Death Before Breakfast

by George Bellairs

  ‘Quite a lot. You know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pity. You’ve just missed him. He was here for his two or three pints and left about a quarter of an hour ago.’

  ‘He lives in Sackville Street, he tells me.’

  ‘Yes. A big old house he bought for a song. It’s called The Sycamores. I don’t know why. No trees there nowadays, though there might have been once. It was a good residential quarter in days gone by. I believe a banker once lived in Barnes’s place.’

  The landlord hesitated.

  ‘You from the police?’

  ‘Yes. Do I look it?’

  ‘No. You’re the Superintendent in charge of this July Street affair, aren’t you? I thought I knew your face. I’ve seen your picture in the paper. Superintendent Littlejohn, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What a pity the missus is out for the night. Gone to see her sister at Bexley Heath. She’s a great admirer of yours. Follows all your cases. She’ll be sorry she missed you.’

  ‘I’ll probably be in here again very soon.’

  ‘Nothing wrong connected with us, I do hope.’

  ‘No. It’s very convenient for a drink when we feel a bit under the weather.’

  ‘I see. Case looks like being a hard nut to crack, eh?’

  ‘Does Dr. Macready ever come in here?’

  The landlord curled his lips.

  ‘Not him. He’s not the pub type. He drinks in private and, from what I hear, he puts quite a lot away, too.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’ve been here nearly fifteen years, although judging from the way the custom’s declined since these bowling and bingo crazes started, we shan’t be here much longer, unless we start bowls and bingo ourselves. When we first came here, the doctor was in practice down the road. He was steady and well-liked then. Then he started drinking and got worse and worse. He was never available when you wanted him. He got a young woman as assistant and worked her to death. She died in a ’flu epidemic and that did him no good. He lost a lot of patients. They were very fond of Dr. McHarry – that was the lady assistant. Good-looking girl in her twenties. First job after she qualified. Always ready to help. Caused a scandal, I’ll tell you. Macready sold out not long after that. Went to live in July Street. A house he owned and used for a local surgery.’

  ‘A monied man?’

  ‘I never thought it of him. In the old days he was always in debt to the local shops. But he must have a bit, or else he came into money. He couldn’t put whisky back the way he does if he hadn’t some money.’

  ‘Did his sister live with him when he was in practice?’

  ‘No. His wife was alive then. Died just before he gave up. Probably medical neglect. A very decent sort of woman she was, too. He treated her badly. No; his sister turned up shortly after his wife died. Some say she isn’t his sister at all; just a woman he’s living with. If you’ve ever seen them, they’re not a bit alike and she’s years younger than him. It’s nobody’s business but their own, I say.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  A newcomer, a little man in an old raincoat and a cloth cap, had just entered. He seemed on top of the world, in spite of his bad cough and sickly appearance. Littlejohn recognised him from Cromwell’s description. It was Peeples. He was celebrating.

  ‘Give me a pint of the best, Lucy.’

  ‘How are the kids, Lionel?’

  Mr. Peeples took a good swig and cleared the froth from his upper lip by using the lower one like a squeegee.

  ‘Comin’ along fine. Believe it or not, the police prescribed for ’em.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  Some of the other drinkers gathered round to hear the news.

  ‘One of the detectives on the July Street case called, and I told him about the kids. It seems he’s kids of his own who’ve also had the whooping-cough. He gave ’em a herb called mouse-ear. Ever heard of it?’

  Everybody said they hadn’t.

  ‘Well, it’s a ruddy marvel. You brew it like tea and then simmer it for half an hour. Second dose did ’em good. They’ll soon have hardly a cough left between em. …’

  There were murmurs of congratulation and somebody bought Peeples another drink.

  ‘Some of these police chaps are decent blokes. In spite of what’s said about ’em. They’re yewman like us.’

  ‘Hear that?’ said the landlord. ‘Have another. On the house.’

  ‘No, thanks. I must be getting along.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Thanks. Good night.’

  It was still raining outside. The traffic had thinned out. Now it was mainly heavy vehicles going in and out of London. The few odd pedestrians about seemed in a hurry to get on with their business and in out of the rain. The pavements shone with the reflections of the amber lights above the road. Here and there, a loafer who seemed to have nowhere to go, and in a shop doorway, a loving couple embracing frenziedly.

  Littlejohn made his way to Sackville Street, past the spot where Mrs. Jump had found the body of the Silver King. A bigger mystery than ever why a first-class cracksman from Paris should have ended in the gutter of July Street. At the house where the Jamaicans all lived, a couple who looked like new immigrants, a man and woman with a shabby fibre suitcase apiece, were knocking at the door. The man wore a panama, which had gone soft in the rain and hung dejectedly over his face, like a little, collapsed bell-tent.

  Sackville Street was a broad thoroughfare of old houses, large and once probably what estate agents would call very desirable. Now the tide had taken away the types who used to flourish there. The property was shabby and neglected. Some of it looked like tenements. A long row faced the recreation ground, the tall dark trees of which were sodden and dripped with rain.

  Littlejohn took out his torch and looked at the names on the gateposts, the iron gates and railings of which had been removed, probably in the futile wartime collection of old iron. Finally, he arrived at the one he was seeking. Two pillars of dirty brick with terra cotta caps. On the front bases of the latter, the name of the house – or what was left of it – was just visible in relief. Wind, weather and corrosion had removed most of it. On one side Y AMORE; on the other HE SY MO … Like the strange inscriptions of an ancient tomb.

  A wooden gate had been fixed to replace the former iron one and this was fastened by a loop of rusty wire. A long flagged path, with a garden of some kind or other – probably a ruin – which Littlejohn couldn’t make out. Three steps and a large door with a semi-circular fanlight, from which a jet of light pierced the darkness. In the beam, a steady drizzle descended, like magnified motes in sunlight. There was a bell-push in the middle of the door. Littlejohn pressed it, but there was no sound at all. The room to the right had the blind down, but was illuminated; the other bay window on the left was in complete darkness. Littlejohn seized the large black-lacquered wrought-iron knocker and beat a tattoo with it.

  There was a pause and then footsteps. The door opened and a woman with a long, dead face and a mop of hair the colour of grey mould stood there. She peered in the darkness.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is this Mr. Sam Barnes’s house?’

  ‘Yes. What do you want?’

  ‘Could I have a word with Mr. Barnes? My name’s Superintendent Littlejohn.’

  The woman’s face registered no emotion. She seemed to hesitate, and then the door of the lighted room opened and Sammy Barnes himself appeared. He wore the same blue trousers, but had changed his reefer coat for a grey cardigan jacket. He had old leather slippers on his feet and a knotted scarf round his neck.

  ‘That you, Super? Quite a surprise at this hour of night. Better come in out of the rain.’

  He pushed the woman aside and stood on the step making gestures of welcome.

  Littlejohn went inside and Barnes closed the door.

  It was a large hall with a broad staircase rising from the right. Worn red stair-carpet,
steps which had once been varnished and now needed a fresh coat, imitation marble paper on the walls. The whole had an air of ill-attended, slovenly shabbiness. A lamp in a cheap parchment shade, which had been singed down one side, shed a stark light over everything.

  Barnes was smoking a short pipe with a cracked bowl. Before his strong tobacco filled the air, Littlejohn got the faint aroma of Russian cigarettes.

  ‘Come in here. …’

  Barnes opened the door on the left and switched on the light.

  ‘You’ll excuse us. The wife’s just entertainin’ one or two women to supper. That was Mrs. Barnes who opened the door. She’s not been too well.’

  Barnes wobbled into the room, struck a match, and bent with difficulty to light a gas-fire. One of the elements was broken.

  ‘Sit down.’

  They sat opposite each other on the mouldering skin hearthrug on saddleback chairs upholstered in horsehair, which Littlejohn could feel penetrating the cloth of his trousers. The furniture was old-fashioned and commonplace. It looked as if Barnes had bought the house cheaply and then filled the rooms he needed with heavy items from a public auction. The carpet was too large for the floor and had been turned back along one edge to fit. The pattern had vanished.

  Barnes looked fatter than ever. When he sat in the chair, his huge paunch seemed to slide down to his knees. In the light of the bare lamp, hanging in a lustre shade with two of the drops missing, Littlejohn could make out more of him. A gross round face, red and with thick lips, a head like an orange with close clipped grey hair, a heavy bulbous nose, and large fleshy ears. The eyes, small and heavily pouched, were of filmy blue, like pieces of glass, and seemed lifeless, even though Barnes was smiling all the time; a fixed treacherous smile, too.

  ‘What makes you call at this hour, Super?’

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood. …’

  ‘Workin’ three shifts, eh?’

  ‘I thought I’d call, if you can spare me a few minutes. I gather you are a prominent citizen of the locality and know everyone. Perhaps you can help me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Have a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Smoke, then? Cigar? I have some good ones. No? I don’t smoke cigarettes. Haven’t any in the house. Smoke your pipe if you like.’

  He seemed to be fencing, seeking an opening to betray Littlejohn’s real purpose for turning up there.

  Littlejohn lit his pipe and sat back in the chair.

  ‘I think I told you when we met in the street, Mr. Barnes, that the body found in the canal, which we are almost sure was the one seen early on Wednesday morning in July Street, was that of a French jewel thief. His name was Jourin, Etienne Jourin. I’m wondering if you might give us some lead as to what a first-rate cracksman from Paris should be doing in July Street so early in the morning, and dead.’

  Barnes grinned and puffed at his empty pipe. He took out a pouch like a bladder and began to ram tobacco in the bowl.

  ‘Why ask me, Super? Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘You own a garage at the end of July Street. I wondered if Jourin might have called there for petrol or anything.’

  ‘After I saw you, I made some enquiries at the garage, but there was nobody unusual there at all on Tuesday, day or night and, of course, so early on Wednesday mornin’ the place wasn’t open.’

  ‘It seems that a dairy runabout, parked in front of your place, was used to take the body away after it had been discovered, and dump it in the canal. You knew that?’

  ‘I heard about it. I asked among the men, but nobody knew anything about it.’

  He seemed good at making enquiries. He was also probably good at keeping the answers to himself, too.

  The house was quiet, as though someone was listening. The silence was broken by the hissing of the gas-fire and Barnes’s heavy breathing, which sounded as if he were panting after heavy exertion. Now and then, a car passed the door. Whenever an unusually heavy vehicle went by, the drops of the lustre shade trembled and tinkled.

  ‘Are you in charge of the affair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unusual, isn’t it, in a case of this sort? A top-ranking man from Scotland Yard. I’d have thought a local chap would have handled it.’

  ‘I happen to be interested in it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My wife’s daily help was the first to find the body.’

  Barnes laughed loudly, opened his mouth wide and displayed his tongue and two sets of badly cleaned false-teeth.

  ‘That’s a good one. That’s all right for a tale. I bet there’s somethin’ more behind it. Is it an Interpol affair?’

  ‘No yet…’

  The smile had faded. Barnes was glaring now. He wasn’t getting all the answers and was nettled.

  ‘I suppose you’ve got a theory about the murder.’

  ‘No.’

  Barnes still wasn’t satisfied. He tried another tack.

  ‘You must have a drink with me. I need one. No; I won’t take a refusal.’

  He bounced to his feet and opened the door.

  ‘Ada! Ada!’ He bawled down the passage.

  The dejected woman appeared again.

  ‘You’ve been a long time. Me and the Super. need a drink. Bring the whisky and don’t forget the syphon.’

  She hurried away and returned with an armful.

  ‘Put the stuff on the table. By the way, this is Superintendent Littlejohn, from Scotland Yard. He’s here on a case. I don’t suppose it’s any use tellin’ you which it is. You wouldn’t be interested.’

  She shook hands awkwardly with Littlejohn and then backed out.

  ‘She doesn’t get out much. She had an operation a few months since and doesn’t seem to pick up. Insists on doing all the ’ousework, although I could pay for a staff of servants if she’d only use ’em.’

  He poured out some whisky and passed over the syphon.

  ‘Here’s to you, Super.’

  ‘Good health.’

  They drank in silence.

  ‘Where were you on Tuesday night, Mr. Barnes?’

  Barnes looked over the rim of the glass, lowered it, and grinned.

  ‘I like that! He drinks my whisky and as good as accuses me of committing a murder! Well, I suppose it’s what you call routine. I heard you’d been at every house in July Street checking-up. No reason why I shouldn’t be checked-up as well. Let me see. I went for my usual few pints at the Admiral Rodney. That would be from eight till nine. If you ask them at the Admiral, they’ll tell you they can set the clock by me. Same time in, same time out, every night of the week. On Sundays, we go to Stockwell to see my daughter, so I don’t go then. I got home here about ten-past nine, had a drink, and went to bed. From ten till seven, we were both in bed. In the same big bed, Superintendent. She’s not much to look at nowadays, Super., but without her beside me, I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

  ‘What time did you go out in the morning?’

  ‘Eight o’clock. I usually go to the garage about then.’

  ‘Did you know the dairy runabout was left overnight at the garage?’

  ‘Yes. Trodd told me about it all.’

  Barnes sat puffing his pipe and drinking his whisky. He seemed quite content.

  ‘Do you want alibis? If you do, I’ll send for my old woman again. She’ll tell you, and she’s not the sort to lie. One thing about Ada, she’s got a conscience.’

  ‘No. I’ll take your word, Mr. Barnes. You know the neighbourhood very well. Is there any reason why Etienne Jourin should be in this area? Why should a jewel thief from Paris fetch up in July Street?’

  ‘Perhaps he was burgling here, too.’

  ‘Is there anything worth burgling?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you don’t suspect anyone of killing him?’

  ‘If you ask me, he must have had a partner and done a bunk with the swag, and the partner got on his trail. He perhaps caught up with him in July Street. Did he have any jewelle
ry on him when you found him?’

  ‘No. Whoever dumped him in the canal also removed traces of identification.’

  ‘How did you find out who he was, so soon, then?’

  ‘We circulated his pictures. Also, whoever tried to hide his identity, forgot to remove his keys from his trousers pocket. They were French made.’

  Barnes took another swig and filled up his glass.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you chaps, Super. You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you? I suppose by to-morrow you’ll have found out who killed him.’

  ‘Perhaps. I think we’ll need a little more time, though. By the way, do you know Dr. Macready well?’

  ‘As a neighbour, that’s all. Why? He’s not suspected, is he?’

  ‘No. I called to see him, and he seems to be an interesting character. His sister, too. They’re a strange couple to be living in a place like July Street.’

  ‘That’s their business, isn’t it? The doctor owned the house and he’s the sort who could live anywhere. He seems to spend most of his time reading and thinking. I guess people of that sort don’t mind much where they live, so long as they can get a bit of peace.’

  ‘His sister’s a different type, though. Not the July Street sort, at all.’

  ‘Of course, she isn’t, and she gets away from it whenever she can. She’s a talented musician. Plays the harp. Paints, too. Like her brother, if she can get a bit of peace and quiet to do as she likes, I don’t suppose she cares much where her home is. They’ve made the place nice, I can tell you. She’s a fine woman. She’s good-lookin’ now. When she was younger, she must have been a real bobby-dazzler.’

  ‘You’ve visited them, then?’

  Barnes leered at Littlejohn.

  ‘You’re askin’ a lot of questions, aren’t you? What have the Macready’s got to do with the killin’ of an unknown French thief?’

  ‘I’m interested in everybody and all that goes on in July Street until we’ve laid the murderer by the heels, Mr. Barnes.’

  ‘Well, I have visited them. They run a car. Garage it at my place in a lock-up at the back. Sometimes, when they forget, I have to call with the bill for the rent and other odds and ends. Now are you satisfied?’