Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘All the same…Marriott’s got no guts. He couldn’t murder a rice pudding, as the saying goes.’

  ‘So, nobody on the Turnpike trip put ‘paid’ to Dawson, Haddock, according to your deductions?’

  ‘It couldn’t have been suicide, sir?’

  Haddock’s sad eyes almost pleaded for it.

  ‘No. Dawson would have needed to be a contortionist to stab himself in the back that way.’

  Haddock sighed deeply.

  ‘I’m not much of a detective, sir.’

  ‘You’ve been very useful to me and I’m grateful.’

  They left the close behind and coasted downhill to the town again. Littlejohn sat in the car whilst Haddock hurried in the library to consult Miss Liddell. He wasn’t long away.

  ‘There’s not much to tell about Mrs. Beaumont, sir. She just came on tour with a company that played here nearly a month in the old theatre. She never went on with the company when they left. She got engaged to Mr. Beaumont and they were married soon after. They say she was a beauty and that Dawson was an admirer, too, in those days. Her baptismal name was Penelope Clarke, but she went under another one on the stage. Valerie Nelson…’

  ‘Valerie? Was she known by that among friends after her marriage?’

  ‘Yes. I think a lot of them still called her Valerie as a sort of pet name, though when she became what you might call a respectable Mrs. Beaumont, she used her own name. Miss Liddell says a lot of her old friends, particularly the men, call her Valerie still…a sort of tribute or remembrance of her heyday as you might say.’

  ‘Well, well. Valerie isn’t far from Vallouris, is it, if you pronounce it French fashion?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, sir. Why?’

  ‘Because, according to Marriott, Dawson’s last word was Valerie or Vallouris. Take your choice.’

  ‘Good heavens! It can’t be. She’d never…’

  ‘Now, now, Haddock. No more eliminations, please. By the way, what do you know of Alf Fowles, the driver of the motor coach?’

  ‘Fowles? Let me see. Lives in a row of houses down by the river. Married, with a family. A bit addicted to drink and has been up a time or two for drunk and disorderly. But never in connection with his driving. His licence is quite clear. Is he a suspect, too, sir?’

  ‘Like the rest, but he has an alibi. Drunk all the time the crime was being committed, with French pals to prove it.’

  ‘He’s not likely to have…’

  Haddock paused and smiled sadly.

  ‘I’m too unsuspecting ever to be a good detective. I’ll make inquiries, sir, and if I find any link between Fowles and the Alderman, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘That should do.’

  Littlejohn’s train left at 5.30 and after thanking Scrivener for the help he hadn’t given and for the use of Haddock, the Chief Inspector left for the station. Scrivener was still immersed in his Teddy boys case.

  A bit of gossip, a bit of local colour, squabbles, loves, hates, and Mrs. Beaumont on the stage as Valerie. That was all Littlejohn had got from his trip to Bolchester.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch with you, Haddock, and many thanks for your help. Let me know how things develop.’

  ‘You mean, sir…’

  ‘In the house across the canal.’

  The Chief Inspector’s eyes twinkled and Haddock blushed.

  The last thing Littlejohn saw of his honest friend as the train gathered speed was a slowly waving umbrella and a bowler hat held at arm’s length.

  Six months later Haddock married Mrs. White!

  10 - Death of a Naughty Boy

  Cromwell met his chief again at St. Pancras. They had time to dine together before Littlejohn caught the 22.25 plane back to Nice. Cromwell had, in the course of the day, eliminated the Moles from the case.

  ‘I had a word with Zurich, sir, and the police there got in touch with Lucerne. They did a good, quick job of work. It seems that the Moles arrived there from London on the night that Dawson was murdered. Since then, they’ve behaved perfectly normally. The hotel manager, who was questioned, said they’d been in for every meal, which puts quite out of the question any flying visit to Cannes…’

  ‘I wanted it checking, Cromwell, just in case Mole had been up to some jiggery-pokery. He’d reason to dislike Dawson, who caused trouble between him and his wife.’

  Cromwell took out his large black notebook, removed the elastic band, and consulted it.

  ‘They seem to have checked-in at a hotel pending the arrival of the party at the Lucerne Bagatelle, where, I guess, they proposed to join them. Mrs. Mole wasn’t very well, the hotel people said, and stayed in bed late every morning. The police at Zurich checked the flights. Both of them joined the plane at London at 11.30, Swiss Airways, to Basle. Got there 2.15. They arrived at the Lucerne hotel about 5 o’clock, which means they got a train straight away from Basle to Lucerne. I think we can write them off. By the way, they’re on their way back, too. They were checked out of Basle back to London at 3.5o.’

  ‘They must have had enough. I don’t blame them. Pity I just missed them in Bolchester. They might have thrown a bit more light on Dawson and his affairs…’

  It was half-past one in the morning when Littlejohn arrived back at Var Airport. Dorange was waiting for him on the runway, looking as fresh as paint, with a new carnation sprouting from his buttonhole. Littlejohn touched the flower and admired it.

  ‘My father grows them at his farm above Nice. Thousands of them there. Sometimes I wish I’d been a flower-grower, too, old man. Much happier and more profitable than police work…Your wife is waiting in the car.’

  Dorange insisted on returning to Nice without discussing the case.

  ‘You need a good sleep first. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  At ten, Dorange was waiting for Littlejohn at La Reserve and talked to him over breakfast.

  ‘This murder of Henri. The brutal killing of a child of thirteen is detestable at any time, but I must say I’d feel harder about it if Henri had been a nice little boy. As it is, he’s been a great trouble to his parents and, sooner or later, would have been in our hands. A big, precocious boy, always stealing and lying to his father and mother.’

  ‘The Curries must feel a bit put out about letting their boy, Peter, associate with him at all.’

  ‘I haven’t told them Henri’s character. He could be very ingratiating and had a suave sort of charm. They might have found no wrong in him, although what Peter told them has shocked them, I admit.’

  ‘What happened there?’

  Littlejohn stretched himself voluptuously in his chair. It had been pouring with rain when he left London. Here the skies were blue and the sun hot, and he’d gone back into his light suit and underclothes. The gay throng was hurrying down to the beach, most of them clad in next-to-nothing, the sea was like glass, and the panorama of the coast clear and magnificent. The African and his camel passed on their way for another day of sweet nothing to do.

  ‘The Curries allowed their little boy to go about with Henri, hoping it would improve Peter’s French. You will remember, Peter returned home sick the other night after a day with Henri. After Henri’s murder, M. Joliclerc asked them to question their son about what they did.’

  Dorange paused for effect and took a drink of his coffee.

  ‘It was not a happy tale. Henri had a pocketful of money and paid for everything. He certainly added to Peter’s experience of France. They not only ate their fill of ice-cream, but drank a number of apéritifs. Henri told Peter that Italian Vermouth was a fruit drink! Peter drank four Martinis. No wonder he was sick! Furthermore, Henri said he knew where he could get plenty of money. His parents deny giving him any. On the contrary, they hoped the Curries would pay for the boys’ outings. They have missed no money of their own at Bagatelle…’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Henri was found early in the morning after you left. He had been murdered the night before, about eight o’clock. I have the dossie
r of the English people at Bagatelle here with me. It is just the same as before. They were all indoors at the time.’

  ‘Wasn’t Henri missed after eight on the night in question?’

  ‘No. He told his parents good-night just after seven and went to his room. They are busy with the affairs of the guests until late. He sleeps in one of the attics and they didn’t go up to see him again. Next morning a motorist on La Californie saw a hand projecting from a bush just off the road and stopped to investigate. It was Henri…’

  ‘Had he been up there, then, the night before and been killed?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Littlejohn. This case is becoming more difficult, because we can’t pursue the usual routine without causing a fuss. Had those involved been French we could have…’

  ‘A passage á tabac?’

  Dorange did not smile.

  ‘Exactly. As it is, we must rely on you to use your own methods. Did you find anything helpful in England…in what is the place?’

  ‘Bolchester? No. Nothing much except atmosphere and a lot of gossip. It may help.’

  It helped a lot, though.

  Littlejohn found when he got to Bagatelle, that it had made a lot of difference to his outlook on the case. He was able to set Mrs. Beaumont in her correct perspective as a well-respected woman of the town and one who’d helped, almost befriended Dawson. Marriott in his shabby little shop. The Hannon sisters in their dismal old-fashioned home, dominated by the shade of their father. Gauld, a rebel at home, hating Dawson and his sort, and finding some kind of recompense in Mary Hannon’s company and in carrying on an affair with her. It was the same with them all. Littlejohn realised that after his visit to Bolchester, the characters in the Dawson case had altered. They would never be the same again to him. It was like changing spectacles on the physical plane.

  Dorange had left him to it and gone to join M. Joliclerc at his office.

  ‘Well! And where the ‘ell have you been? Don’t you know we’ve been all over the place for you? Your wife wouldn’t say where you were and there’s been another murder.’

  Marriott greeted Littlejohn on the doorstep and looked ready to burst into a torrent of abuse.

  ‘I’ve been to Bolchester.’

  No use beating about the bush any longer. Marriott turned sickly pale.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That’s my business. I want a word with you first, sir.’ Marriott stood aside and let Littlejohn in.

  ‘The French police said you’d be here at eleven. So I stayed in. The rest have gone to Grasse for a change. They’ll be back to lunch. They can’t stop in all the time. It’s not good enough. At this rate, we’ll all soon be barmy. The French police won’t say when we can go ‘ome and we’ve had another of those gruellin’ inquiries. They gave us ‘ell again. And it wasn’t as if any of us had killed the boy. It’s just some dirty local swine who’s done it. And you away just at the time we needed you most.’

  Littlejohn let him go on. Marriott was completely demoralised. All his cheek and swagger had given way to a dejected kind of hysteria. His complexion was yellow and there were dark circles under his eyes. He’d been helping himself with alcohol in some form or other…probably whisky.

  ‘Well?’

  Marriott was almost in tears. He didn’t wait for Littlejohn’s answer. Instead, he continued his hysterical chatter.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s been like here since the third murder. Police everywhere. And they questioned us for half an hour a time…each one of us…half an hour without stop. And they tried to tie us up and get us to betray one another and say one or the other of us was out at the time of the murder and had done it. It’s not right. We ought to have a lawyer. And we had Madeleine and Joe, the caretaker and his wife here…we had them going crackers because of their son. He’s been taken to the mortuary and she’s gone to ‘er mother’s. Joe took it better, although he’s like one stunned. I don’t blame ‘im, but it’s rotten for us. We got a new cook and waitress this mornin’, but yesterday the ladies of the party ‘ad to make the beds and Mrs. Bewmont did the cookin’…Joe stayed and did the buyin’ and sweepin’ out and such, but what’ll ‘appen next, I don’t know. And they won’t give us permission to go back to England. I’ve tried to get the consul ‘ere, but he’s on holiday and his deputy’s French and he’s not much ‘elp. If only they’d let us go ‘ ome…’

  He stopped out of sheer exhaustion, tears running down his cheeks and off his chin to be dried up in his tie. He’d been drinking and was at the end of his tether.

  Littlejohn looked through the window until Marriott could control himself. The villa stood on rising ground and below he could see the sea, with all the diversions of holiday-making going on. Yachts, bathing, clusters of striped sunshades, streams of cars running along the Croisette. Immediately beneath, the main road to Nice from Aix-en-Provence, with a string of ever-moving cars hurling itself past the end of the avenue which ran straight down from the door of Bagatelle to the sea. Down the avenue, across the main road, and turn left; then straight on for a bit. Then you’d be right at the spot where Dawson and Sammy had been found.

  ‘What did you want me for?’

  Marriott was sniffing and mopping his face with his handkerchief.

  ‘You’ll excuse me. We’re all at our wits’ end. I sent ‘em all out to Grasse to get ‘em out of here. There’s a curse on the place. It’s been ‘ell lately. I don’t know what we’d ‘ave done without Mrs. Bewmont. I take back all I’ve said about that woman. She’s kept up the morale of the party. We’d all ‘ave gone crackers if she ‘adn’t been ‘ere. I’ve got to ‘and it to her.’

  Littlejohn hardly heard. He was watching the man outside.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Joe…Joseph Bernard’s his full name. Him and his wife ‘ave been caretakers ‘ere for several years. A good couple and it’s a pity about their son. He was a rotten little beggar, but they don’t deserve what’s come to ‘em.’

  Still Littlejohn hardly heard.

  Bernard had arrived mounted on a strange vehicle, familiar in France, but never seen at home. A motor bicycle behind and, in front, a kind of low cart, like a small hand-cart, which the bike pushed along before it, with the rider steering the whole contraption from the back. Bernard had been to market and the cart was loaded with a basket of vegetables, bottles of wine and Vichy water in a crate, three chickens flung on the bare boards…

  Bernard started to unload his cargo, slowly carrying one bundle after another through to the kitchen behind. He seemed in a dream, automatically doing what had to be done, shuffling with tired feet to and fro, a picture of grief and hopelessness. Then, the vehicle unloaded, he started the engine again with the kick-starter and guided it into a wooden shed in the garden at the side. Littlejohn listened.

  ‘Be quiet a minute!’

  Marriott almost jumped out of his skin, but stopped his whining tale.

  No sound of the engine.

  ‘Is this window glazed with plate-glass, do you know?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all plate-glass. I believe Mr. Turnpike couldn’t stand noise and after he bought this ‘ouse, he found he got annoyed by the traffic on the road and the sounds of the town. So, he had plate-glass put in and that made it better.’

  Littlejohn left the astonished wine-merchant and went out by the front door to where Joe was putting away his cart. He spoke to the man in French.

  ‘Sorry, Joe, about what I hear. My wife and I offer you both our sympathy.’

  The glazed eyes turned to his own.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Why did they do it? What had my boy done to them? If I could get these hands on whoever…’ He did it all mechanically.

  ‘Do you always lock the doors of this shed?’

  ‘No, sir. Why should we? Nobody would want to steal this poor affair. It is only good for bringing stuff from the market.’

  ‘It is easy to start, Joe?’

  ‘Certainly. I keep it in good or
der. If it goes wrong, I have to walk to town and bring back the load. It always starts well. See…’

  He’d forgotten his grief momentarily, turned on the petrol, and gave the starter a kick. The engine purred into life.

  ‘Could anyone take it out and use it without your knowing?’

  ‘Why not? The windows don’t let in much noise and there is always something going-on inside the villa. Do you wish to borrow it, sir?’

  ‘Later, perhaps.’

  Joe was so bemused that he didn’t even show astonishment. Instead, he stopped the engine, closed the doors and slowly slouched to the kitchen.

  Marriott was on the doorstep watching it all.

  ‘I thought you wanted to ask me somethin’.’

  ‘I do. You knew that Dawson’s name in the maquis was Vallouris?’

  ‘Everybody did. He did enough spouting about it back home.’

  ‘You also knew that Mrs. Beaumont’s name when she was on the stage was Valerie?’

  Marriott’s mouth dropped, his eyes popped, and his yellow complexion turned an even dirtier hue…like putty.

  ‘Why…I…’

  ‘Answer me, Marriott! This business has gone on long enough. Why did you start the Vallouris red-herring when you knew Dawson was speaking of Mrs. Beaumont? He was half delirious and spoke the pet name her friends called her long ago.’

  Marriott licked his lips.

  ‘I thought Humphries had heard Dawson say it, too. He said since he didn’t, but how was I to know at the time? Dawson might ‘ave said Valerie. It’s likely. I said Vallouris so that the French wouldn’t pick on Mrs. Beaumont. After all, she’s one of us. I didn’t want to get ‘er in trouble. She’s English, isn’t she? We’ve got to ‘ang together, ‘aven’t we?’

  ‘You’ve said it, Marriott. Hang together. That’s just what you will do if you don’t show some sense. Did you think Dawson meant Valerie?’

  Marriott hung his head.

  ‘Yes. I was only…’

  ‘I don’t want to know why you started this red-herring. All I’m concerned about is finding out who killed Dawson and getting these poor, unhappy people home to Bolchester.’