‘He told you that, did he? The ungrateful rascal. That’s what he is. An ungrateful rascal. To ask a man to do a good turn and then to report him to the police. I committed no crime. I just helped what I thought was a friend. He swore to me that he hadn’t anything to do with Joss’s death, but that if the police got to hear that he was with Joss that night, they’d suspect him. It’s no crime to . . .’
‘He didn’t report it to the police.’
‘How do you know, then?’
‘Deductions,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Sydney Handy died this morning. He was murdered.’
It was then that Bessie brayed hoarsely. It sounded like a hearty laugh.
11
The Game Bag
QUANTRELL WAS pottering about the grounds of Ballakee Manor when the. police arrived there. There was a motor cycle leaning against the garage, through the open doors of which they could see the vintage car, bright with brass. Now, after Cojeen’s story, it seemed to have little importance in the present case.
As soon as he spotted them, Quantrell approached them. He had a sporting gun in his hand and a game-bag with a rabbit’s head dangling from it over his arm. He looked dishevelled and unwashed as usual and his lips were scarlet against the thick black beard which obscured most of his face.
‘You wanting me?’
‘Among others, yes. We’d like to see the Colonel first.’
‘You’ll not be welcome at this time o’ day. He’s not at his best in the mornings.’
Littlejohn didn’t seem to be listening.
‘Tell the Colonel we’re here and wish to see him, and you stay around. We’ll need you later.’
‘I’m not likely to run away. I’m here all day today.’
He walked in through the front door in his dirty boots and then returned.
‘Is it important?’
‘Of course it is. Why do you think we’ve traipsed out here?’
‘He’ll see you, then.’
‘Is Miss Duffy at home?’
‘She’s cooking the dinner. She won’t like it if she’s disturbed.’
The Archdeacon remained outside in the car. Littlejohn went back and asked him to keep an eye on Quantrell and if he made any signs of departure to signal to him through the window.
Quantrell waited and then gave an impudent jerk of his head to indicate they could follow him and left them to enter and close the front door themselves. Without knocking, he opened a door to the left and waved them inside. Then he went out without another word.
Duffy was stretched in the large club chair with his feet on a stool. He did not rise to meet them. He gave Littlejohn a quick nod and ignored Knell.
‘You here again. What do you want this time?’
He had changed in the short time since last they saw him. His complexion was yellow and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He had a look of general lethargy about him. He had, from all appearances, been drinking heavily.
‘Some further information about the Varran case . . .’
‘You’re wasting your time. I told you all I know when you called before. I hope you’re not going to be long.’
‘That depends on you, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Whether or not you give us some straight answers to our questions.’
‘You’d better both sit down then. Looking up at you standing there gives me a crick in the neck.’
Littlejohn and Knell drew up chairs, one on either side of him with their backs to the window and the light falling full on the reclining man.
They had hardly settled themselves before the Archdeacon tapped on the window. He indicated with his forefinger that something was afoot farther along the front of the house. Littlejohn opened the window and leaned out. Quantrell, his game-bag and his gun on his back, had wheeled out his motor cycle and was starting it up.
‘Quantrell! The Colonel wishes to see you . . .’
Duffy made no move to rise, but his face grew livid.
‘What do you mean? I told him he could go and I don’t . . .’
‘Will you please be quiet. You will need him before we go.’
Quantrell hesitated.
‘Come in here, Quantrell, if you don’t wish me to come for you.’
The man leaned his motor cycle against the wall again and disappeared in the direction of the garage. When he returned he was without his game-bag, but still carried his gun.
‘Leave the gun in the hall, Quantrell,’ said Littlejohn.
Quantrell showed his teeth through his beard and was about to argue.
Duffy lost patience.
‘Put the damned thing in the hall, Quantrell, and let’s get on with this and rid ourselves of our callers. I’m supposed to be resting.’
Quantrell clumped out to the hall, returned without the gun and then without waiting for permission, drew up a chair and joined the group.
‘And now, sir, would you mind sending for Miss Duffy?’
Duffy flew into a temper again.
‘I’ll be damned if I will. She’s cooking in the kitchen and I don’t see how including her in this jamboree will do any good.’
‘Unless you send for her, sir, we will have to ask the three of you to accompany us to the police station and answer questions there.’
‘And if we refuse to come?’
‘We’ll arrest the lot of you!’
Knell gave Littlejohn a quick look, wondering if the Colonel would challenge such a statement. Instead Duffy gave in.
‘Oh, all right. Get her, Quantrell. If the lunch is spoiled she can blame it on the police.’
Quantrell shambled out as though he’d all the time in the world and they could hear his heavy boots crossing the hall. There was a pause and then he and Sarah Duffy sounded to emerge from somewhere in the back of the house and enter the hall, shouting all the way angrily, interrupting one another until finally they reached the door of the room and Quantrell flung it open.
She was in a furious rage, probably at having to leave her work, and was unsuccessfully trying to take it out on Quantrell. She might as well have beaten her head against the wall. He assumed a stupid oafish manner, now and then flinging back an impudent answer. His general attitude was one of somehow possessing a hold over the Duffys which he could use when he thought fit.
Sarah Duffy was wearing a long white coat for her kitchen work. It did not show her to the best advantage. Neutral white was a poor background for her flamboyant beauty. Duffy did not even look up to greet her.
Outside, the Archdeacon was visible through the window. He had laid aside the book he’d been reading and was now wandering round the unkempt front garden. Soon, he strolled out of sight, presumably into the wilderness behind. The sight of it seemed to upset Quantrell.
‘What’s the parson nosing about at? I like his cheek trespassing among other people’s private property. I’ve a mind to go and tell him . . .’
Littlejohn turned on him.
‘Leave the Archdeacon out of this, Quantrell, and be quiet. You’ll stay here until I say you can go. Otherwise, we’ll all adjourn to the local police station for our questions . . .’
Sarah Duffy, scarlet with anger, broke in, raising her voice to a shout to make herself heard.
‘Will somebody tell me what all this is about? What are these policemen doing here again?’
Duffy looked at her over his shoulder.
‘Better ask them. They haven’t told me yet.’
‘Please sit down, Miss Duffy. This may last quite a long time. I’ve a lot of questions to ask you all. But first let me give you some information. Sydney Handy died on his way to Ramsey cottage hospital an hour ago. He’d been murdered.’
There was a pause and then Duffy seemed to think he’d better say something.
‘Who’s Sydney Handy?’
‘Surely you aren’t telling me you don’t know him. He was the brother-in-law of Joss Varran, and he seems to have got himself mixed up in the sorry b
usiness which has now led to both their deaths. But that’s not all the story. It begins with the call here of Mr. Williams, the manager of Housmans Bank in Preston . . .’
Sarah Duffy rose quickly to her feet.
‘I’ve no time to listen to your telling stories, Mr. Littlejohn. I’ve the lunch to prepare and it’s spoiling in the oven . . .’
‘Please sit down, Miss Duffy. This concerns you as much as the rest of us. As I’ve said before, if our business is not completed here, it will be done at the police station. You may take your choice.’
She looked ready to resist further and then curiosity seemed to get the better of her.
‘What is it all about then? I don’t see . . .’
‘It is about the murder of Joss Varran. I’m trying to tell you how it occurred if you’ll listen. It began with the visit of Mr. Williams. His bank, including the strongroom, was being rebuilt and the large door of the strongroom had not been delivered to time. This made it necessary, the old strong-room having been demolished, for the cash and securities to be kept temporarily in smaller safes, quite secure, Mr. Williams thought, but without the protection of the door of the vault. Two men were placed there on guard, therefore, every night after the staff left.’
Quantrell uttered a great and noisy yawn and stretched out his legs as though settling down to a little nap.
‘You’re not interested, Quantrell. You will be soon.’
Quantrell gave him an impudent pained look.
‘It’s most interesting, but what has it to do with me?’
‘I’d have thought that an expert on safes like you would have been all ears.’
‘Me? Safes?’
‘You forget that the dinner is spoiling. Let me get on. Mr. Williams, an old neighbour of Colonel Duffy when they both lived in Preston, arrived on the Island on a holiday, called here sociably, and gave the Colonel all the details of the troubles the rebuilding was causing him. He also seems to have complained about the confusion due to the delayed delivery of the strong-room door. Colonel Duffy listened with great interest and I imagine before Mr. Williams had even said good-bye, he had started to hatch a plot to relieve him of some of his cash.’
Duffy choked and tried to get up. Then he was seized with a fit of coughing and sank back. Neither Sarah nor Quantrell offered him any help. He managed to utter a few words amid his paroxysms.
‘If you’re trying to involve me in the Preston bank robbery, you’re making a mistake. I’ve not been near Preston since I moved to this place. My heart’s too dicky for me even to walk to the end of the drive. Ask Sarah . . .’
‘I’m not saying you robbed the bank. You merely planned the affair and left the job to others. Three of them . . .’
‘You haven’t a shred of proof. You’re making up a fantastic tale to justify your intrusion here.’
‘I was saying, there were three of them. Quantrell; Joss Varran; and you, Miss Duffy.’
Suddenly the three of them, Quantrell, the Colonel and Sarah Duffy were all shouting at once. Quantrell uttering a string of abuse and flat denials, Sarah trying to make them hear her say that she and the Colonel were at the manor on the night of the robbery and could prove it, and Duffy struggling to make himself heard and shouting incoherently.
Whilst all this was going on, P.C. Kincaid suddenly arrived in his van, got out and hurriedly sought out and spoke to the Archdeacon, who was still exploring the garden, and who with a wave of his hand, indicated where Littlejohn and Knell were. Littlejohn opened the window and spoke to Kincaid.
‘Are you wanting to see me, Kincaid?’
‘Will you excuse me a minute, sir . . .’
Kincaid had spotted Quantrell’s old motor cycle leaning against the wall and made for it. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and started to examine the tyres of the bike. Then he returned.
‘We have been and explored the back road to Handy’s farm, sir. It is in very bad condition and has been trampled by cattle. There are traces of motor cycle tyres going part of the way up towards Handy’s, but the machine seems to have been parked about a mile from the farm and the rider must have walked the rest. There are signs of parking the cycle in the hedge, but no footprints, because the remainder lies across grass. I took a rough drawing of the impressions of the bike tyres and, in my opinion, which our experts can check later, they tally with those of the machine resting there against the wall.’
And he indicated Quantrell’s old bike.
‘Thanks, Kincaid. That will be of great help. Stay around. I’m just asking some more questions of Colonel Duffy and his friends.’
Littlejohn returned to the fray indoors and closed the window. The fracas had died away meanwhile, as the three participants had quietened to listen to what was going on at the window. They hadn’t heard much, judging from their expressions.
‘What’s all that about?’ asked Duffy.
He helped himself to more whisky from the bottle on the nearby table.
‘I’ll perhaps know better if I ask Quantrell a question . . .’
Littlejohn turned to Quantrell who had taken out a pipe and started to smoke without even asking permission.
‘What were you doing at Handy’s farm this morning, Quantrell?’
‘I wasn’t there. Who says I was?’
‘You went part of the way on your motor cycle. You left impressions of the tyres. The rest of the way, you walked . . .’
‘You’re wrong. That was several days ago.’
‘It rained last night. Now answer the question.’
‘I repeat, I haven’t been there for days.’
Littlejohn glanced at the Duffys. The expression on both their faces was uneasy, almost haggard, as though they were hanging now on the questions and answers which were piling up. They obviously wondered exactly how much Littlejohn knew.
‘Very well, we’ll come back to that later. I was outlining what happened prior to Varran’s death. I said there were three people involved in the Preston bank robbery. Varran, whom you knew quite well, Colonel, in spite of the fact that you pretended you didn’t when last we called. You needn’t waste time by arguing. We have proof of it. The second was Quantrell . . .’
Quantrell leaned forward to shout a challenge, but Littlejohn got in first.
‘And don’t you waste time, Quantrell, by further argument. We are sure of that, too. It needed an expert safe breaker and you were the man for the job. The Colonel knew that you and Varran were a couple of rascals to whom the easy money would be a temptation neither of you could resist. The third one of the party . . .’
He paused and looked at Sarah Duffy. Her eyes were bright and challenging, as though she was eager to hear what was next.
‘The third one was you, Miss Duffy.’
She made a strange guttural noise supposed to be a scornful laugh and rose.
‘I never heard anything so fantastic in my life. You must be mad to think we’ll believe such a tale. I’m going to finish off the lunch . . .’
‘Sit down, Miss Sarah Heron!’
She looked at Littlejohn incredulously. She was used to calling the tune and this was something new. And though she didn’t protest at the use of her real name, she was momentarily startled at the extent of Littlejohn’s knowledge of her.
She remained standing, but had obviously forgotten about the meal.
‘Yes, it was you, Miss Duffy. It’s easier to call you by that name. The Colonel was hardly likely to leave the whole exercise in the sole hands of a couple of the biggest scoundrels he knew. As he was unfit to travel – and if he was in his present condition on the night of the crime, I believe him – you had to be there to keep an eye on the loot. His precautions were in vain. You were disturbed half-way through the job, had to run for it, and Varran broke away with the money and joined the Mary Peters and away before you quite knew what he was up to.’
It was Duffy’s turn to laugh this time. He made a croaking noise for he didn’t seem to have enough breath to do anythin
g else.
‘That’s an entertaining tale, Littlejohn, but not a word of it’s true.’
‘We’ll see. Quantrell and Miss Duffy soon decided what Varran had done and the chase, which lasted until the night of Varran’s death, commenced. They couldn’t reach the Isle of Man before him. The Mary Peters sailed almost as soon as he boarded her and Varran was at Close Dhoo before the first available boat or plane left for the Island. By the time they arrived here, Varran had hidden the money and was safely back aboard his ship, where the pair of you couldn’t get at him. He knew that unless he could evade you, get his hidden money back and disappear, it wouldn’t pay him to be alone again . . .’
Sarah Duffy reached for a cigarette from a box on the table and lit it calmly.
‘In this tale you’re telling, there seems to be one flaw. Why did Varran flee to the Isle of Man? He knew the others would follow him there. Why didn’t he remain in England where he’d more scope for hiding?’
‘As soon as the three of you were disturbed, Varran was on the run not only from the pair of you, but from the police. He was in a hurry and sought the best hiding place he knew, his ship. But in his panic, he forgot that once at sea, he was trapped. He had to go to the Isle of Man, because the Mary Peters was bound for it and, short of diving overboard, there he must go, too. He’d just time to hide his money and get back to his ship and then he found you’d both arrived and were on his trail. He remained, safe among his shipmates, until he got to London. The two of you had followed him there, and soon he’d have to face the music. He couldn’t remain aboard the Mary Peters for ever. He was a violent impulsive man when cornered and chose a novel way of shaking you off until the heat subsided. He decided to spend a cooling-off period in gaol. As I said, he was impulsive, but rather short of brains and that caused his downfall and his death.’
Strangely enough, none of them interrupted him this time. Littlejohn wondered whether his theory was proving true in every detail, or else the Duffys and Quantrell were amazed at his mastery of the fabulous.
‘Whilst he was in gaol, two people called to see him. Miss Duffy and his brother-in-law, Sydney Handy. Varran refused to see Miss Duffy. He knew that she’d either called to make a deal or else to threaten him if he didn’t play along with her and her associates. Handy paid Varran a visit because Varran had asked him to do so. Both are dead and we’ll never know what happened in that interview. I imagine he asked his brother-in-law to keep an eye on Close Dhoo and perhaps he even obliquely mentioned the money he had hidden. Such information would doubtless have corrupted Handy, a greedy bitter man whose failure in life had made him quite unscrupulous and willing to do anything to reverse his run of bad luck.’
The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 14