ANOTHER VICTIM
WIILLIATT’S quarters were in the Albany and when Littlejohn and his friends arrived there they found a sheepish junior detective waiting for them. He was the constable who had played the main part in shadowing the playwright. He seemed to think he ought to apologise to Littlejohn for what had occurred.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said as he met the Inspector at the door.
“Whatever for, Cressy? You didn’t hang him, did you?”
The constable was a young man with a round countryman’s face and a head of thick curly hair. He must have expected a severe reprimand for his agitation had given him a tic in his upper lip. Littlejohn had forcibly to tear his eyes from the twitching member, for he felt a great inclination to develop a similar affliction in sympathy.
“The trouble is, he didn’t hang himself, sir.”
“What?”
“The doctor’s just left. He said the neck had been broken first and then he’d been hung-up in the bathroom on a curtain cord.”
Littlejohn gave the young man’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The tic ceased as if by magic and the poor fellow smiled again.
They entered the room. The doctor’s verdict had loosed a swarm of technicians all over the place. Fingerprint men, photographers, searchers for clues. Among the lot, unheeded, the manager of the bachelor chambers trying to find someone who would promise to keep the tragedy dark and thus preserve the reputation of his property.
The men at work paused in their labours long enough to greet the newcomers and then fell to again.
Sergeant Dunlap, as senior man there, felt himself called-upon to act as spokesman.
“Murder!” he said. “The body’s still in the next room. Like to see it, sir?”
He conducted them to where what was left of Williatt lay stretched on a couch particularly quiet-looking for one who had met a violent end. Dunlap chattered like a guide in the chamber of horrors. He was a Littlejohn fan and if the Inspector had ordered it, he would have flung himself through the third-storey window.
“.… When Cressy and I arrived to arrest him, the room was locked. A Yale lock. We couldn’t get an answer although Cressy swore Williatt hadn’t come out. He’d been watching the main entrance of the place.”
“What about the service entrance and the fire escape?”
“The service door gives on to a cul-de-sac at the back, with no way out. Look.”
Through the window they saw a square courtyard ringed by similar tenements, tier upon tier, but with only two breaks. One, the service-door and the other the exit to the street, a wrought-iron gate almost side-by-side with the main entrance. Cressy, from his point of observation in the street, was able to cover both. The fire-escapes ran down to the courtyard, too.
“So somebody entered by the front door and did this?”
“I can’t see any other way, sir.”
The body was that of a man in his early forties. Dark, pale featured, well-groomed. A bit foreign-looking, perhaps, Spanish, with lank, highly-polished black hair and small ears.
“Neck broken, you say?”
“An expert job, the doctor thinks.… Thugs.”
“Eh?”
“The way the thugs did it in India. A cloth or a rope and a sharp twist and.…”
Dunlap made a whistling noise through his teeth and jerked his thumbs jack-in-the-box fashion.
“.… and then … napooh!”
“Anything in his pockets?”
“The usual. There they are.”
Keys, a cigarette case, loose cash. A wallet containing banknotes, a season ticket to and from Meadford, and two or three women’s photographs with one of Williatt himself sun bathing on a lido with a girl whose identity was concealed by sun-glasses. Business letters, a pocket comb, pen and pencil, card case. Little besides. Nothing connecting the victim with the Harwood gang. Not even a letter from the unhappy Edith Pott.
“Has the room been gone-over?”
“Yes. Nothing revealing. Usual knick-knacks and personal stuff. The fingerprint men have been over everything, too.”
“Any luck?”
“Not a sausage.”
“Dear me! Must have worn gloves.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been into the matter of visitors?”
“Yes. The resident manager can’t help. Nor the hall porter. There are always people coming and going. Nobody suspicious. If you make yourself inconspicuous enough, you’ll easily get past the porter. He’s just a lump of self-important flab.”
Dunlap was a bit disappointed in Littlejohn. His methods weren’t usually so easy-going. He hoped the Inspector wasn’t getting stale. As a rule, a second-hand tale didn’t suit him. He was after facts first-hand and liked to see everything and everybody connected with the case to enable him to absorb the atmosphere of the crime. Now he didn’t seem particular.
“What was the exact time of the crime?”
“The doctor says about five-thirty.”
“Well after the evening editions of the papers?”
“H’m.”
“Then he’d have time to read about the deaths of the Pott women on Devil’s Dyke. Was there an evening paper here?”
“Yes. It’s still over there. The fingerprint men have had a go at it. No good. It hadn’t been opened properly.”
“Get it, there’s a good chap.”
The account of the deaths was in the stop-press. So Williatt hadn’t got any further. Had he ’phoned anyone about it?
“Just enquire from the exchange if there have been any calls in or out this afternoon, will you, Dunlap?”
The sergeant got to work.
Littlejohn and Luc wandered about. The Frenchman was silent, taking everything in with his sharp eyes, but not at home among the calm English methods of Scotland Yard.
“His neck was broken expertly?” remarked Luc at length.
“Yes.”
“Maybe the murderer removed his gloves for the coup de grâce. If so, the collar at the back might have fingerprints.”
Littlejohn called one of the technicians.
“Try his collar.…”
The man gingerly took up the article from the table on which the doctor had placed it. He subjected it to the usual preliminary tests.
“Doctor’s been at this, too, but we’ll soon eliminate him. There’s some paper here the doc was handling. We’ll get one of his prints from it.”
The expert busied himself. Then:
“Yes … seems to be a foreign print here. Right over the back stud-hole.”
“Give it to me, thanks. I’ll drop in at the Yard with it.”
Littlejohn turned the collar inside out and pocketed it.
“Thanks, Luc,” he said with a genial grin at his companion.
They strolled round the rooms. Luxurious in an effeminate way. Thick carpets, modern furniture, surrealist pictures. A case of books, mainly plays and fiction, and a desk. These had been opened and perfunctorily examined. Littlejohn looked through them again. Bills, cheque-books, bank statements of account, business letters. Nothing incriminating on the face of it. The gang had evidently been careful to destroy all dangerous correspondence. It was so in each case. Littlejohn left them to the closer scrutiny of Special Branch or to M.I.5, who would certainly be involved.
Dunlap, who still had his eye on Littlejohn, couldn’t get over the Inspector’s casual manner. Either he’d something up his sleeve, or that crack on the head.… The sergeant could contain himself no longer.
“Do you know who’s done it, sir?” He asked it apprehensively, like the voice of conscience goading a man to his best efforts, or that of a punter begging a horse to put its best foot foremost.
“I’ve a good idea. The collar will settle it.”
Luc fished another Maryland from his pocket and lit it from the mangled stub removed with difficulty from his nether lip.
“Can you reconstruct?”
His mind still ran in Sûreté grooves.
/> Littlejohn sat astride a chromium-framed chair which looked ready to crumple under his weight at any minute.
“Not precisely. I can guess, though. The visitor arrives. He’s known to Williatt. They talk. Williatt’s seen the news of the Devil’s Dyke tragedy in the stop-press and got cold feet. Have the two women died naturally or been eliminated? In either case, the police will be in the affair with both feet and all over Harwood Hall like bees round a honey-pot. Will the balloon go up on the whole scheme?”
Luc cogitated.
“.… In with both feet … bees around the honey-pot … the balloon goes up. He’s got cold feet.… Idioms, hein?”
“I’m sorry, Luc. I got carried away.”
Littlejohn put it into basic English.
“.… Then Williatt gets scared. His visitor can’t trust him to keep level-headed.…” “Level-headed … ah!”
“And what happens to a spy his chief can’t trust?”
The telephone rang. Dunlap returned from answering it.
“No calls out this afternoon. Two in though. From call-boxes.”
“So. Our friend contacts Williatt that way, eh? Presumably rang-up and found him with the jitters … les frissons … so came in person to make sure what was happening. Maybe Williatt tendered his resignation from the gang and the visitor accepted it in no uncertain way. Caught him napping and strangled him. Then slung him up in a fake suicide. In any case, if the crime were discovered, he’d a ten to one … nay more … chance of not being detected. His fingerprints aren’t on record … or so he thinks. And he’s in an unusually sheltered spot.”
“You can lay hands on him, sir?”
“Yes, I think so. He’s probably sitting pretty and quite oblivious of the fact that we’re on his track.”
“Who is it?” whispered Dunlap, like a man giving it up in a game of riddles.
“Melchior Anderegg!” replied Luc mellifluously, his sloe-eyes flashing with benevolent irony.
“You’re getting warm.…”
Littlejohn picked up his hat, placed it carefully on his head to avoid the protuberant gift from Hartmann and gently piloted Luc by the elbow to the door. He nodded farewell to Dunlap.
Dunlap’s jaw fell as he again doubted the powers of his idol. But he loyally pulled himself together.
“Gosh! I wish I’d got Littlejohn’s style, though. Looks like a benevolent uncle and all the time …”
He took from his pocket a pipe which was the replica of Littlejohn’s own and filled it with the Inspector’s blend of tobacco.…
Outside the two Inspectors stood on the edge of the curb for a minute waiting for a taxi. The blackout obscured the glory of Luc’s shoes, but a newly-lighted cigarette glowed irregularly in his mouth.
“I suppose you’ll be here for a day or two until the Hartmann business is settled up, Luc?”
“Yes.… I shall probably have difficulty in justifying the pistol shooting.”
“Not with me to hold your hand. You’d better stay with us at Hampstead until it’s over.”
“Very good of you, mon ami. I accept, gratefully.”
“Always glad to have you.”
“Always?”
“What do you mean? Of course.”
“One hears things in our profession. All is not well in France. We are very divided.… Some of us may have to get out quickly one of these days.”
Littlejohn whistled softly.
“You don’t mean …”
A taxi drew up and they climbed in it.
“You were saying, Luc, about being divided …?” he continued when they were settled and bowling along to Piccadilly Circus.
“I was saying we are divided. When the war begins properly, I think it will be … will be … touch-and-go, eh? Touch-and-go who remains in power, the fighters or the … the … quitters. And those who aren’t in power will have to leave France … quickly.”
“I know which side you belong to, Luc, and if you ever want a place to lay your head … you and Madame Luc … well … you know where Hampstead is.”
Two points of light were joined in one corner of the cab. Another cigarette from the stump of the last, and both trembled considerably. A hand squeezed Littlejohn’s arm. There was nothing more to be said. They remained silent until they reached Scotland Yard.
MR. SCROPE ENTERTAINS
LITTLEJOHN took Cromwell with him to Cambridge the following day. He had further investigations to make there and he planned to call on Mr. Scrope, Fellow of Benfield, to acquaint him with developments in the case as promised.
At ten-thirty on the morning after Williatt’s death they arrived at their destination. There they parted company for a time whilst Littlejohn pursued his enquiries. At eleven-thirty they entered the gates of Benfield.
The college consists of ancient buildings forming the four sides of a square, with a large tower over the entrance. In this edifice hangs the fine peal of bells presented in the fifteenth century by Abbot William Benfield, founder of the college.
The enclosed quadrangle was a gracious lawn, the turf of which, centuries old, still sprouted green and healthy even at that season of the year.
A few undergraduates wandered about, their gowns fluttering. Two dons crossed from one wing to another, burdened with their own cares and much knowledge. A college servant or two pattered like preoccupied penguins from door to door. A great black cat washed himself in the porch and regarded the visitors contemptuously. A cloistered calm pervaded the whole place.…
Littlejohn, already familiar with the ins and outs of Benfield, made his way up two flights of winding and worn stone steps to a short corridor broken by two doors. At the far end, another exit apparently gave access to the bell-tower.
On the left-hand door, a visiting card in a small brass frame:
MARMADUKE SCROPE
Benfield College, Cambridge.
Cromwell stayed behind in the porch. He spent his time in copying the inscription of a tablet he had spotted:
On the night of June 8th, 1645, certain of his cavalry having lodged in this college and destroyed the windows of the chapel, Oliver Cromwell expressed his regrets to the Fellows and replaced the glass from his privy purse.
The modern Cromwell eagerly took down the inscription among sundry other items of criminal import in his black, shiny-backed notebook.
Upstairs, Mr. Scrope twittered greetings and made his visitor welcome. He looked as bright and cheerful as ever.
“A glass of sherry, Inspector?”
“Not so early in the morning, thanks.…”
The room was small and beautifully panelled. Cosy, without being expensive or ostentatious. These Fellows knew how to do themselves well! Littlejohn leaned back in a comfortable armchair and stretched his long legs to the fire.
Scrope settled himself and looked more bird-like than ever in anticipation of what was to come. A thrush, this time, with his head gravely cocked on one side, eagerly listening for the sound of worms moving under the sod.
“I was in Cambridge on business and thought I’d call to tell you how things were progressing.…”
“And very welcome, too, Inspector.”
“Thanks to your information, we’ve got the whole of the Harwood Hall gang where we want them.”
“Indeed! I’m very gratified. Very gratified.”
“Yes, we kept a close eye on Braun’s activities and caught him and his assistants red-handed trying to wreck a train.”
“No! It seems my little hint was very timely, then.”
“Whilst posing as a refugee and vouched-for by your unsuspecting colleagues, he took advantage of his international scientific reputation to act for the Nazi government as an agent. They supplied him with plenty of funds for it, too. The amount of cool cash they let him escape with roused our suspicions before we got confirmation from you.”
“Sure you won’t have a glass of sherry … or a cigar, Inspector?”
“No thanks, I prefer a pipe.”
Littl
ejohn filled his pipe and puffed it with enjoyment.
“There was a gang of them working together. A man called Carberry-Peacocke ran a radio-transmitter. An ex-Gestapo man, posing as an American on false credentials, acted as a sort of leader of them. Then there was a play-producer, Williatt, who’d apparently sell his soul for cash, acted as liaison officer between this gang and others of a similar nature. And with them, a poor woman who was so infatuated with Williatt that she was prepared to go to any length to please him. Her elder sister, a deaf lady and quite guileless, was dragged down with the rest, I’m sorry to say.”
“Dear me! Dear me! And what has happened to them all?”
Scrope’s eyes were wide with wonder and he leaned forward like a hen bending to drink.
“Braun and his men are in gaol awaiting trial. The two Misses Pott, the ladies in the case, met with a motoring accident and are dead. Hartwright, whose real name was Hartmann, is dead, too. Shot by a French colleague of mine, who came across him continuing the train-wrecking started by Braun and disturbed by our own police. Hartmann drew a gun and fired on M. Luc, who returned his fire and killed him.
“Mrs. Hartmann, the female of the species and quite as bad as her husband, shot Carberry-Peacocke dead, apparently to stop him talking. She in turn was shot by Luc.…”
“Your French friend is handy with his revolver, then?”
“If he hadn’t been quick, Mrs. Carberry-Peacocke, another poor dupe, would have followed her husband. As it is, she’s in hospital, half-crazy at the overwhelming events. Mrs. Hartmann was just winged. A bullet in the shoulder, and will recover, only, I’m afraid, to be hanged as a spy.”
“Well, well, well. Cloistered here in our retreat, it’s difficult to believe that such things go on in the world.”
“Isn’t it?”
“And the remaining fellow … what was he called? Wilbur?”
“Williatt. He was found hanged in his rooms in the Albany last night.”
“Escaping justice, too?”
“Well … he did escape it, didn’t he? There was only one way for him, as a spy, you know.”
“A brilliant piece of work, Inspector. Better by far than fiction. I congratulate you most heartily and I’m very grateful to you for coming to tell me the tale of it all.”
Calamity at Harwood Page 15