Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  And as she raised her grief-stricken face, streaming with tears, Littlejohn knew the truth.

  ‘Did he ask you to marry him, Mrs. Beaumont?’

  It took her some time to collect herself. She mopped her face and drank some of the Vichy water from the carafe at her elbow.

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t the first time.’

  Littlejohn could hardly hear her say it.

  ‘He had asked you before and you had refused?’

  ‘Yes. Twice, at home. In those days, he seemed to expect me to jump at the offer. He was presumptuous. On the night of his death, however, he was so contrite and humble. He spoke of his loneliness, of the prospect of a solitary existence, and a lonely end. I know it sounds silly and sentimental. Perhaps the place and the holiday had something to do with creating an atmosphere. I don’t know. He said I was the same. Lonely and with nobody to look after me. We were old friends and knew the best and worst of each other. He said he had had stupid affairs with other women, but that he never respected any of them enough to ask them to marry him and share his life.’

  It sounded like passages from Ouida, but Mrs. Beaumont was moved and sincere and it was her own way of putting things.

  ‘I denied that I was lonely and helpless, but now, I must admit his appeal stirred me deeply. I had half an idea that my money counted largely in the matter, but Alderman Dawson was a new man to me that night. I felt I could look very favourably on his proposal.’

  ‘You told him so?’

  ‘I did more. I was carried away by his appeal. Nobody has spoken to me so kindly and considerately since my late husband…’

  More tears. It was embarrassing. The proud Mrs. Beaumont had suddenly, in a gush, taken Littlejohn into her confidence and disclosed a holiday romance more in keeping with teenagers than elderly and staid dignitaries of a strait-laced town like Bolchester. And yet, why shouldn’t they?

  ‘I told him I’d marry him, but he must keep it secret until I said it could be made public. There were things to be arranged…friends to be prepared. We were not young people. It had to be announced and done with dignity…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After our talk and its results, I must confess, Inspector, I enjoyed my dinner. A little excitement is the spice of life. Then, Alderman Dawson suggested a short stroll afterwards. I felt it would only cause the rest to talk and cast insinuations, so I declined. He said he’d go for a walk himself. He went to his death. That is why I take it so badly. If only I had gone with him…All this…’

  Tears again.

  ‘Is that all, Inspector?’

  She looked at him with puffy eyes and face, thinking she’d said enough.

  ‘Where did this important conversation occur, Mrs. Beaumont?’

  ‘In the little morning-room where you held your interviews. You remember?’

  ‘Yes. It lies at the foot of the stairs and people passing might overhear?’

  ‘I agree. They might have done. The first part was so exciting and upsetting, that I may have raised my voice. In fact, I did, and I went to the door and closed it. I remember that.’

  ‘Did you mention, by name, any of the women who were linked, perhaps in unsavoury fashion, with Dawson at home?’

  She looked upset again.

  ‘I fear I did in my rage. I threw in his teeth certain suspicions.’

  ‘Such as the one that he had taken this trip to be near Mrs. Sheldon?’

  ‘How do you know that? I have never mentioned it to a soul since.’

  ‘I heard things in Bolchester…”

  ‘I did say that. I thought that was why he came. He said, quite humbly, that he had come to be near me and ask me again to marry him. I had already accused him of an affair with Mrs. Sheldon, of spending the money from his business on her, and of being with the Turnpike excursion to be with her and make a fool of poor Sheldon behind his back.’

  ‘I see. And when you closed the door…Did you see anyone about?’

  She didn’t want to answer. Her eyes fell and she started to wring her damp handkerchief.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes. I saw poor Mr. Sheldon going upstairs. He was carrying a heavy suitcase. I expect his wife couldn’t wait for the porter to take it up. She must have sent him down for it.’

  ‘And he overheard your references to his wife?’

  ‘I’m so ashamed about it, Inspector. I wouldn’t hurt that dear good man for the world. He has so much to bear from his wife and leads such a patient, exemplary life at home. And he does love her and puts up with so much. He did not see me as I closed the door after looking if anyone was about. He must have overheard the conversation, though. It was the way he carried the bag…as though all his strength had left him.’

  Things were piling up for Sheldon with a vengeance! The banknotes, and now his overhearing the part of the Beaumont-Dawson dialogue, in which Dawson’s connections with Mrs. Sheldon had been very plainly stated.

  ‘It does not seem to have made any difference to his gentlemanly way of treating his wife. She does not deserve it.’

  Littlejohn nodded, then: ‘Did Alderman Dawson always call you Valerie, Mrs. Beaumont?’

  ‘Yes. Many of my men friends did. The ones who knew me when I was on the stage years ago.’

  ‘You know, of course, that Dawson’s last word was `Valerie’? Marriott, who was there with Humphries, thought he was saying something connected with his spell in the maquis. He mistook it for Vallouris. It rather put us off the track for a start.’

  Her lips quivered again.

  ‘I like to think that William’s last thought was of me and that, if he called for me by the pet name he knew me by, he perhaps wished them to bring me to his bedside. I was annoyed when I heard of Marriott’s stupid behaviour. It prevented my going there. Not that it mattered, for he had died soon after. But Marriott knew that I was known as Valerie by friends in Bolchester. He was one of the circle in the old days, though rather on the fringe, I must admit. It is rather like him to make a silly mistake like that. To put it simply, Marriott is not very bright. His father left him a fine business and he’s let it run down out of sheer lack of enterprise and common intelligence. All the same, I bear him no ill-will.’

  ‘And Alderman Dawson’s movements on the day he met his death; can you give me some fuller details?’

  She paused and thought.

  ‘We arrived here from Lyons late in the afternoon. We’d stayed at Avignon and looked round there after lunch. We did some shopping and then came on here.’

  ‘When you got to Bagatelle it would be teatime, Mrs. Beaumont?’

  “Yes.”

  ‘Then, you went to your rooms and changed and unpacked?’

  ‘We hadn’t very much luggage with coming by coach. We took up our light bags and left the larger ones down for the porter. I read my mail after I’d washed and I must admit I was eager to see William Dawson on account of what Lovelace had said. I came down at once and found the rest hadn’t appeared, but William was here. It was then we had our talk.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘The heavier cases went up to our rooms, we unpacked, and then assembled for dinner. After dinner…well…I think you know the rest.’

  ‘Dawson was in all the time until he took his walk after dinner?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Since Dawson’s death, have you seen anyone hanging round the place; anyone suspicious?’

  ‘There have been plenty, especially the police. After the Alderman died, they kept us under their eye lest one or another of us decided to flee, I expect. We have a gendarme in uniform always with us when we make our trips. Before him, I saw a man in a beret hanging round. I expect he was a plain-clothes man…’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Almost from the very morning William Dawson died. About eleven o’clock, I looked out and saw a man watching the place from over the road. He wore a beret and a navy blue shirt and canvas slacks to match. He disappeared in the
course of the day.’

  ‘Can you give a closer description?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He was too far away. I know that he was medium built, rather stout, Italian-looking. In fact, a bit queer for a policeman. But then they’ve all kinds in the police here. Look at that little man, Dorange. You’d never find a detective like him in our British force. And the policeman who accompanies us on our trips; he wears a light canvas uniform and even takes off his coat and smokes cigarettes whilst on duty. Most inappropriate.’

  ‘The man who was watching. When did he disappear?’

  ‘After lunch. He watched everybody coming and going and then when I went out after lunch, he’d gone.’

  ‘About Henri…’

  ‘That dreadful boy!’

  ‘Yes. Did you see him in conversation with anyone after the death of the Alderman?’

  ‘He was in conversation with everybody. Irrepressible and cheeky. One never knew where one would find him next.’

  ‘Did you ever see him in, shall we say, tête-á-tête with anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He and Fowles used to lark about a bit; they slept in the attics. Also Peter Currie and Henri were together until Peter’s mother didn’t like the way Henri was leading Peter into mischief. I saw him talking to Mr. Gauld once, and he did an errand or two for Mr. Marriott…tobacco, I think. Oh…yes…Once I came across Mr. Sheldon talking with Henri. He was giving him some money. Another errand, no doubt. The money that boy earned…’

  Sheldon again. This time, handing money to Henri. And that confirmed the casino account of the affair.

  Another day to go and, if Littlejohn hadn’t cleared up the case, the French police would arrest Sheldon and sweat it out of him at the police station.

  ‘You know, of course, that the Alderman is to be buried in Cannes to-morrow morning?’

  Littlejohn has forgotten Mrs. Beaumont!

  ‘He was very fond of France and when Marie Ann asked me about the interment here, I said it would be a good idea and avoid a lot of embarrassment taking back the coffin and making all the arrangements there. Will you and Mrs. Littlejohn be coming? I do hope so. The Alderman would so much have appreciated what you have done on his behalf.’

  Littlejohn wondered.

  13 - The End of an Alderman

  It was dark when Littlejohn left Bagatelle after his talk with Mrs. Beaumont. He felt he wanted a quiet night with his wife and he refused to stay for dinner.

  All the lights of Cannes were on and in the bay a visiting American destroyer was illuminated. As he walked down to the nearest rank to get a taxi, Littlejohn met several American sailors dressed in white, cycling back from their afternoon’s leave.

  When he got to La Reserve his wife was waiting with a message from Dorange. He apologised for forgetting to make a rendezvous to bring the Chief Inspector back to Juan by car; he had rung up Bagatelle, but someone had said Littlejohn wasn’t there. So on his way home he’d left a parcel for his colleague. It contained Dossier Henri.

  ‘A bit of light reading for after dinner,’ said Littlejohn. But he took his wife to the casino instead and didn’t get to M. Joliclerc’s file until after midnight. With coffee and his pipe, he settled down and his wife read a library book to keep him company. Outside, the mistral had started to blow and they could hear the waves dashing on the beach and the trees groaning in the wind.

  M. Joliclerc had put all the inhabitants of Bagatelle on the grille again about the death of Henri. In some cases, he’d turned them over and over and could be said to have cooked them well on both sides. Especially Alf Fowles, né Alfred, whom the examining magistrate didn’t seem to like at all.

  Question: You slept on the same floor as the deceased?

  Answer: Yes. I’ve told you that about a dozen times already.

  Question: Was his behaviour whilst you were there in any way strange?

  Answer: It was always strange. He was a nasty bit of work.

  Question: Give me any examples of his strange behaviour.

  Answer: What’s all this about? I didn’t kill him.

  So it went on and on, monotonous, devoid of humour, patient, detailed and exhausting. In the end, Alf Fowles had defeated the examining magistrate. He’d passed on to someone else to recover his equanimity. Procès-verbal d’Alf Fowles (né Alfred) terminé). Alf Fowles’s statement finished! It was scrawled in ink, like a dying message, across the foot of the paper.

  As far as Littlejohn could make out, his own theory about the use of the motor-truck at Bagatelle had blown the question of alibis sky high.

  Suppose it was Sheldon…

  He’d been suspicious about his wife’s carrying on with Dawson even back in Bolchester. Almost as soon as they arrive at Bagatelle he hears Mrs. Beaumont having a row with Dawson and flinging in his teeth an accusation of spending her money on Mrs. Sheldon and having an affair with her behind her husband’s back.

  After dinner, Dawson, elated by his success with Mrs. Beaumont, goes for a stroll. Sheldon, mad with rage, hunting for some means of paying accounts with Dawson, sees the rabbit-knife on the kitchen table. He takes it, follows Dawson into the garden of Bagatelle, and stabs him. It is all the work of five minutes to knife the Alderman, hide his body, and return indoors and join his wife with the rest.

  As the night passes, Sheldon is urgently faced with the hiding of the body. He has seen the motor cart in the shed. He and his wife retire about eleven. Whilst he’s supposed to be in the bathroom, Sheldon has gone down the outside staircase from the first floor, taken the body on the truck, and dumped it on the shore.

  Henri has seen Sheldon take the knife or making off with the motor cart. And as Sheldon leaves Palm Beach after disposing of the body, Sammy spots him and recognises him. Sheldon has now two blackmailers to deal with.

  Sammy arrives early next day at Bagatelle and watches the place. He knows the motor-truck belongs there; he also knows that Dawson is a guest there. He waits till he recognises the one he’d dimly seen the night before. Then, he approaches him and starts to put on the screw. They arrange to meet. It is the same technique as the Dawson affair, except that Sammy dies straight away.

  When Henri starts to hint, Sheldon at first pays him to allay his suspicions and then, coming upon him alone, chokes him. Again the motor-cart at a convenient opportunity, and this time the body is taken to La Californie, just in case the police are keeping watch at Palm Beach.

  The swift thrust of the knife or the twist of the scarf, and the rest by instalments at the murderer’s early convenience. Littlejohn even remembered on the very night he and his wife had gone to dine at Bagatelle—the night Sammy died—Sheldon had been absent for ten minutes, changing his tie by order of his wife.

  It seemed all right on paper. Motive; opportunity; and a man who though gentle in the presence of the woman who’d provoked this mad storm of passion and murder, had spent much of his life abroad in circumstances demanding ruthlessness and quick powers of action.

  Yet, you could drive a carriage and pair through it all. How did Sammy recognise Sheldon, a perfect stranger, in the half-light?

  How did Sheldon know of Palm Beach as a dumping ground near where he killed his victims? Had he been at Cannes before?

  In the short time they’d been at Bagatelle, how did he know about the motor-cart and how to manipulate it?

  And lastly, he didn’t seem the killer type, although that wasn’t much to go by. Littlejohn had known men too soft hearted to wring the neck of a chicken in their poultry-run or put their foot on a mouse from behind the skirting board, who, under passionate provocation, had committed the foulest crimes.

  It was after one o’clock when his wife wakened Littlejohn. He’d fallen asleep over M. Joliclerc’s mass of questions and answers, his coffee was stone cold, and his pipe had fallen from his hand and singed the carpet.

  The mistral was still whistling along the promenade and overhead a night plane from Nice was droning its way across the Alps behind…


  Next morning Dorange called to pick up Littlejohn at nearly ten o’clock.

  ‘The funeral of Alderman Dawson?’ he said raising his eyebrows in question. In the boot of his car, Dorange had brought bunches of roses and carnations from his father’s gardens.

  ‘From you and me to our best customer,’ he said as he showed them to Littlejohn, who appreciated the gesture, but thought the comment a bit out of place.

  Dorange made no reference to the time limit imposed on Littlejohn for the solution of the crimes in his own way, but the Chief Inspector had no doubt about the expiry of the ultimatum.

  The wind had dropped and the sun was baking everything again. Holiday-makers already in crowds on the beaches at Juan-les-Pins and Golfe-Juan, all the little cafés busy, people sporting in the sea, frisky old gentlemen taking their morning promenades and eyeing the best-looking women and the most audacious bathing wear. The whole coast as far as you could see was bathed in sunshine, white hot and glowing under it.

  …And Dawson had come here for his holiday and today they were attending his funeral.

  Marie Ann Blair, assisted by Humphries, had spent a lot of time trying to find a suitable vehicle to replace the lugubrious continental hearse and Dawson’s body went to the cemetery in a black motor-van, followed by the mourning excursionists from Bagatelle. Littlejohn and Dorange joined them at the graveside, after a service at the English church in the town. The Mayor of Bolchester, in his chain of office, the Town Clerk, the Mayor’s valet, and another Alderman and a Councillor from Dawson’s colleagues were also present. To mark this unofficial visit, the Mayor of Cannes, in his sash, was also present with many dignitaries.

  It was the kind of finish Dawson would have liked. Sunshine, officials, brief graveside tributes, and great masses of local roses to speed him on his way.

  The mourners from Bagatelle, unable to equip themselves in black, wore what they could. Quite in keeping with the sunshine and flowers which marked the occasion.

  The Mayor of Bolchester, introduced to Littlejohn before the procession formed, wrung the Chief Inspector by the hand.