Then, the lights went out and the front door was heard to slam with reverberations which shook the whole of the house.

  ANOTHER TENANT IN FLAT FIVE

  LITTLEJOHN was on his feet in a second. Among his belongings, which he had strewn on the bed, was a large torch. He held his hands in front of him and made a dash for the bedroom door, flung it open, groped on the eiderdown and found what he wanted. With a snap, a bright beam pierced the gloom, throwing long shadows all around.

  Stone was standing where he had been when the crash was heard.

  Littlejohn directed the light to the outer door.

  “Get down and see what’s the matter with the lights,” he said, and followed the lodge-keeper into the corridor.

  From the stair-head another light approached them and, in spite of the thick carpet, heavy boots could be heard ascending.

  “Here. What’s goin’ on? Who put them lights out?” growled an angry official voice, that of the police constable on watch. He had been disturbed in the midst of his beans-on-toast.

  There commenced an altercation between Stone and the bobby, which Littlejohn soon cut short.

  “That you, Lister?”

  “Er … yessir, yessir …”

  “Let Stone pass to attend to the lights. Stay where you are, meanwhile.”

  “Yessir.”

  The deep breathing of Lister and the scuttering and stumbling of Stone could be heard in the dark.

  The lights went on again.

  “Main switch bin throwed,” came from Stone somewhere down below.

  Littlejohn turned the knob of the next-door flat and entered. The younger Miss Pott was just switching-off a torch. She was pale and obviously very shaken. A woman of about forty, medium built, with a good figure and a mop of black hair. Broad forehead from which her hair swept tempestuously back. Her dark eyes were ablaze with annoyance as though she expected the newcomer was the cause of the commotion which had just occurred. Littlejohn did not agree with Heathcote that she was ugly. Not beautiful, that was true, but striking. Very striking.

  The elder sister was sitting in a chair at a table laid with tea for two. She looked as though the disturbance had simply rooted her to her seat. She gripped the table convulsively and looked helplessly around her, her eyes finally seeking her sister’s face in mute query.

  Agnes Pott was apparently much older than her sister. Her hair was quite white. In contrast to her sister’s pale and striking looks, her own cheeks were pink and shrivelled and her features square, with the skin sagging in resigned folds. She levered herself to her feet. A small woman, with small hands and feet and the top of her head barely reaching her sister’s chin.

  “What on earth’s happening here?” asked Littlejohn.

  “I might ask the same question,” replied Edith Pott. “Who are you?”

  “Inspector Littlejohn, now in charge of the case. Now, Miss Pott, what’s the matter?”

  “Another visitation, I presume.”

  Edith Pott sneered and made a gesture embracing the flat of her hand and arm.

  Littlejohn looked around. Two chairs overturned and a standard-lamp on its side. That was all. The furniture was of new, limed oak with green upholstery.

  “In there …” said the younger Miss Pott impatiently and almost pushed the Inspector to the door of the kitchenette. Littlejohn flung it open. It looked like a china-shop ravaged by a bull.

  The kitchen cabinet had been overturned and its contents were strewn on the floor. Flour and eggs predominated among the mess. The refrigerator had been upended and flung across the room. Littlejohn looked at the flex, the plug, and at the socket in the wall. He almost laughed outright.

  “All right, I’ll help you to straighten these again,” he said, and with a few deft movements put the cabinet upright and slid the refrigerator back to its place by the power-point. No use looking for fingerprints among the welter of flour, eggs and vegetables!

  He wiped his feet on the mat and returned to the living-room. Edith Pott followed, closing the door.

  Agnes Pott hurried to meet them, her head on one side, her eyes questioning. Her sister took up a writing-pad from the top of a wireless-cabinet.

  “Don’t worry. It’s all right,” she wrote.

  Her sister accepted it with patient resignation, almost like a dog being told to be quiet.

  “My sister is stone-deaf,” explained the younger woman.

  “Now, Miss Pott, suppose you tell me what happened.”

  “There’s not much to tell. The telephone bell rang. I’d just picked up the receiver when there was a terrible crash in the kitchen. Then another. Stupid of me, but I screamed. It was so startling. My sister must have felt the vibrations of the floor, for she half rose, too. Before I could do anything, the lights went out. Something seemed to pass between the two doors and go into the corridor, overturning anything in its way.”

  “You made tea in the kitchen?”

  “Yes. There was nobody there then.”

  “You didn’t leave the flat afterwards?”

  “No. We sat down right away.”

  “Impossible to get in the kitchen from outside, I take it. There’s only a transom window that opens, I saw. Too small for anyone to creep through.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I’ll go over the place in daylight to-morrow. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to finish tea and tidy-up. If you see or find anything, just knock on the wall.”

  Littlejohn turned to open the door.

  At his feet lay a piece of folded paper. He picked it up and opened it.

  “It’s for you,” he said and handed it to the younger Miss Pott.

  “Oh … the swine …” she gasped and gave it back to him:

  Kindly oblige by making less noise which disturbs my work.

  E. BRAUN (Dr.)

  Littlejohn chuckled. “A cantankerous sort, eh?”

  “He’s always sending notes. First the wireless, then the gramophone. Now this. These refugees haven’t half a nerve. Think they own the place. He ought to be behind bars.”

  “Dr. Braun’s place is above this, then?”

  “Yes. He has the whole floor to himself until the missing tenant turns up. He’s probably sent that down by one of his assistants. There are two of them. They sleep in the village at the inn, unless they’re working late, when they seem to sleep on the floor or something.”

  Miss Agnes Pott moved hither and thither, looking helplessly at the conversing pair, jockeying for position as though, by some miracle, she might overhear what they were saying. She opened the kitchen door finally and uttering a little scream rushed to her sister.

  “What is it … Edith … what is it?” she said in a soft voice, almost a whisper, for she could not judge how to modulate her utterances.

  There was an argument going on outside and the Inspect
or left the two ladies and went to investigate.

  “Nobody to pass, I tell yer,” Lister was saying.

  Surrounding the policeman were four people; two men and two women.

  One of them detached himself from the crowd and approached Littlejohn.

  “Inspector Littlejohn? I’m Carberry-Peacocke. What’s going on? Has the poltergeist been at it again? If so, I’d like to know about it. In my line, you know.”

  A small, fair man, with nondescript features. He was well-built and dapper, with weak, watery eyes, a little snub nose, receding chin, sandy, straggly moustache, and pincenez. His thinning, fair hair was brushed straight back from a heavy and shiny forehead. He had lots of cheek and self-assurance.

  “There’s nothing there for you, sir,” said Littlejohn. “The show’s over and they’re just clearing up the wreckage.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t disturb them,” said Littlejohn firmly and Carberry-Peacocke’s face assumed a sulky look as he went to join the group again.

  The other man was tall, heavily-built and about fifty-five. Well groomed; spotless linen; heavy, pink features and a bald head. He was so clean that he looked to have come fresh from the bathtub. He wore rimless spectacles with octagonal lenses.

  One of the women, Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke, was small and podgy, with nervous hands, flat, round, pasty features and a stubborn, stupid look reflecting her reaction to Littlejohn’s determination not to permit investigation of the damage. The other was taller, trim, and beautifully dressed. She wore silver-rimmed spectacles with a contorted patent nosepiece and had beautifully-set white hair. Her complexion looked like pink enamel in the artificial light.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” said the big man, obviously Mr. Hartwright.

  “Just another disturbance in the Misses Pott’s flat. They’re tidying-up.”

  “What’s the idea of not letting us go enquire if they need help?”

  “Better not bother them. They’ve been upset and don’t want a lot of visitors at present.”

  “You being officious, officer?”

  Mr. Hartwright looked most unpleasant.

  “Most unneighbourly, they’ll think us,” grumbled Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke.

  “Perhaps the officer’s right,” said Mrs. Hartwright in a soft, nasal voice. “Maybe we’d better leave it till tomorrow.”

  They still hung about.

  “Where were you all when this happened?” asked Littlejohn.

  Carberry-Peacocke’s pale eyes glowed in enthusiasm to create an alibi.

  “We were all taking a cup of tea together and listening to the news, Inspector.”

  He looked at the rest of his friends for approval.

  “Sure … listenin’ to the news,” said Hartwright, and the two women murmured assent.

  “Did you hear the commotion?”

  “Sure; who wouldn’t? Sounded like a lot of ash-cans being thrown down the stairs and then the lights went out and the door slammed,” grunted Hartwright.

  “You all came out to investigate?”

  “I got out my torch and we went straight into the hall,” twittered Carberry-Peacocke.

  “See anything, sir?”

  “Nothing, Inspector. Missed it again!”

  “You didn’t see anyone go up the stairs, did you?”

  “No sir, we did not,” answered Hartwright, his grey eyes bulging.

  Heavy feet were heard stumping down from the landing above. Everyone turned to greet the new arrival.

  “Evenin’, Professor,” said Carberry-Peacocke with jaunty familiarity.

  The newcomer made no reply, but singled out Littlejohn.

  “What is the meaning of all this uproar?” he asked in domineering tones. “One cannot hear one’s self speak, not to mention think or work.”

  Dr. Braun spoke almost perfect English with a Viennese accent. He reminded Littlejohn of Emil Jannings at his best. Medium built, dark, heavy, standing with his solid legs planted firmly, as though sprouting from the green carpet. He had a short, thick, dark-brown beard which almost covered the whole of his face, and a pair of half-spectacles, over the top of which he glared, were stuck on his spreading, bulbous nose.

  “There’s just been a disturbance in the Misses Pott’s flat, sir. A visitation—a repeat performance by the destructive poltergeist, or whatever you care to call it.”

  Carberry-Peacocke sputtered a wordless protest at this manifestation of doubt.

  “Poltergeist … bah!! Old wife’s tale,” shouted Braun. “Merely an excuse for stupid horse-play.”

  Braun looked at the assembled body, with the constable standing speechless, thinking of his beans-on-toast congealing, in the midst of them.

  “Who are you, may I ask?” he suddenly asked, thrusting his hairy fist close to Littlejohn’s chin and jabbing at him with a thick forefinger.

  “I’m a police officer investigating the death of Mr. Burt.”

  “A drunken accident. A bad end to a silly man.… But I’m not here to discuss matters with you. I have my work to be done. Much work. I came here for peace and quiet. Donnerwetter! what do I get? Noise, noise and ever more noise …!”

  His voice rose to a bellow and he tore at his beard and hair.

  .… “Hold the rest of your noisy conversing behind closed doors, I say. Schweige! Schweige!! Schweige!!!” And with this he turned on his heel without more ado and stamped back to his lair.

  “Well!!” squeaked Carberry-Peacocke. “The cheek of the fellow! A damned Hun and a refugee! Thinks he owns the damned earth.…”

  P.C. Lister caught Littlejohn’s eye. He coughed officially.

  “Well, ladies and gents, nothin’ more to be done ’ere. Kindly get back to your quarters, if you please.” He shepherded them away, with Carberry-Peacocke reluctantly glancing at the door of the Potts’ flat as though undecided whether or not to make a breakaway and hunt the poltergeist again.

  “By the way, where’s the other tenant, Mr. Williatt?” he called to Carberry-Peacocke, who was in the rear of the descending procession.

  “Gone out,” came the answer. “Went down to London this afternoon and won’t be back until the last train.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The quartette disappeared into the Carberry-Peacockes’ retreat.

  “Lister!” called Littlejohn.

  The constable hurried heavily upstairs to him.

  “Sir?”

  “Where were you when the lights went out?”

  “Havin’ my tea, sir, in the kitchen.”

  The bobby’s face assumed a melancholy look as he thought of what it would now be like.

  Littlejohn grinned.

  “Spoiled it for you, eh?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You came straight into the hall?”

  “I did, sir, puttin’ on my lamp as I did so.”

  “Anything or anybody pass you?”

  “No, sir. Couldn’t a’done. I found the tenants of the downstairs rooms all comin’ from one door as I got in the ’all.”

  “So nobody came up or down.”

  “Seems so. Except Stone; ’e came down, as you said, sir.”

  “Where is Stone?”

  “Like as not, in the kitchen with my tea,” said the constable, giving a heavy hint.

  “All right. Be off with you then, Lister, and I hope your food’s not altogether ruined.”

  “Like as not it is, sir. Wish we could lay ’ands on who done this,” he said malevolently.

  “If Stone isn’t in the kitchen, come back and let me know, or buzz through on the house-telephone. If he’s there, don’t bother. Send him home.”

  Littlejohn returned thoughtfully to his quarters. If this sort of thing had to be faced, he’d be worn to a shadow through chasing about. Better have some help. He picked up the telephone, which was in direct contact with the exchange, instead of running through a central switchboard. Scotland Yard came on at length. He asked them to send along Detective-Sergeant Cromw
ell as soon as possible. Cromwell had just come in, they said, and would speak to his chief himself. The two men arranged for Cromwell to come down that night.

  The Inspector next ’phoned to the lodge concerning accommodation for his assistant.

  Yes. Mrs. Stone could fix him up in the attic. Littlejohn shuddered. Cheek-by-jowl with Braun and his acolytes.

  “Haven’t you another bed you could put up in the lounge in this flat, Mrs. Stone?” he asked.

  “I dessay I ’ave. There’s one o’ them camper’s beds ’ere as was brought for evacuees, them not ’aving turned up on account of ’avin’ the measles, which is a blessing, because should they ’ave broke out when ’ere …”

  “All right. Send Stone over with it, will you, Mrs. Stone? Then come yourself and fix-up the bedding and such.”

  “Yes, sir. Though it’s dark and there’s been goings-on agen to-night, I ’ear. Stone and me’ll come together for company, me not likin’ to be alone after dark in the grounds on account of what ’as and what might ’ave ’appened.…”

  Very gently Littlejohn replaced the receiver.

  Cromwell arrived by the last train. He wore his bowler hat and a dark suit and looked ready for a funeral. His lugubrious face lit up as much as it ever did, when he met his chief. Littlejohn felt happier for having his company in what seemed a hostile house. Williatt returned on the train which brought Cromwell, and the junior detective said he had noticed him at Victoria. He was wearing a hat which Cromwell thought was ridiculous.

  They spent an hour discussing the case. The Inspector had, whilst waiting for Cromwell, read through Heathcote’s file and made notes on many points, but he was too tired to concentrate on them and deferred the matter until morning.

  Littlejohn turned in and sank luxuriously into Mr. Burt’s sumptuous bed. Cromwell closely inspected his own couch and laboriously made several adjustments to suit his taste. His chief could hear him pottering about, tinkering here, fidgeting there, gargling, doing his deep-breathing exercises, cleaning his teeth vigorously and for an unconscionable time. The sergeant was still ferreting around in his pyjamas when his chief fell asleep.