‘I might.’
‘I expect you would like to look over the house?’
Littlejohn didn’t try to bring her back to the subject she had skated over. Instead, he rose and indicated that he would follow her. Haddock brought up the rear.
Up the red-carpeted stairs, with the bathroom facing, and the door open. Hanging from the middle window-frame a large magnifying shaving-mirror before which Dawson must have performed every morning.
‘This was the Alderman’s room…’
It looked aldermanic! A huge double four-poster bed from which the bedding had been removed. A heavy mahogany wardrobe and a chest of drawers with an old-fashioned toilet mirror on the top. Photographs on the walls showing Dawson as mayor in several groups of officials, the chain of office ever preponderant. In one Littlejohn made out little Marriott.
‘That’s Mr. Marriott, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. And that’s Mrs. Beaumont.’
She pointed to a group with an inscription at the foot. Justices of the Peace. 1950.
‘Alderman Dawson was a great friend of Mrs. Beaumont?’
‘Yes. They met on the bench and at many public functions. He was friendly with her husband when he was alive, I believe. I wasn’t here then, of course.’
She smiled at her own thoughts.
‘There were rumours that the Alderman fancied Mrs. Beaumont as the second Mrs. Dawson, at one time. They were of about the same age and knew each other well. It was even rumoured that Mrs. Beaumont wasn’t averse to the idea. However, it died out.’
‘Were you surprised?’
‘No. I think he would have fancied a younger, better-looking woman.’
She turned almost coyly on Haddock and addressed him. ‘You said I was to tell the truth, didn’t you, Henry?’ Torn between joy and sorrow, the detective-constable twisted his poor feet in his shoes until the leather squeaked loudly.
Littlejohn looked round the room. Thick Indian carpet, an alabaster reading-lamp with an expensive shade at the bedside, an electric razor on the chest of drawers, an elaborate gas-fire in the fireplace. Every modern comfort.
‘Would you say Mr. Dawson was wealthy?’
Mrs. White hesitated.
‘He was. This room was fitted when he was better off. My own, at the end of the corridor, was Miss Blair’s and is quite nicely furnished, too, but of late the money hasn’t been so free.’
Haddock looked her suddenly in the face.
‘But I thought…The way he spent his money…’
‘Yes. So did a lot of other people. But the woman who balances the domestic budget knows better. If he spent as usual outside, he tried to cut down expenses here. He even complained about the cost of food and repairs to the place and asked me to help him economise.’
‘The business wasn’t doing so well, then?’
‘I believe it went bankrupt once and after that, Mr. Dawson worked hard and set it on its feet again. There was money to spend. Then, after the war, times were better, too, but nationalisation took a lot of the profits. Of late…well…I don’t think the money came so easily.’
Haddock drank it all in and nodded appreciatively. Littlejohn’s eyes sparkled as he watched him and he felt it was time to be going before his smile widened into a grin.
‘Would you like to see the other rooms?’
‘No, I think not, thanks. What is in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers? Clothes? Books? Personal letters or diaries? I only ask in case there is anything…’
‘Clothes in the wardrobe, of course, and his linen and the like spread among the rest. Would you like to see them?’
‘I think not, unless you think…’
She paused, a smile on her lips.
‘There’s one thing arising out of your comments on Mrs. Beaumont.’
She opened the top drawer of the chest and took out a photograph in a silver frame.
Ever yours sincerely, Penelope.
A smaller replica of the photograph they’d seen earlier at the Beaumonts’ home, with a much milder superscription. ‘What is this about, Mrs. White?’
‘I think he must have had it when his wife was alive and kept it in his drawer. Then, after her death, he had it put in this frame and whenever Mrs. Beaumont came to tea, he put it in a place of honour on the dining-room mantelpiece.’
The Gibson Girl again! Littlejohn’s eyes danced.
‘Whatever for? Was that when he was contemplating making her the second Mrs. Dawson?’
‘I don’t think so, specially, although he might have wanted to give her that impression. I think he used it to flatter her when he borrowed money from her.’
Haddock breathed heavily.
‘Borrow? He did that?’
‘Yes, Mr. Haddock, I think he did, though I couldn’t be sure. She came to dinner twice and each time he came from the dining-room into his study for his cheque-book. They both used the same bank and she might not have had hers with her.’
‘But may he not have been giving her a cheque for something?’
She hesitated and grew a bit red.
‘I know it was wrong of me, but I looked at the blotting-paper on the desk afterwards. Each time it bore the signature of Mrs. Beaumont.’
Haddock looked at Littlejohn, then at Mrs. White, and then at the photograph of Mrs. Beaumont, which had been erected on the chest. He smoothed his hair and gave a very faint but gratified smile, followed by a look of intense admiration for Mrs. White. What a woman! What a detective’s wife! You could almost hear him thinking it.
‘What do you think of Mrs. Beaumont, Mrs. White?’
‘She’s a good woman, I think. Presides over all the ladies’ charities, a big worker at the Minster, a leader of the intellectual life of the town…I mean the lecture society and the luncheon club. You wouldn’t think she was once an actress.’
‘Why?’
‘She seems…well…so staid and so cultured.’
Littlejohn didn’t say that he knew a lot of staid and cultured actresses. It was just her small-town way of thinking and doubtless she had old-fashioned ideas on the subject. A minister’s widow.
‘A good woman, you said. Did she ever strike you as being a bit bitter and…what shall I say…bossy?’
‘They say she took her husband’s death rather badly. It seems it was a love-match and he was responsible for much of the high esteem in which she was eventually held in this town. He gave her the touch of culture and refinement she lacked before. Perhaps she found things hard after he passed on. I know…I have suffered the same thing.’
Her lower lip trembled again. Poor Haddock looked down at the pattern on the carpet. When he glanced up again, he found her smiling at him through two big tears. Littlejohn felt de trop.
‘We’d better go, I think. There’s still a lot to do. Haddock is invaluable and I mustn’t waste his time.’
He felt he owed a bit of a testimonial to the modest minor detective. Something to ginger up his wooing and settle Mrs. White for life now that Dawson was out of the way.
Littlejohn’s huge bulk seemed to fill the narrow staircase on the way down.
‘This is a strange house for Dawson to live in, isn’t it, Mrs. White? I’m sure you find it a bit hard to run.’
They were at the door again, ready to go.
‘Yes. It goes with the coal-yard, of course, and is very handy for it. Mr. Dawson’s father built it more than sixty years ago. The Alderman often talked of moving up-town, but never did. Whenever he thought of moving, the money factor arose. I suppose it will be sold now and not easily, I’m afraid. It’s not a house people will fancy.’
The clock in the car was on noon.
‘Will Lovelace still be at the yard, Haddock?’
‘Yes. They close for lunch at half-past.’
‘Let’s call on him, then.’
Lovelace was still in his office, busy scribbling on grubby slips and writing in his shabby books. Cranes rattled and trains passed across the great viaduct and coal s
lid down the long chutes into waiting carts and lorries. A coating of coal-dust hung over everything.
‘Hullo. ‘Ere again. What can I do for you now?’
‘Earlier this morning, you told me that this was a profitable business, Mr. Lovelace. Is that true? Now, I want a proper answer, because it might affect the case seriously.’
Lovelace clenched his powerful hairy hands and the colour of his bull-neck turned purple.
‘What the ‘ell’s it got to do with you? I’d like to know ‘ow the blazes it’ll ‘elp you solve this case, because I don’t…’
‘Wait a minute, Lovelace. I’m just giving you the chance to put yourself right, to correct the erroneous statement you made this morning. It’s dangerous to lie to the police, even if your pride is at stake. You know this business isn’t paying. You know that of late years it’s been going on the rocks. Dawson has taken too much out and put too little in. In spite of all your efforts, Dawson’s looks like going broke again.’
‘And who the ‘ell’s told you? Is it that Mrs. Bewmont? Because…’
And then the whole gross, hairy mass of Mr. Lovelace seemed to deflate itself like a pricked balloon. He sagged as he stood, groped for a chair, sat down, and remained slumped in his seat.
‘What’s the use. What the ‘ell’s the use. The firm is broke. Damn’ well broke, in spite of all I’ve done. Dawson did it. Mr. Clever Dawson. Mr. High-and-Mighty Dawson. Too proud to work, that’s what he was.’
‘How long has this been going on, Mr. Lovelace?’
‘Three years or more.’
Now that the truth was out and he needn’t bluff himself any more, Lovelace was a pathetic sight. His eyes, dark rimmed with coal-dust, looked tired and bloodshot and his stiff, stocky figure of a minute ago was flabby and shrunken.
‘Weight-note wanted.’
A coalman, black as a coon and with rolling eyes and white gleaming teeth, thrust in his eager face.
‘Go to hell! Take your coal-note to blazes! Every ton makes a loss. Might as well leave the stuff in the yard.’
A flare-up of spirit, and Lovelace relapsed again in his brooding.
They could hear the coalman shouting above the din of the loading-gear. ‘Old Lovelace ‘as gone barmy. Clean off ‘is ruddy nut.’
‘Who’s been helping Dawson through over the past few years? Who’s been staving off the evil day, Mr. Lovelace?’
‘I did, at first. All my ruddy savings gone. I’ve kept on in the ‘ope of better things. And I intend to keep on now that Dawson’s kicked the bucket. I’ll buy this place cheap from the exors. once the accountant’s been through it and valued it. I’ll soon pull it together. You’ll see…’
The reminder that Dawson was dead suddenly suffused Lovelace like a tonic. He rushed to the door and called the coalman back.
‘‘Ere. Bring that ruddy note in the office. Tryin’ to get out without it bein’ booked, are you?’
The astonished black-man returned, his clear eyes goggling in their surround of coal-dust.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! But then we might ‘ave expected this, Mr. Lovelace. Old Dawson havin’ croaked must ‘ave been a blow to you…’
Littlejohn waited until the process ended and then:
‘Who else put money in this concern?’
‘I see you know all about things, guv’nor. Go on, then, I’ll bite. It was Mrs. Bewmont.’
‘I thought so. She was a friend of Dawson’s, wasn’t she? And he somehow persuaded her to put money in the business. How did he do it?’
‘He said it was to tide ‘im over the nationalisation change. First she lent him a thousand. You could have blown me down when I saw the cheque come in. You could have blown me down again when I saw that Dawson had drawn the bulk of it for his own uses. I told ‘im it was plain swindlin’, but he told me to mind my business; he knew what he was doin’.’
‘And the second cheque?’
The bloodshot eyes opened wide.
‘Who’s been talkin’ to you? The second cheque was for two thousand and it didn’t go through the books. I saw it when he pulled it out with some papers from his pocket. He whipped it back damn’ quick, I can tell you, but I knew he’d been talking soft and sweet to Mrs. B. again.’
‘When was that?’
‘About twelve months ago. Then, last week, I saw Dawson draw a cheque for three hundred in favour of Mrs. Bewmont. I thought ‘e was, maybe, payin’ somethin’ back and then, it dawned on me. Three hundred was ten per cent of the three thousand he’d borrowed. He was pretendin’ it had earned ten per cent, and payin’ a dividend.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of days before Dawson left for France.’
‘He must have taken it in person to Mrs. Beaumont’s home. He was there on a visit about then.’
Lovelace went on as though he hadn’t heard.
‘It didn’t strike me what he was doin’ till after the party had left. Even then, he might have been payin’ her back some capital. But it was unlikely. There was no capital to pay back. It had all been spent by Dawson. When it dawned on me, I didn’t know what to do. I thought it out, and then I decided I’d write to Mrs. B. and warn ‘er and tell ‘er to ask Dawson was the money dividend or repaid capital, because if he said it was dividend, he was a damn’ liar, the firm had made big losses for three years. Felt I ought to tell ‘er. Her husband was a toff to me when he was a director here. And after the dirty trick Dawson did to him…’
‘You wrote to France?’
‘Yes. Dawson had left me his address in case any business needed writing about. I knew Mrs. Bewmont was at the same place. So I wrote to her.’
‘Get any reply?’
‘Nope. Didn’t expect one.’
‘Well, thanks very much, Mr. Lovelace. I hope you pull things round. You certainly deserve to.’
‘I appreciate that, guv’nor.’
Full of new life, Lovelace thereupon bustled into the coal-yard and started bullying the carters.
‘Get them ruddy lorries out o’ there and get crackin’. We’ve work to do and you’re gummin’ up the yard…Get weavin’, now.’
The klaxon on top of the office began to grind and thereupon the tallymen and labourers downed tools in the middle of their jobs and scuttered like ants to the brewing-shed.
‘Time for lunch for us, too, Haddock. We’ve had a busy morning. Shall we eat?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll be honoured.’
As they passed the police station, the constable obviously looking out for them on the steps waved his hand. Haddock pulled up.
‘The police have been on from Cannes, sir. Scotland Yard must have told them you were here. We’d a terrible job findin’ somebody who knew French to speak to them. It seems they don’t speak English in the French force.’
He looked disgusted.
‘Do you speak French in the Bolchester force?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, then…What was it all about?’
The constable was going to tell his own tale in his own time.
‘We eventually fetched Mr. Lampriere, one of the barristers in court. He’s a Channel Islands man and speaks it like a native.’
‘What did Cannes want?’
‘They said to tell you there’d been another murder and would you ring them back as soon as possible.’
Littlejohn smiled grimly as he thought of the Cannes Parquet getting to work once more. They could manage very well for an hour or so.
‘Right, constable. But Mr. Haddock and I are very hungry. Cannes can wait until we’ve eaten. Drive on, Haddock. To the Station and Victoria, or whatever you say it’s called.’
‘Well, for ruddy-well cryin’ out loud!’ said the bobby on the steps to the square in general. ‘If Scotland Yard don’t take the biscuit for cool cheek! That’ll just teach the French police not to try to shove us around. Speakin’ French indeed!’
9 - Elimination
It was obvious that Haddock wasn’t used to d
rinking much. They’d had a glass of sherry apiece before the meal and two half-pints of beer with the roast beef and two veg., and here was Haddock with his face flushed and anxious to do all the talking.
‘There are a lot of things I could tell you, sir, about one and another in this case.’
The Station Hotel was old-fashioned but the food was good. Gilt mirrors and red plush and a head waiter with a bottle nose who kept buzzing round asking if everything was to their liking. Most of the business men in the town seemed to be there for their midday meal and Littlejohn’s table was the centre of interest.
‘I’ll bet they’re all dying to know what’s going on, sir.’ Haddock was glowing under his new-found notoriety. ‘Two coffees, please. Black.’
Littlejohn handed Haddock a cigar and lit one himself. Marriott had given them to him the day before. ‘Take a couple of cigars, Chief Inspector. They’re good ones…’
‘First of all, Haddock, what do you know about Dawson and his French escapades during the war?’
Haddock gave a short laugh.
‘Everybody in the town knows about them, sir. He wrote a book on it. Published locally. And as for lectures. Every Rotary and lunch club for miles round has had Dawson and his maquis…’
‘How did he get in the French Underground to start with?’ Haddock pulled on his cigar opulently and then removed it.
‘I’ll try to get you a copy of his book, sir, just as a matter of interest, but I can tell you most of what went on. Dawson spoke French well. He was in the first war and seemed to get taken up with the language then. He studied it as a hobby at the local evening schools and joined the local French Circle. He held a commission in the artillery in the first war and fancied himself a bit of an authority on gunnery. I don’t know whether you heard of the Mullett gun, sir, but Mullett, the inventor, was a Bolchester man. The Mullett Engineering Co., who made the guns in the war, has its works just outside Bolchester and Ernest Mullett was a personal friend of Dawson. Supplies of the gun were dropped over France for the Underground and news came through that something or other was wrong with them. Mullett took it so badly that nothing would do but he must go and be dropped himself to investigate. As it turned out, the gun was all right but a bit difficult to assemble. It was a sort of modified Sten, and Mullett soon had it O.K. when he got there.’
Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 12