He'd Rather Be Dead

by George Bellairs

  “Forensic Medicine, by Dixon Mann.”

  “Pity. Had one in stock the other week. Got it from the late Doctor Merrivale’s widow. Sold it cheap, too, to a young dentist chap. I could get you one, perhaps.”

  “When did you sell it, Mr. Mottershead?”

  “About a fortnight since. No use your trying to get Fenwick—that’s the dentist who bought it—to sell. He was very keen on having it …”

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Mottershead. I’ll try to get one elsewhere. I’m a visitor here, you see, and won’t be able to call again, even if you manage to find one.”

  “Good morning, then,” said Old Mot., and plunged once more into a pile of old books, like a diver hunting for pearls.

  Littlejohn was soon using the knocker of Fenwick’s house again.

  The aged housekeeper almost fainted at the sight of him but made no delay in announcing him this time.

  Fenwick was so agitated at this second visit, that in his eagerness to find out what was wanted of him he left a patient in the chair with a half-explored cavity.

  Littlejohn came straight to the point.

  “Was Miss Latrobe here on the day she died, Mr. Fenwick?”

  The dentist’s face lost every vestige of colour, he licked his dry lips and passed his hand over his large, bulbous forehead to wipe away the sweat.

  “Yes. She called between eleven and twelve,” he said with a show of boldness. “She’d an aching tooth.”

  “Funny thing, two of them got toothache before they died,” murmured the detective as though expressing his thoughts aloud.

  Fenwick smiled a sickly smile.

  “I can’t help that, can I, Inspector? I just did my job. I’d nothing to do with their deaths. Why should I want to kill them?”

  “I’m not suggesting any such thing. But I wish you’d told me of their appointments here, without my needing to wring the information from you. Why didn’t you tell me when I was here before?”

  Fenwick looked pained.

  “You asked no questions about Miss Latrobe. To tell you the truth, I quite forgot her visit when you were here. I was so interested in your investigation of the Ware case. I hope you’ll excuse me. I wasn’t trying to withhold vital facts. I want to be helpful if I can. I’m sure I wish you luck in finding out who did these abominable murders. Miss Latrobe was a friend of mine …”

  “What did you do for her when she called?”

  “A filling.”

  “Where?”

  Fenwick fumbled with a small, steel card-index and consulted a record-card.

  “Top right molar.”

  “Had she an appointment?”

  “No. It was a sudden pain, and she called. Quite a small job.”

  “Very well, sir. Now, I’ll be off again. Good morning, Mr. Fenwick.”

  “Good morning, Inspector. Best of luck and, again, apologies.”

  Littlejohn with sudden afterthought turned to Fenwick.

  “Just as a matter of routine, sir. Where were you at about three in the afternoon of Miss Latrobe’s death, two days ago?”

  “At the golf club; The Royal Westcombe. Why? You don’t suspect me of having anything to do with the murder, do you?”

  “Who did you play with, Mr. Fenwick?”

  “I played by myself. My game’s a bit off, so I did a practice round against bogey. I passed Thompson and Barwick about 3.30, because I asked them the time. My watch had stopped. I’d played eight holes then.”

  “Very good, Mr. Fenwick, thanks. That’ll be all for the present.”

  “For the present? Is there likely to be much more of this? “

  “One never knows until the case is finished. Good morning, Mr. Fenwick. I’ll let myself out.”

  Littlejohn made straight for Miss Latrobe’s rooms, where he hoped to catch her companion before she went back to work from lunch. He was lucky. Miss Watson had just arrived home.

  “I’m awfully put-out about what’s happened to Grace,” said the big blonde girl, with great feeling. “If I could find the skunk who did this, I’d kill him myself …”

  “Suppose you help me to find him, Miss Watson. That’s a better idea.”

  “Gladly, Inspector.”

  As a rule, Phoebe Watson made great play with her charms in the presence of men, but this time she was in deadly earnest.

  “… But what can I do? I’ve not the slightest idea who might want to do a dirty trick on Grace. I’ve tried to think until my head aches, but it’s just got me beat.”

  “I don’t want you to produce a cut-and-dried solution out of a hat, Miss Watson. My job is to collect facts and make them into a whole which will point right at the criminal. Now. Do you remember August 4th?”

  “Good heavens! What a question to begin with. Of course, I remember it on the calendar, but I’d need to do a bit of hard thinking to recollect what I, or Grace, for that matter, did on that day.”

  “It’s the evening I’m thinking of.”

  “As far as Grace is concerned, that’s easy. She worked every night of the first ten days in August, except Saturday and Sunday, getting out the doctor’s accounts for the June quarter. Dr. Preedy is a bit slapdash about money, and he’s always late in making-up his fees. When he does it at last, Grace gets … or got, I should say—at the job of sending out the bills right away. This quarter, it was as late as August before he did his stuff, and, as the bank were reminding him that his account had gone overdrawn, Grace had to get busy. She worked every night for about a week until eleven o’clock.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Dead sure. She used to tell me most things and I told her quite frankly that she was overdoing it, and would soon be a patient of her own boss if she went on as she was. Then, she told me why and said it wouldn’t last long.”

  “Has she seemed in any great trouble of late?”

  “Not really, until the death of Ware. And even then, she wasn’t upset until things began to look bad for Dr. Preedy …”

  “You can speak about Miss Latrobe’s engagement to the doctor ; he’s already told me.”

  “That makes it easier, then. She’d had a raw deal in her first marriage, poor kid. She and Preedy were properly in love, and it looked as though he was going to make it all up to her for past troubles. Then, she got to know that he was suspected in connection with Ware’s death. She was in a frightful state about that.”

  “Did she say anything to you about it?”

  “Only generalities. Nothing else.”

  “She was friendly with Fenwick, too, I hear.”

  “Yes. I can’t bear that fellow, although she seemed to put up with him. She never said anything, but I’m sure he was in love with her, too. Fenwick’s a lonely sort of fellow and got friendly with Preedy some way. They went about a bit together and, now and then, Grace went with the pair of them. Fenwick was then their unwitting chaperone, for, until the divorce came through properly, they’d no intention of taking any risks.”

  “Well, I think that’s all for the present, Miss Watson. If you think of anything else that might prove useful, let me know, won’t you? Ring up the police station. If I’m not there, Hazard will be. You can tell him.”

  “Right-oh, Inspector, and good luck. I’m not particular whether you get Ware’s killer or not. He’d got it coming to him in any case. But Grace was different …”

  They shook hands and parted.

  After lunch, Littlejohn and Hazard made their way to the pleasure beach and the local detective conducted his colleague round the House of Nonsense. They had no time for relaxation, but, for the sake of realism, staggered, fumbled, cakewalked and groped their way through the various departments. Instead of being finally ejected through the trap-door and down the chute, however, they were piloted by the proprietor, who was more than grateful for their kindness in not stopping the whole works whilst they investigated, to a private exit, used by the staff in coming and going in a more dignified manner than their clients. In the room of m
irrors, one of the convex glasses proved to be a door as well, and thence a passage led to the back of the building and into the open air.

  “Is this door always kept locked, Mr. Wragg?” asked Littlejohn, as they stood by this private entrance, which gave on to a stretch of barren sandhills behind the amusement park.

  “No, Inspector. Some of the staff’s always bobbin’ in and out for a breather. The knob just turns and you’re in, except when we lock-up for the night.”

  The detectives crossed the dunes to the nearest road.

  “What’s that place?” asked Littlejohn, pointing to a large building set among the sandhills and flying the Union Jack.

  “Clubhouse of the Royal Westcombe, Littlejohn. Like to cross and see the place and have a drink?”

  “I certainly would, Hazard. Do you know anyone there of the name of Thompson or Barwick?”

  “Sure. Thompson’s a retired ironmonger, who almost lives on the links. Barwick’s the paid adjutant of the local Home Guard. He plays quite a lot, too. You’re sure to find Thompson at the clubhouse, that is, if he’s not having a round with someone.”

  Again they were lucky, for Thompson, a lean Scotsman with a figure like a bundle of springs, was waiting for a pal to keep an appointment. Littlejohn first looked at the plan of the links, hanging in a frame in the hall of the clubhouse. Then he nodded to his colleague, who introduced him to Thompson. They all adjourned to the lounge and ordered drinks.

  “Alarming epidemic of murders, eh what?” said Thompson, as if to draw out Littlejohn.

  “Yes. It’s kept the pair of us busy since I arrived, sir.”

  “Any ideas yet?”

  “One or two threads we’re following up, but it looks like being a tough job. By the way, we’ve been checking alibis in the cases of those who saw the victims just before their deaths, and you can help us in one case.”

  “Indeed! And who might that be?”

  “Fenwick, the dentist. At 3.30 on the afternoon of Miss Latrobe’s death, he says he passed you on the course and that he asked you the time.”

  “That’s right, he did. He was playing alone.”

  “On the eighth hole, I gather.”

  “Yes. Said he’d played eight holes.”

  “That’s the hole nearest the pleasure beach, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “ And what would you say was the nearest way from that part to the fairground?”

  “The road runs parallel with the fairway. Just get over the fence, take the road for a couple of hundred yards, and then strike across the sandhills for fifty yards and you’re there. Why, you don’t think …”

  “No. I’m just gauging distances. That’s all, sir.”

  “Incidentally,” went on Littlejohn, “were Ware and Fenwick recently concerned in an affair about a dog?”

  “No. That was Oliver, the Borough Treasurer. But it was Fenwick’s dog that Oliver and Ware almost got to blows about. Fenwick used to bring her—she was a setter—from time to time, and on the day we’re talking about, she picked up Ware’s ball from the fairway. He got her by the collar and set about her with the shaft of a putter. Oliver interfered. The funny thing was, however, that Fenwick didn’t say a word when they told him later. He just let it drop.”

  “Has he still got the dog?”

  “No. Oliver stopped Ware’s antics with her. Almost hit him, in fact, and gave him a piece of his mind. The bitch broke away during the row and hared-off like hell in the direction of the road, terrified. Ran right into a passing car and was killed outright.”

  “Where was Fenwick whilst all this was going on?”

  “Playing on the sixth ; and he didn’t say a word. Simply gathered up his clubs, left the course, and went off with the chap who knocked down the dog. They picked it up and took it away in the car with them.”

  “He didn’t even go back to Ware about it?”

  “Nope. Scared, I guess.”

  On the way home the two detectives resumed their discussion about distances.

  “Are you suspicious of Fenwick?” asked Hazard.

  “He’s a possible, isn’t he? It seems strange that he was so near the pleasure-beach when the girl was killed. Has he a car?”

  “He had. But he had to give it up on account of the petrol restrictions. He rides a bike now.”

  “On a bike, it would take about five minutes from the beach to the eighth tee, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s about it.”

  They walked on in silence for some distance.

  “Have you got a theory brewing?” quizzed Hazard, who seemed to be expecting something.

  “I’ve a vague one at the back of my mind. I don’t want to say anything just yet, though. I’ve a few points I want clearing-up first. To give you a half-baked account will only confuse the issue.”

  “Righto. What do we do next?”

  “A phone message to Scotland Yard for some background on one or two people …”

  “Fore!!!” came in a voice of thunder from behind them and a fast-flying ball missed them by inches.

  Hazard turned angrily in the direction whence the shot had been played. There stood Slap-Happy Dashwood, his damaged face contorted in a ghastly leer.

  “Let’s get out of this, before there’s another murder,” said Hazard, and they hurried for the road.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - PREEDY SHOWS HIS TEETH

  Doctor Preedy had just finished his tea and was preparing to attend to his evening surgery when Littlejohn was again announced to him. The doctor was by no means pleased to see the detective and told him so quite candidly.

  “What! Again!” he said without any greeting, and Littlejohn nodded his head with jovial good nature.

  “Well, it’s time you either arrested me or stopped your pestering. Some way or other, it seems to have got about that I’m concerned in the murder of the Mayor and my patients are falling off alarmingly. No wonder! They don’t want a doctor who’s a reputation for poisoning.”

  “Now, now, sir. That kind of talk won’t help. The best way to clear the air is to co-operate with the police, not to go off at the deep end whenever you see them.”

  “See them! They’re never off the doorstep! No wonder rumours get around.”

  Preedy was showing his teeth with a vengeance. His usual air of collected calm had left him. He looked ready to commit murder with his visitor as the victim.

  “Well, what do you want? I suppose the quickest way of being rid of you is to answer your questions … ‘and I must warn you that same will be taken down in writing and used in evidence against you.’ You needn’t say it.”

  “Not against you, sir. That’s all wrong technically,” replied the Inspector, patiently waiting for the doctor’s mood to change, and imperturbably good-humoured as ever.

  At last, Preedy gave way. His face even relaxed into a grin.

  “I’m sorry, Littlejohn. But really, do you blame me? I’ve lost my girl and my reputation in a couple of days. I’m suspect number one in the Ware murder, and probably in that of Miss Latrobe as well. On top of that, you fellows are never off my doorstep. I’m at my wits’ end, and all I’ve worked for seems to have gone up in smoke. Might just as well throw myself off the end of the pier.”

  All the doctor’s professional dignity had gone. Littlejohn felt heartily sorry for him.

  “As far as Miss Latrobe goes, I’m sorry that nothing we can do can bring her back, doctor. You know you’ve got my sympathy … But as regards her murderer and that of Ware, well … that’s another matter. Once we lay our hands on him, you’ll be cleared. It’s up to you to help us all you can.”

  “You needn’t worry, Inspector. Anything I can do, you know, I will do, in spite of my petulance. What do you want this time?”

  “First, where were you on the night of August 4th?” Preedy thought a moment and then looked sheepish.

  “Do you know, Littlejohn?” he asked with an awkward grin and a sidelong glance.

  “Yes.”r />
  “Then, why ask me?”

  “Please let me ask the questions, doctor. I want your account of events.”

  “Very well. I was at the club dinner. I suppose you know I got tight and was brought home.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Don’t rub it in. You look like a schoolmaster … However, I’d been working hard and hadn’t had much relaxation. This was an annual affair and is usually a good one. When Fenwick suggested we went, I fell in with the idea. I relaxed too much. The drink flowed freely and I took more than was good for me. To put it vulgarly, I got disgustingly tight and had to be brought home.”

  “By whom, sir?”

  “Fenwick. He doesn’t take much. Stomach trouble.”

  “Is he your patient, doctor?”

  “No. I’ve never examined or given him treatment, and I wasn’t touting for patients, so never bothered him about it.”

  “H’m. Do you remember anything that happened on the way home?”

  “Very, very vaguely. I seem to recollect Fenwick being about me somehow in the cloakroom at the club and in the taxi. We got into my sitting-room and then I must have passed out, for the next I knew, Miss Latrobe was giving me something out of a glass. I was sprawling on the couch. I was damned ashamed of the exhibition afterwards … They got me to bed between them and I slept until morning.”

  “Miss Latrobe was on the premises, then?”

  “Yes. She stayed late getting out the quarter’s bills, which were very much behind-hand.”

  “What time would you get home, doctor?”

  “About ten-thirty, Grace said the following morning.”

  “Now, another question, doctor. Your poison cupboard: how many keys has it?”

  “Two. I carry one on my key-ring. The other’s in my strong-box at the bank. Can’t be too careful, you know … or can you? I seem to have made a mess of things in spite of my precautions.”

  Preedy ran his hand through his hair in dazed fashion. “Do you carry your key-ring wherever you go?”

  “Positively everywhere. I put it on my bedside table at night, too.”

  “You took it to the dinner, of course?”