Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  The charabanc was pulling up at the gate. The only cheerful-looking member of the party was Alf Fowles, his lips pursed in a soundless whistle, his cap perched askew on the side of his head. The rest looked to be coming from a funeral.

  ‘They’ve still got Alderman Dawson in the mortuary.’ Marriott whined it a propos of nothing. Perhaps the mournful new arrivals reminded him of it.

  The tourists had formed a ragged, rather bewildered group round the door of the coach; Sheldon was handing down his wife. Their visit to Grasse didn’t seem to have relieved the tension. They formed a procession and sauntered to the front door of Bagatelle. Some of the women were carrying packets and parcels of scent and soap, obviously bought from the factories they had visited.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes…’

  Littlejohn left Marriott and made for the kitchens. The new cook, shapeless, dumpy and voluble, and the new maid, dark, passionate-looking and spoiled by a squint, were busy with the lunch. Joe Bernard was gathering things together and making a parcel of them.

  ‘Could I see Henri’s room, Joe? Are you leaving?’

  The caretaker turned his glazed, grieved eyes on Littlejohn. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, but he’d forgotten to light it.

  ‘Yes, sir. I can’t stay here any longer. I’m going now that these ladies have come to look after things.’

  He nodded in the direction of the cook and the girl with a squint.

  ‘They have always been decent to me and my family, but now…’

  He looked at the two women and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. Littlejohn joined him and together they mounted to the attics, two small, low-roofed rooms in the eaves. One of them was Henri’s. An iron bed, a rough chest of drawers, and a curtain across one corner where the boy’s spare suit had hung. The place had been tidied; it looked as if his mother had gathered together Henri’s belongings before she left.

  Joe was intent on finishing his tale.

  ‘I didn’t want to say it in front of the two strange women, but I can’t stay here with a murderer in the house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bernard’s eyes had a trace of panic in them and he started to sweat and gesticulate.

  ‘One of my wife’s knives is missing; the one she used for cleaning rabbits. She hadn’t seen it since the night Monsieur Dawson was killed, when she used it for the rabbit she put in the chicken casserole. She remembered she left it on the table. Then, when she needed it again, she found it missing. We hunted everywhere. We were going to tell the police when…when they called and told us that our little Henri…After that we forgot until now.’

  ‘Was Henri likely to be about the kitchens when the knife was stolen?’

  ‘You mean, he saw whoever stole it…so…?’

  ‘It may be so.’

  Littlejohn didn’t go into any more details. Henri, on his way to becoming a bad lot, wouldn’t be averse to a little blackmail. In fact, his being flush with money and splashing it about to win the admiration of young Peter, seemed to point that way. Only Henri hadn’t measured the danger. Neither, it appeared, had Sammy.

  ‘Have you been through Henri’s drawers and pockets; Joe?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Nothing in the drawers particularly. The usual boyish things.’

  But then Joe hadn’t been the first to search. The police, who did it right away, found a few strange objects. A sheath-knife, a revolver without a trigger, odds and ends of jewellery, some good handkerchiefs, far too good for Henri, a murderous-looking piece of bicycle chain, and a frog left to suffocate in a box. And then five thousand francs in large notes.

  ‘In his pockets the usual things, too, but too much money. Seventy-five francs, sir. I cannot understand it.’

  Then he broke down and sobbed on the chest of drawers. Littlejohn put an arm round the heaving shoulders.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They descended the narrow staircase from the loft and reached the second floor. A long corridor with five rooms, and a bathroom and adjacent lavatory. Two of the rooms overlooked the front and two the back.

  ‘Who occupies these?’

  Joe explained with quick gesticulations. Himself and his wife, and Gauld, the two back rooms; the Curries the large front room with the adjacent small, one-time dressing-room for Peter; and the two Miss Hannons in the remaining double room. Alf Fowles used the attic opposite Henri’s. They could hear some of the occupants of the rooms who had come up to take off their outdoor things, talking behind the closed doors.

  Another staircase and they were on the first floor. A more sumptuous affair, with a wide passage and a plaster goddess holding an electric lamp in an alcove at the end of it. Again, voices behind closed doors.

  ‘Mrs. Beaumont…’

  Joe indicated room No. 1, as might be expected.

  ‘It has its own bathroom. Also No. 3, Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon, has its own bathroom.’

  Each private bathroom had a door giving on the corridor.

  ‘Miss Blair in No. 2, once a dressing-room for No. 1. Mr. Humphries, No. 5, once a box room, and Mr. Marriott in No. 6.’

  As if to confirm this, Marriott emerged and solemnly entered the bathroom without speaking to either of them.

  ‘Monsieur Dawson occupied No. 4, and there is a bedroom for the staff in the basement.’

  Behind the closed door of No. 3, they could hear the Sheldons going at it sotto voce. They couldn’t make out what was said, but it sounded like someone reciting a litany and receiving impassioned responses.

  The bathroom on this floor was built over the kitchens and jutted out from the main building; at right angles to the bathroom along the corridor stood a French window. Littlejohn crossed and looked out. It overlooked the garden and the shed where Joe kept his motor-cart. There was a landing outside the window from which an iron staircase descended to ground level.

  ‘I believe Mr. Turnpike was afraid of fire. They say he had that put there for emergencies.’

  Littlejohn turned the knob and opened the window.

  ‘It’s used, then?’

  ‘My wife and I carry down the mattresses that way to air them. It saves going down the main stairs and along the bottom corridor, sir. Will that be all?’

  The man was obviously uneasy and eager to get to his wife.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  They went down together. Mrs. Beaumont must have heard them talking and emerged from the lounge to meet them. ‘Good morning, Inspector.’

  There was acid reproach in the tone of it. Littlejohn didn’t feel he needed to explain anything. After all, his time was his own.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Beaumont.’

  ‘So you’ve been to Bolchester, I hear. I’m sure that would do a lot of good.’

  She snapped her lips as she said it and her earrings and bangles trembled with her repressed annoyance.

  ‘I’d like a word with you in private, if I may, Mrs. Beaumont.’

  She made a gesture that the lounge would do as well as anywhere else.

  Littlejohn couldn’t help admiring her. Three murders and the rest of the Turnpike crowd in a panic, and here she was keeping the flag flying, irritable, aggressive, claiming her rights to deference and proper attention.

  ‘And what did you find out in Bolchester, Inspector, that you needed to leave us during such a crisis? Have you not heard that that young boy has now been foully murdered, as well? One wonders where it will all end and what the police, our own English force included, are doing about it. I’ve written to the Lord Lieutenant and our Member of Parliament. As far as I can see, we’re going to be held here for the rest of our lives, if somebody doesn’t make a stand. I have no intention of dying in Cannes…’

  She paused to gulp in more air.

  ‘First of all, Mrs. Beaumont, I’m doing my best. I’m supposed to be on holiday, but that has, of course, taken second place. I’m not complaining, but I expect a reasonable amount of cooperation and good manners from all of you her
e.’

  Partly because a catch of breath deprived her of the necessary air, and then again because she wasn’t used to being rebuked in such fashion, Mrs. Beaumont found herself speechless.

  ‘Have you any idea how young Henri came to be involved in this business? It looks to me as if he were blackmailing someone in a small way and proved dangerous.’

  Mrs. Beaumont, now that she was asked to cooperate, changed her tack and became businesslike.

  ‘Of course, the boy must have seen or overheard something. A nasty little boy, who didn’t wash his neck and picked his nose. I couldn’t bear him near me. Precocious, too. You should have seen him eye the good-looking ladies up and down. Miss Blair and the Hannon girls…Disgusting! My father would have taken a stick to him and beaten the wickedness out of him. He got himself murdered because he was doing something nasty, you can be sure.’

  ‘Did he spend much time in the guests’ quarters of the house?’

  ‘Of course he did. You couldn’t keep a little sneak like him away. He had to pass the rooms on his way to his attic. I made a point of keeping mine locked on that account. I’ve no doubt he went in the bedrooms and went through the things. And he was always about the corridors and hall. You’d find him sneaking about at all hours and places. I’d made a note to take it up at the next meeting of trustees. I like the Bernard couple, but unless they did something about that boy, I was going to recommend a change. Now…It has solved itself, but most unsatisfactorily. It is horrible.’

  Her mouth began to tremble violently and Littlejohn understood what a nervous effort she must be making to keep her head and set an example to the rest.

  Steps on the stairs and the party began to appear, foregathering ready for lunch.

  ‘Will you stay for lunch, Inspector?’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs. Beaumont. But I’d like another word with you before I go. I’ll be back this afternoon.’

  They were all crowding round him like distressed travellers in a storm. Marriott, his mouth moving, half-drunk already; the Hannon girls, with Mary hanging behind to be near Gauld and Elizabeth tittering nervously and asking Littlejohn wherever he’d been and when they could go home. There was a sob in her voice. Sheldon was paler and worried, but greeted Littlejohn with hearty relief. His wife, who looked at him as though she blamed him for the whole ruined holiday, was pale and strained and, in her smart black costume and expensive blouse and shoes looked attractive, if it hadn’t been for her look of selfish eagerness for any news Littlejohn might have about their release.

  Mrs. Beaumont was quick to free the Inspector from questions and greetings. It was quite a business getting away. They all wanted to shake hands with him, and were eager to take his advice and do just what he said.

  Mrs. Beaumont led the way to the little office Littlejohn had used before for his interviews.

  ‘Now, Inspector. What is it?’

  ‘It’s about Dawson. I want a long talk with you about him and his goings-on in Bolchester. But first there’s the matter of his dying words…’

  She looked calmly at him.

  ‘Yes. About the maquis or something, wasn’t it? Marriott told me. He breathed the name of someone in the Resistance, didn’t he? According to Marriott, the French police regarded it as a clue about who might have murdered him. I think…’

  She was talking for talking’s sake now. And the more she said, the faster she said it, trying to avoid the crucial question. It was obvious to Littlejohn that Marriott had already told her what he was going to ask her.

  Mrs. Beaumont paused, her eyes sought Littlejohn’s, and there was a pleading look in them. She laid her hand across her breast as though to hold in the beating of her heart.

  ‘Mrs. Beaumont, the name Dawson uttered was taken down by Marriott. He said it was Vallouris, Dawson’s nickname in the maquis. Actually, it was Valerie, and Marriott drew a red-herring across the trail to shield someone. Isn’t it true?’

  She drew in her breath with a sob.

  ‘Isn’t it true that your stage name was Valerie, and that your old friends, including Dawson, called you by it? Dawson was either wanting you or incriminating you.’

  The interview there was cut short, for Mrs. Beaumont, with a long low wail, subsided like a pack of cards and collapsed on the floor.

  11 - The Last of Sammy

  Littlejohn called Mrs. Currie without more ado. She seemed to be the only reliable one of the party capable of dealing with the prostrate Mrs. Beaumont. Between them they gave her alternate doses of brandy and smelling salts and when Mrs. Beaumont first opened her eyes and saw Littlejohn, she looked like passing out again. Her face was ashen, her lips blue, and she seemed ten years older. Although she had obviously something of great importance to tell the Chief Inspector, there was nothing for it but to put her to bed and let her be quiet. Mrs. Currie saw to this and Littlejohn, to avoid the rest of the anxious guests, took himself off by the side door and went to the town hall.

  Dorange and Joliclerc were in the latter’s office and they both greeted Littlejohn with enthusiasm. He found it difficult to explain to them what he had done at Bolchester and they looked nonplussed at the thought that he had drawn a blank there. As far as the Chief Inspector was concerned, it amounted to nothing but filling in a kind of backcloth for the drama now playing itself out in Cannes, and although it was a part of his usual technique, he found it hard to describe and justify.

  ‘At least, it looks as if the focus of the crime is at Bagatelle,’ said Dorange at length. ‘Unless something develops very quickly, we shall have to employ rigorous measures to find the culprit.’

  Littlejohn knew what that meant. Ceaseless and ruthless grilling to the point of torture until somebody broke down. He wanted to avoid that.

  M. Joliclerc had another large dossier before him. Presumably Dossier Henri, this time. He flipped it with his forefinger.

  ‘Forty pages and little light on the affair. They all seem to have had alibis again. We’re relying on you, Chief Inspector. They can’t stay in Cannes for ever. Dawson is to be buried in the English section of Cannes cemetery tomorrow. Miss Blair, his nearest relative, has agreed to this. Sammy’s funeral is today…’

  ‘I’m going to suggest to you, sir, that the crimes didn’t happen where the bodies were found, but in or near Bagatelle. Then they were conveyed elsewhere to draw us off the scent.’

  There was a hush as the thought penetrated the minds of the two Frenchmen and then they both sat bolt upright and fixed Littlejohn with their dark astonished eyes.

  ‘In a shed adjoining the villa there is a small cart propelled by a motorcycle. If the crimes were, as I say, committed within the precincts of Bagatelle and then the bodies moved elsewhere, the whole matter of alibis falls down. A brief knife-thrust, the body is hidden, say in the shed, and then, at the killer’s leisure, carried away on the cart. There are two entrances as well as the front door. One at the back and the other through a French window at the side. Also a staircase leading from the first floor into the garden. The late owner of Bagatelle couldn’t bear noise, so he had thick glass put in the windows. The whole operation would have been soundless.’

  Dorange and Joliclerc received it with relief and excitement. They rose to their feet and the examining magistrate even started to clap his hands.

  ‘The very thing. We must see the truck right away. As you say, the alibis are worthless. We’ll go at once.’

  And M. Joliclerc put on his panama hat.

  ‘Wait a minute. What’s the hurry?’

  Dorange poured himself a glass of iced water and slowly sipped it.

  ‘We have another line of approach, too. The bank notes found in Henri’s belongings and presumably part of his spoils as blackmail. Two of them were new. We hope to trace them. Our men are on the job and we expect their reports soon.’

  The air was stuffy in spite of the open windows and the fan on M. Joliclerc’s desk, and there was hardly room to whip a cat round in the office. Law books and records
filled one side, there was a large scale map of Cannes facing them, and on the third wall a huge chart of the whole of the Alpes Maritimes. An armchair, three plain wooden ones, and then a small desk for M. Joliclerc’s clerk, pretending to be busy writing, but taking everything in.

  It was lunch time and the streets were empty. From where he stood at the window, Littlejohn could see the Rue d’Antibes drenched in hot sunshine. The only signs of activity were in the flower market, where now and then one of the stall-holders would shout at a passer-by.

  The café opposite was full of diners, inside and on the little terrace which spilled over the pavement. In the bar nextdoor a dozen or so lazy drinkers were festooned round the counter.

  Then, as though it had waited until all was quiet, a hearse appeared from the thick maze of streets in the old town. A large, sombre box of a thing in black wood, quite out of place in the coloured life of the square below.

  ‘As a rule, we hold the funerals early in the morning, but we’ve too many bodies on our hands at present. We’re getting rid of Sammy right away. This funeral’s been a snorter…’

  Dorange bared his bright even teeth in a gloomy smile and patted his carnation affectionately; then he stretched out his snakeskin shoes and regarded them with great satisfaction.

  ‘Sammy’s left all he had to Georgette, who doesn’t seem to mind at all what happens to the corpse of her benefactor and late protector. With characteristic thrift, she has re-opened the bar. Sammy’s mother arrived from Marseilles yesterday. We had to leave a policeman there to stop the pair of them fighting. There was a right royal row.’

  The hearse had halted at the morgue under the town hall and, as though eager to get rid of it, four men hustled out an ornate oak coffin with silver handles and ornaments and large enough to accommodate three Sammies, and shoved it unceremoniously in the hearse. Passers-by doffed their headgear, if they had any, or crossed themselves. Those dining within sight of the depressing scene applied themselves more vigorously to their food and pretended they didn’t see it.