Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “You are the proprietress here?”

  “That’s right. Me, and my boy Jem helps, ever since my old man went home.” She surveyed Macdonald with her shrewd old blue eyes. “If it’s not a bottle of Scotch you’re after—and you look as though you’ve too much sense for that—then you’re a plain-clothes man. That right? No offence meant.”

  “And none taken. You’re quite right. It’s nothing to worry you: I’m making a few enquiries about a man who used to come and play darts here. Can you spare a few minutes for a chat?”

  “Come in,” she replied at once. “I’m not that keen on having the police in me house, if you follow, but you look a nice fellow. First on the right, and mind the cat.”

  Through an archway draped with beaded curtains, Macdonald made his way down a narrow passage and into a parlour which made a perfect setting for Mrs. Blossom, the proprietress of the Green Dragon. From the lustres on the chandelier to the shell flowers on the draped overmantel the dim overcrowded little room was unspoilt by a single anachronism. The flowered walls were crowded, with heavily-framed pictures, photographic enlargements, texts, and coloured presentation prints from old journals. In one quick glance round Macdonald saw Wellington meeting Blucher, Cherry Ripe, Bubbles, Shoeing the Bay Mare and the Coronation of Queen Victoria. A family Bible and pile of albums stood on a table shaded by pampas grass, flanked by boxes garnished with shells.

  Mrs. Blossom closed the door and seated herself decorously on a shiny horsehair armchair, indicating another to Macdonald.

  “Darts?” she enquired. “Is it that Listelle you’re after?”

  “Quite right,” replied Macdonald.

  “I said to my Jem, ‘I wonder,’ I said, and he told me not to wonder too much. ‘It’s not as though you know anything about him, ma,’ he said to me, ‘and if he did once live in that there studio, it’s not nothing to do with us.’ But you can’t help wondering, now, can you, ’uman nature being what it is?”

  “Of course you can’t help wondering,” agreed Macdonald, “and my job would be much harder if people weren’t interested in their fellow-creatures.”

  “That’s just it, dearie,” she agreed. “Life’d be a dull business if we all minded our own business and nothing else. Not that I’m a busybody. I don’t gossip—don’t hold with it and it ain’t good for business—but I do take an interest, so to speak. And I got a way of summing people up. I’ve served in a bar since I was a young girl—and if that’s not an education in ’uman nature, I don’t know what is.”

  “You’re quite right there,” agreed Macdonald. “You must be a shrewd judge of human nature, Mrs. Blossom. What did you make of Mr. Listelle?”

  “Too clever by ’alf, and nasty with it,” she replied at once. “Talk? He’d keep the saloon bar happy for hours, just the way he talked, and as for stories! My! But I’d pull him up when he got too free: he knew he couldn’t take no liberties with me behind the bar. Then ’e played darts a marvel—real skill that was, and ’and eye perfect. Clever with his hands he was, juggling and that. Been on the halls when he was young—he’d still got the patter. Well, there you are. Clever as a monkey, and yet he never had a bean. Talk as large as life, but when it came to the blitz, ’e just crumpled up. Frightened stiff, ’e was, and did a bolt. I can’t abide funks, and I told ’im so, straight.”

  “You saw him again then, after he left London in 1940?”

  “Bless you, yes. Always turning up he was. In the summer of ’41 he came along one evening. ‘So you’re still alive, ma?’ he asks. ‘Small thanks to you I am,’ I told ’im, ‘and what’ve you been doing to ’elp beat that ’Itler?’ He told me a long rigmarole. Been living in a caravan somewhere near Brighton: then ’e got a job in Eastbourne, and when that got a packet ’e did a bunk to Bournemouth. Then he and his artist friend took a cottage in the country, only he couldn’t stand that for long. The fields got him down. He popped in here again last summer; cadged a bed with a fellow he used to know in Grey’s Buildings, just at the back there, and sure enough there was a raid again the very first night he came. Not what I call a real raid, not enough to make me get up and put the kettle on, just sirens and a bit of gunfire, but it frightened him silly, all the same. He went off again, and I haven’t seem him since. I wondered, though. He used to live in that studio, and I’ve heard him say the old man next door had thousands… Makes you wonder.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Quite. Did you ever see the man he shared the studio with—Stort?”

  “No. I never saw him. Mr. Listelle he talked about him though. These artists, they’re a queer lot. I’ll tell you what. Mr. Listelle was a bit of an acrobat. Climb anything, he could. I’ve seen him doing monkey tricks in my bar. Told him off for it, too. I didn’t really fancy him, though he’s set me off laughing many a time.”

  “Have you any idea where he went to when he left London last?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never heard no more of him. Bert Brewer might know. Lives in Grey’s Buildings: he used to be potman here, but now he’s got his pension and a daughter in munitions and he don’t work any more.”

  “Right. I’ll go round and see if I can persuade him to have a chat. Have you any idea what Listelle did for a living?”

  “I reckon he cadged his way along. He did football pools, backed the dogs—he made quite a bit at that—and once or twice he got commission jobs, selling stuff. He’s tried to push some of his stuff over in this bar—always some rubbish. Bless you, there are thousands like him; we get to know them. Never do an honest day’s work, just cadge along somehow.”

  “You haven’t heard anybody mention him since you saw him last? I wondered if he’d been seen around here lately.”

  “If so I haven’t heard tell of it, and it’s marvellous how news gets round. I’ll tell you one thing—if Listelle’s anywhere about he’d be seen in a bar somewhere. Couldn’t live without a drink. It’s a puzzle to me how they find the money for it these days.”

  A few minutes later Macdonald took his leave, thanking Mrs. Blossom with cheerful courtesy, to which the talkative lady responded,

  “You’re welcome, and I’ve enjoyed the chat. Pop in one day when you’re passing and have one on the house.”

  II

  Macdonald strolled on slowly in the direction of Grey’s Buildings, “just at the back there,” as indicated by Mrs. Blossom. He was thinking out a theory of his own, a theory which dovetailed all the evidence as a mental exercise, but which needed a lot of solid fact to give it foundation before it could be justified by being put forward before the authorities. As was often the case during an investigation, Macdonald seemed to happen across “side-shows,” which had entertainment value apart from the information he collected. Mrs. Blossom in her parlour was just such a side-show, and the recollection of her would enliven Macdonald’s meditations during many a subsequent leisure moment, but in addition to that was the curiously vivid portrait she had given him of Listelle… “Clever as a monkey, and yet he never had a bean. Been on the halls and still got the patter… a bit of an acrobat, climbed anything… just cadged his way along… couldn’t live without a drink.”

  As he walked, Macdonald pondered on his next step. It depended on Bert Brewer. If Bert were a trustworthy fellow, a straight approach might be possible: if Bert seemed a twister, caution would be necessary. Macdonald felt more than ever anxious to meet Mr. Listelle and to discover something of his associates.

  Grey’s Buildings turned out to be one of those rows of early nineteenth century cottages which still exist in old Hampstead—little two-storey dwellings all in a row, with gardens in front, unseparated by walls. Each cottage had its own paved path, and even in January it was possible to see that the owners took a pride in their gardens. Macdonald knocked on the door of the end cottage and soon found himself looking down at a diminutive old man with a wrinkled face and cheerful blue eyes.

  “Mr. Brewe
r?”

  “That’s me. If it’s gardening you want done, I tell you straight I can’t oblige. What wiv me rheumatiz an’ me game knee I’m past it. Sorry, but there it is.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, it’s no use asking you,” replied Macdonald. He guessed at once that though Mr. Brewer did not wish to oblige in the gardening line, he was not likely to be averse from a chat. Chattiness was written all over him. Macdonald leaned against the doorpost and offered a cigarette, which the ancient took cheerfully.

  “It’s difficult to find anyone who’s got time to lend a hand these days,” went on Macdonald. “Rheumatism must be a great trial to you—but you manage to keep your own garden in very good order. It’s pleasant here.”

  “Yus. Pleasant it is. Seventy-eight years I’ve lived here come Easter, though it was a struggle to pay the rent sometimes. My old woman, she was a marvel—worked till she dropped. She was proud of her garden, same’s meself.”

  It took Macdonald a very short time to get on to friendly terms with the old “pot boy,” who asked him inside to sit by the fire, evidently aware that the price of a drink was a possibility. The Green Dragon soon entered the conversation, and Macdonald got old Brewer to mention Listelle of his own volition. It appeared that Listelle had more than once put him on to a winner, and Macdonald was too wise to ask how many shillings had gone down the drain on winners who failed to materialise. Eventually, the wily Chief Inspector was able to introduce into the conversation that not only had he himself heard of Listelle but that he was very anxious to get into touch with him. By this time the conversation had rambled on in such a way that old Bert Brewer was quite unaware that he had been led on by his pleasant visitor, and the old man went on garrulously, only too eager to continue,

  “’E came and stopped the night, me ’aving said I could give ’im a shakedown and welcome: on that sofa ’e slept, but ’is nerves couldn’t stand up to them guns. ’E went in the morning. Now where was it ’e told me ’e was going to?”

  That Listelle had told him of his next move, old Brewer was certain.

  “Would your daughter know?” asked Macdonald, but Brewer shook his head.

  “No. She couldn’t abide ’im. Wouldn’t sit in the same room wiv ’im. Now where was it? A cottage ’e’d got somewhere, no rent to pay, just got to keep an eye on the ’ouse and do some gardening. Deary me, ’im gardening! ’E don’t know an ’oe from a spade. In the country it was, but not that far from a town, and a racecourse. ’E mentioned that speshul. Not by the sea. Couldn’t stand the sea.”

  “Well, that’s something to start on,” said Macdonald. “Let’s go through the places where there are race meetings. Newmarket, Ascot, Epsom, Doncaster, Gatwick, Lewes, Newbury…” He paused here as the old man seemed struck by the name. “That it? Newbury’s in Berkshire, a long way from the sea.”

  “Newbury. Newbury,” muttered old Brewer. “That’s it, I believe. Newbury. That’s it. Just a few miles away, ’e said it was. I tell yer what—’is cottage was in a village the charries used to go through on their way to the races, and there was a big ’ouse nearby where a Duke lived and turned ’is ’ouse into an ’orspital. Stables there was there once. Now ’ow’s that? I can’t remember the name o’ the village, but I reckon I ain’t done so bad.”

  “You’ve done jolly well,” said Macdonald, “and if I find Mr. Listelle shall I give him a message from you?”

  Bert Brewer smiled all over his face. “Yus, mister. You can tell ’im ’e owes me five bob. I bet him Golden Gleam—that’s a good dog, that is—would win at the Reading Stadium, and so ’e did. I won seven and six on Golden Gleam, an’ if I get that five bob orf Mr. Listelle I reckon I shall ’ave done a treat.”

  “Well, say if I produce the five bob and collect it from Mr. Listelle when I see him,” said Macdonald.

  Old Brewer was delighted. “Thank you kindly, sir, thank you I’m sure,” he said happily.

  Macdonald stood up as though to go, and then added as an afterthought:

  “Did you ever hear Mr. Listelle say if he played chess? I’m fond of the game myself, and I wondered if I’d ever come across him over a chess-board.”

  “Chess? No. Draughts, or dominoes, I’ve seem ’im play. Not chess. I remember ’im saying the very thought of chess gave ’im an ’eadache. ’E’d got a friend—the chap ’e lived with—used to play chess, go on for hours ’e would, like they do, just staring at the board. Too slow for our Mr. Listelle. Liked something livelier, ’e did.”

  “Yes, it’s not everybody’s game,” agreed Macdonald. “What about the man he lived with, ever see him?”

  “No, not so far as I know. An artist, ’e was. Very clever, I believe. When the blitz started, the two of ’em did a bunk out of London together: went into the country. Silly, I call it. They wasn’t meant to live in the country, ’adn’t any sense that way. The country’s all right for them as is used to it, but if you’ve lived in a town all your life, the country just gives you the pip.”

  “So you wouldn’t have expected Mr. Listelle to stay in his cottage down Newbury way?”

  “That I shouldn’t, unless it so happened there was a nice pub ’andy—but what’s the use of a pub if you ’aven’t any money? Beer’s a perishing price these days. Sinful I calls it. Still, there’s this to it. If ’e’d left that cottage and come back to Lunnon, I’d lay my oath he’d ’ve come to see me. I’ll tell you for why: ’e liked to get a bit of something for nothing, and I told ’im ’e could come an’ spend a night here if ’e wanted. ’E makes me laugh, and I reckon it’s worth putting up with a bit of inconvenience if I get a good laugh out of it.”

  Macdonald agreed. Looking round the old-fashioned little room, he said:

  “You haven’t got a wireless, Mr. Brewer?”

  “No, sir. Can’t be bothered with ’em. I always goes to sleep when they things is turned on. I’m a bit ’ard of ’earing, and they don’t make no sort of sense to me.”

  “D’you like a newspaper?”

  “No, only to see the winners, and Mr. Spragge next door, ’e obliges by telling me. I’m no sort of scholard. Reading’s like work to me, and me eyes isn’t what they was.”

  A few minutes later, when Macdonald took his leave, Mr. Brewer was nodding over the fire, muttering “Thank you kindly” at intervals.

  III

  Macdonald strode back to Hollyberry Hill, putting through a call to headquarters on his way. If Mr. Brewer’s memory were to be relied upon and the Newbury district held Listelle and his cottage, there were enough pointers to indicate that cottage to the police in the district. The interviews with Mrs. Blossom and Bert Brewer might turn out to be as a hundred others—wasted time from a detective’s point of view, but Macdonald was a patient man. Many a time he had based a case on disconnected fragments put together from seemingly useless conversations. In the present case, he was fitting a theory together from possibilities, and even as he had talked that afternoon his mind had been playing with possibilities. “It takes all sorts to make a world,” so ran the old adage, and Macdonald found that the same words could be applied to any of his cases. “All sorts”—men as divers as old Brewer and young Mackellon, Listelle and Robert Cavenish: women as various as Rosanne Manaton, Mrs. Tubbs and Mrs. Blossom. From the chance contacts of seemingly unrelated people, the Chief Inspector built up a theory, and in the process, as someone once said of him, “murdered impossibility, to make what can not be, slight work.”

  Chapter Ten

  I

  By tea time on the day after the interrupted studio party, Rosanne Manaton was beginning to show some signs of frayed nerves, unusual in one to whom habitual self-control was second nature. As she lifted down a cup and saucer she caught her hand on the edge of the shelf and the precious cup smashed to fragments on the floor. Rosanne said “Damn” vigorously and unashamedly, and then had to bite her lip to prevent herself crying. “Pul
l yourself together and don’t be an ass,” she said. The past eighteen hours had been trying ones. After Macdonald had left the studio the previous night, Bruce Manaton had refused to go to bed. Rosanne had gone up to her gallery bedroom but had been unable to sleep, aware that her brother was prowling restlessly round the studio. He had not put the light out until three o’clock in the morning, and even then Rosanne had lain awake, thinking she heard sounds below. When morning came, Bruce was heavily asleep, and he refused to get up until nearly midday, so that Rosanne was unable to get the studio cleared up. After a late and unsatisfactory meal, Rosanne had suggested that Bruce should go out and give her a chance to get the place cleaned. This he had refused to do, and had wandered about restlessly, getting in Rosanne’s way and preventing her settling down to anything.

  After a while, Bruce took it into his head to start turning out a chest which contained old tools and working materials—a mess of old paint tubes and brushes and charcoal, wood-engraving tools and blocks, printing inks, block colours and powder colours, and all the other heterogenous messes collected by a craftsman. Bruce Manaton was as untidy in his habits as any man could well be; he seemed to make confusion instantly. If he began looking for materials, or books, or clothes or papers, the result was always the same—a chaotic muddle. Rosanne was a tidy and fastidious creature, and she was for ever working to restore order among her brother’s possessions—a thankless task.

  Seeing him rummage in the old wooden chest, Rosanne called across the studio to him,

  “Is it anything I can find for you, Bruce? That lot’s mainly junk, it ought to go for salvage.”

  “Salvage be damned, I won’t have any of my materials chucked away. It’s difficult enough to get stuff. Hell… what’s that?”

  “That” was a box of powder red, one of the harsh vivid magentas derived from anilines by the modern chemist; the bottom came out of the box and a cascade of the powder poured down over the confusion in the chest, over Bruce Manaton’s flannel bags, over his hands, over the floor. “Hell!” he muttered again.