As for Harold Brown, Ware, as Chief Magistrate, couldn’t bear taking advice. He would have liked to administer the law after his own fashion, irrespective of what the acts and statutes, in which Brown was so well versed, had to say about it. In Court of Petty Sessions when Sir Gideon began to pontificate, the Clerk would turn in his little pen-like enclosure and in a stage-whisper inform him that he just couldn’t do it. And that if Sir Gideon persisted, he’d be finding himself publicly hauled over the coals by Quarter Sessions or by the King’s Judges in High Court. Ware, tired of seeing the solicitors grinning at their table at the sight of the Clerk taking him down a peg, or hearing the audience in the gallery whispering that Brown had scored again, was scouring about for some means of discrediting Harold Brown. Brown was very distressed about it. So much so, that it looked as if there was something which might come to light if Ware’s lickspittles hunted hard enough!
Littlejohn yawned. This was the first case in which he’d been presented with such a lot of dirty dishes at the start. In Paris, his friend Luc of the Sûreté, had shown him the stacks of dossiers in the archives there dealing with the private lives of nearly everyone of note. But in England … The thing nauseated Littlejohn. As it was, this information hadn’t interested him much. There was hardly a motive among the lot. Just a bit of background for the parties he would be visiting on the morrow.
There was a knock on the door of his room.
“Excushe me … this is my room …” stammered a small, porky little man with a white face and more drink than he could carry, when the Inspector opened the door.
“What’s your number, sir?”
“Twenty-four … this is it.”
“This is 124,” said Littlejohn and gently closed the door in the face of his visitor.
On the wall of the bedroom some respectable, angry, long-in-bed guest beat a tattoo of protest.
Littlejohn looked at his watch. One o’clock!
He opened the window and let in the fresh air and the sound of the sea. The promenade was deserted, but somewhere in the distance somebody was singing a ribald song at the top of his voice. It seemed to go on and on and the singer never to flag or tire. He was still singing to the accompaniment of the incoming tide when the Inspector fell asleep in the bed which looked like a stage property for a Borgia murder.
The Inspector was aroused by the illegal sound of a motor-horn, apparently from the car of some petrol-wasting gadabout returning from an evening’s pleasure. Littlejohn turned on the bedlight and, although he seemed to have slept for many hours, he found that it was only two o’clock. He put out the light, lit a cigarette and drawing back the curtains leaned out of the window.
The last prowlers had turned into their rooms. The whole hotel was quiet. People who had rioted and shouted or who had quietly enjoyed another day of their holidays had returned to their lodgings and now lay levelled in sleep. The tide was on the ebb and far across the bay the siren of a coaster bellowed. All the tiny noises, obscured by the thunder of the day’s activities, seemed magnified in the calmness of the night. The creaking and squealing of hanging-signs swinging in the breeze; the seething of the tide on the shingle of the shore; engines and waggons hissing and clanking in the railway goods-yards; stray taxis swishing along distant streets; the whine of an electric-motor of some works or other on night shift.
The moon had risen and illuminated the promenade, the vast expanse of which looked like a tranquil sheet of water. Down below Littlejohn suddenly made out a solitary, foreshortened figure, wearing a coat and a slouch-hat pulled well down over his face. There he stood, his back to the railing of the promenade, looking up at the hotel, too far away and his face too shadowed to be recognised. There was something intent in the attitude of this onlooker. He might have been a forlorn lover, trying to guess the window of the room behind which his beloved slept. Or …
Then, Littlejohn had the vague feeling that he was looking down on the murderer of Sir Gideon Ware. He reproached himself genially for imagining things in the small hours and flicked the stub of his cigarette out of the window. The tiny glow described an arc and fell like a shooting-star at the feet of the watcher, who, with a start, lowered his head and moved rapidly away. Turning the corner, he was swallowed-up by the maze of streets which compose the inner town.
CHAPTER SIX - A COOL CUSTOMER
It was barely 8.30 when Littlejohn, after a surprisingly substantial breakfast at The Grand, stepped out and walked briskly along the promenade to work. There seemed to be something tonic in the early morning air of Westcombe, for, although the Inspector had enjoyed a few hours’ sleep, he felt fine.
The rank and file of holidaymakers were still in bed recovering from the previous day’s heavy round of pleasures and last night’s revelry. A sprinkling of what Littlejohn told himself were the cocoa-drinkers, the class who frequented such austere retreats as the writing-room of The Grand, or who put out their shoes at their bedroom doors before eleven at night, were taking their constitutionals. The feet of elderly men rang on the concrete causeways as they picked them up vigorously and smote them down briskly like ponies at exercise. Others strolled along, admiring the calm sea and the fresh sunshine of early morning. This was their only chance to take the air uncontaminated by the smells of beer, fish-and-chips, cabbage-water, mass cooking and all the other activities which are embraced by the term “holiday-catering.” The vigorous old boys, the peaceful flâneurs, the fire-watchers and air-raid wardens returning from duty and the natives hurrying to work all breathed deeply, held it, and then exhaled the ozone with conscientious ecstasy, extracting the last gasp of its goodness, like ducks who take water in their beaks, sift it of its useful and life-giving contents, and then spew it forth and forage for more.
Decrepit men and women rummaged on the tide-line, sorting out the bits of wood, cork and more precious drift brought back from its dangerous depths by the sea and cast along the beach. Far out by the lighthouse, the dredger from the Swaine was depositing the mud which it had scooped from the channel, an Augean task, for the next tide would wash it all back, and so on, presumably until the end of shipping there or of time itself. One by one the fishing boats bobbed across the bay from the old harbour, their sails bellying in the fresh breeze, and lined up at a small jetty at the head of each pier, waiting for the day trippers to finish their breakfasts, which, judging from the white horses careering near the lighthouse, they would probably soon feed to the fishes.
From the end of each pier, which hung over deep water, enthusiastic fishermen were already casting their lines, for fish was scarce in Westcombe in spite of its proximity to the sources of supply, and the codling, plaice and sole which were hauled from between the girders of the pier were eagerly snapped-up by hotel-keepers at fine prices.
Littlejohn turned-in at the police station. Boumphrey was already at his desk. He looked anxiously at his visitor as the Inspector placed the brief-case with its contents on the nearby table.
“Mornin’!” said the Chief Constable morosely. “Find those things of much use?”
“Good morning, sir. Yes. And no. They gave me some background concerning the characters of the case, but hardly bear seriously on the matter in hand.”
Boumphrey’s Adam’s-apple rotated violently.
“Hardly bear seriously! … Why man, don’t you realise that the killer’s among those? I’d have thought they were of vast importance.”
And he raised his hands as if to describe a towering edifice of clues and facts enough to sink a ship.
“You could hardly sort-out a motive from the various items of personal and private squabbling and spite they record … Now could you, sir? And, by the way, I noticed you’d omitted the file of the Mayor himself. I’d like to see that if there is one.”
Boumphrey threw his full weight back in his chair, raised his hands like a muezzin, and allowed them to fall back limply on the table.
“Well! I must have forgotten to get it out … I keep that under lock and
key myself. It’s not in the ordinary cabinets. Doesn’t do to let even Powlett know too much. I’ll get it.”
The excuse sounded lame to Littlejohn.
Boumphrey rose, opened a small safe and extracted a folder from the top of a pile of other papers. He handed it to the Inspector, who thrust it in the inside pocket of his raincoat.
“You’ll be careful with it, Littlejohn. Confidential, you know.”
“Certainly,” replied the Inspector, stooping to pick up a tiny scrap of paper which had fallen at his feet as he coaxed the folder to fit in the pocket. It was a small, white triangle with a little semi-circle punched in its base … In fact, a fragment of the top left-hand corner of one of the foolscap sheets of Boumphrey’s files, detached by someone forcibly extracting a page of the record from the spiked fastener which held the lot together.
The eyes of Boumphrey and Littlejohn met.
“What you got there, Inspector?”
“Just a bit of paper. I’ve just been tearing up a dirty sheet from stock …”
“Yes? Well, I’ll be getting along. Has the medical report arrived in yet?”
“No. I expect it any time. The inquest’s tomorrow.”
“Did you know that, as far as present reports go, Sir Gideon Ware’s last call before the lunch was at his doctor’s?”
“No. Who told you?”
“Swift, his secretary. Ware called for an injection of serum against cold in the head, to which he seems to have been a martyr. The medical report’s sure to mention the needle wound arising out of the injection. I’m eager to see what the doctors say.”
“Same here.”
“Incidentally, have you any information concerning Dr. Preedy, Ware’s physician. I’ve been told he’s a native of Westcombe.”
“That’s right. I’ll get his file.”
Boumphrey rang a bell and Horace, the filing expert, rushed into the room as if the place were on fire.
“Get me Dr. Preedy’s records.”
“Yessir.”
The folder was produced at great speed and Boumphrey opened and scanned its contents.
“Yes. I thought so. Preedy had every reason for bearing Ware a grudge. As I said, the doctor’s a native of Westcombe. His father was a prominent builder here, but of the good old-fashioned type. Solid, substantial kind of houses, he built, and was at his best before the new development began. When Ware began his big schemes here after the last war, old Preedy was in the middle of a building estate in which he’d sunk all he had. Young Preedy had got through as a doctor but was in hospital practice. Ware set up in opposition to the old man, who was soon out of his depth. You see, he knew nothing of jerry-building technique, even if his principles allowed him such swindling, which they didn’t. Ware whacked him out of the field and he went bankrupt. They found his body on the shore. It was said he’d thrown himself off the pier at high water. Suicide, you see. But the verdict was death from misadventure …”
“Funny, Ware should have the son as his doctor.”
“Oh, he was that way. Many a time, after impulsively doing a man a bad turn, he’d try to make it up to him in another way. He never apologised, but tried to ease his conscience by stealth, as you might say. Young Preedy’s a cold fish. Never shows his emotions. So, it was never really found out how he took his father’s death. At any rate, he came here just as the place was growing and started a practice from scratch. There were plenty of opportunities then.”
Boumphrey scanned the file again.
“Oh, here we are. I thought I remembered it. At the last Roosters’ Dinner … that’s a bachelor club, here … Preedy remarked that Ware would eventually get what was coming to him. Now, if you ask me, we’d better keep an eye on Preedy, eh?”
“I’m just off to see him now, sir. He was one of the last to see Ware before the lunch.”
Littlejohn had ascertained that the doctor’s rooms were in Oxford Crescent, which is one of the last relics of old Westcombe, and lies some distance from the promenade. It reminds one of Bath, for it consists of stately old houses in terraces. These are occupied by doctors, dentists, masseurs and such, and by a number of nursing homes. It owes its survival to the outbreak of war, which, by holding up so-called development, prevented Ware and his kind from setting about it and replacing its graceful old property by blocks of flats.
As Littlejohn entered the crescent, he was met by a procession of men, walking in a ragged body, like a disorderly concourse of members of a lodge or a civic function without their regalia. For, it was visiting-day at a maternity home which had been evacuated to Westcombe from a vulnerable inland area. These were happy fathers, brought by special trains from their gathering grounds to visit their wives and new families, and one of such excursions had just disembogued in the nearby station. The Inspector found himself among this joyful throng, for Dr. Preedy’s surgery was next door to the lying-in hospital.
The bold, pretty girl whom Littlejohn had seen with the doctor on the previous night, answered the door. She was dressed in nurse’s uniform and looked cool and efficient.
“Is the doctor in, nurse?”
“Yes. Have you an appointment?”
“No. But I think he’ll see me. I’m a police officer and would like a word with him about his late patient, Sir Gideon Ware. Here’s my card.”
The girl’s eyes opened wide and her lips formed themselves into a soundless whistle.
“He’s busy, Inspector. It’s his afternoon off to-day and he’s several appointments this morning.”
“Take my card in, nurse, please.”
“Oh, very well …”
Miss Latrobe turned on her heel and flounced off, leaving Littlejohn in the dim hall, lighted only by a fanlight, to cool his heels. She was soon back.
“The doctor can spare a minute before his first patient. Come this way, please.”
Dr. Preedy was sitting at a large desk smoking a cigarette. The room was well furnished and it, seemed that its owner had done very well since he arrived in Westcombe and started from scratch. He looked bright and alert and was just the one to inspire confidence in the ailing.
“Well, Inspector,” said Preedy, holding Littlejohn’s card in the fingers of one hand and flicking it with those of the other. “What do you want with me?”
“A little information, that’s all, doctor. I won’t keep you.”
“Fire away, then.”
“I have been informed that Sir Gideon Ware called here at eleven o’clock on the morning of his death, by appointment. Is that so?”
“Yes”
“ Without violating professional secrets, can you tell me why he called?”
“I arranged to immunise him from the common cold. He came for a shot of serum, which I give him this time each year.”
“You did that.”
“Yes”
“How?”
“I injected the contents of an ampule of the serum. I get it in that way. Gave the injection in the left forearm. That was all.”
“Nothing else injected?”
“My dear Inspector! What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. I’m merely seeking precise information.”
“Well, I’ve given it. That’s all I have to say.”
The doctor maintained a phlegmatic good humour throughout. A good man to have about in an emergency and a damned difficult fellow to question. You simply couldn’t get behind his guard.
“You didn’t attend the luncheon at which Sir Gideon met his death, doctor?”
“No. Surely you know that already, Inspector.”
“Yes, I do. Where were you at the time, doctor?”
“Ah! Now you seek an alibi, eh? Sorry, I can’t oblige. I had lunch alone at about the time of the banquet. It was a cold one, made by the good woman who looks after these rooms. She was going out and left it laid for me. Miss Latrobe did me some coffee and then went off to her own lunch. Her rooms are just round the corner.”
“Perhaps Miss Latrobe could come in an
d confirm that?”
“Sorry, Inspector. She’s just gone out. The housekeeper’s answering the door for me. You see, to-day’s my half-day; and Miss Latrobe’s as well. We pack-off at twelve as a rule. We worked late last night and I thought Miss Latrobe looked tired. So I told her to get off at eleven to-day. You’ll see that it’s past that already.”
“So it is, doctor. Well, I’ll confirm it with her later, then.”
“Anything more? There are patients waiting for me.”
“Just one more question, doctor. A personal one, but not asked out of idle curiosity, you’ll understand that. Had you any particular reason for disliking Sir Gideon Ware?”
“Do you know of any?”
“I’m asking the questions, doctor.”
“And I’m answering them! However, I suppose I’d better be candid with you. I did dislike the fellow. He was a patient, of course, and I treated him as a doctor should. After all, there’s a code of ethics in medicine. But, he wasn’t my type … An opportunist, careerist, money-grabber. Wanted his own way all the time, and God help those who stood in his way …”
“Your own father, for example, doctor?”
“My own father.”
Preedy was a cool customer and no mistake. He just said it as a matter of course, without heat and even without reproach.
“Yes. My own father suffered at his hands. They were in competition and my father was the loser.”
“He died shortly after the crash, I understand, sir?”
“He did. Is there anything more? I suppose your theory is that I’ve long sought a means of avenging my father, and yesterday the chance came. I gave him a shot of strychnine instead of cold serum, eh? No, Inspector. I wouldn’t have used the tools of my profession had I wanted to do that. I’d have just shot him out of hand.”
Littlejohn was inclined to believe him, but knowing his man and his apparent resourcefulness, declined mentally to write him off.
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