Death in Room Five (A Chief Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  ‘I’d like to make it noon, Dorange, and you and I join the excursionists for lunch at Bagatelle.’

  ‘If you’ve solved the case by then, there won’t be many with an appetite.’

  ‘Meanwhile, will you see that someone keeps an eye on Mrs. Beaumont…one of your plain-clothes men? He might even be stationed inside Bagatelle.’

  ‘That is already done. We aren’t going to have any more of that party bolting and giving us trouble. There will always be a man there until they leave Cannes for good.’

  ‘Splendid! And now I’ll be off.’

  At the villa there was quite a festive atmosphere. Mrs. Beaumont had explained to the Turnpikers why she had tried to get back to England in their interest, and they had expressed their gratitude and allowed her to go and lie down in her room for a rest.

  ‘She wants to see you, Chief Inspector, as soon as you get here. She said you were sure to call,’ said Mrs. Currie, who was again in charge of Mrs. Beaumont, whom she treated as a semi-invalid.

  ‘She seems worried.’

  The same kind of interview as before. The chaise-longue, with Mrs. Beaumont resting on it, the table with the grapes, the peaches and the pears, and a large vase filled with local roses. She was fast becoming the heroine, the darling of the party.

  Littlejohn, remembering the aggressive woman he’d met when he arrived, reminded himself that first impressions aren’t always the best.

  ‘I was sure you’d want to see me, Chief Inspector. I can talk to you. You seem to understand me. The French police have a strange effect on me. I become a kind of oyster, instinctively. I can’t help myself. I just can’t open up to them.’

  She paused for breath and gulped in air.

  Littlejohn sat on the chair beside the chaise-longue.

  ‘You were afraid, weren’t you, Mrs. Beaumont?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Yes. I simply couldn’t tell the French Inspector. One feels, in a foreign country, that one ought not to betray one’s fellow English. We must stick together. It would be wrong…’

  ‘This is murder…threefold murder, Mrs. Beaumont, and Inspector Dorange is a very decent fellow. I would be the last to try to impede him in a case like this.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that we don’t do our best to discover who…’

  She passed her hand across her brow in a troubled gesture. ‘If only it had happened at home. One thinks of the French police, the law courts here and…and do they still guillotine murderers? If only it had happened in Bolchester instead of here.’

  The window was open and the heat of the day seemed to enter in gusts, almost as scorching as those of a furnace. Outside, someone was mowing a lawn and they could hear the swish of a hosepipe.

  Littlejohn didn’t tell Mrs. Beaumont that murder and its results were the same wherever they occurred. So was the punishment. Men died violently and their killers paid the price and it didn’t make much difference where…

  ‘You were afraid. Why?’

  ‘I have had a growing presentiment that I am somehow in danger.’

  ‘Get rid of it, Mrs. Beaumont. We’re attending to that. From now on, you’ll be safe. I’ll see to that.’

  She didn’t quite know how to reply, but her face grew calmer and she gave him a look of gratitude, stretched out her hand, and laid it for a moment on the back of Littlejohn’s own.

  ‘You have been such a help, Chief Inspector, and I do thank you for all you have done. Last night seemed to confirm my fears. I was so afraid after what happened, that I stayed awake till morning and then started to pack my bags. I was seized with a mad desire to get away to the safety of home. I couldn’t go before William’s funeral, but when it was over I…I’m sorry I caused so much trouble. I ought to have told you.’

  ‘But you decided to go without telling us what had happened. You were shielding someone because you didn’t wish the French police to take him?’

  ‘I didn’t wish to be responsible for his arrest. I told nobody, but just took matters into my own hands and fled.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  She hesitated, and then spoke with a great effort.

  ‘Jeremy Sheldon.’

  Again! It always seemed to come round to Sheldon!

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I was upset by today’s funeral, and you know how much I blame myself for William Dawson’s death. You know how one gets. I heard it strike midnight, and then one. I could hear the bell on St. Honorat ringing for the offices. People passing late. And, as one does, I said to myself, if I’m not asleep in a quarter of an hour, I’ll get up and take a tablet. But I was too cosy to do it.’

  Outside, on the landing, they could hear footsteps ascending and then voices.

  ‘It’s so stupid of you. Why must you always show me up in front of people?’

  ‘But, my dear, I thought it best…’

  ‘Best! You never think of me. It’s always the same.’

  A door slammed. The Sheldons again.

  Mrs. Beaumont paused and listened. It was as though the near presence of the man who had scared her, gave her a pang of further fear.

  ‘I must have dozed off after hearing it strike two. Then, suddenly, I was awake. Someone was outside the door. I could feel him there. I heard the knob slowly turn with a slight grating noise. I put on the light and rushed to the door, impulsively. Whoever was there had tiptoed away, but I saw the Sheldons’ door, which is opposite, as you know, gently closing, as though someone were sneaking back.’

  She gulped for air and put her hand over her heart.

  ‘He must have been trying to get in and…’

  ‘But why? Surely you have no evidence which would incriminate him?’

  ‘I did tell you that when William and I had our quarrel, the name of Mrs. Sheldon was mentioned and that I thought her husband overheard. In the course of the investigation, if that came out, it might be damning. On the other hand, the very fact that I was, in a way, blackening his wife’s good name might have affected him. He dotes on her so much that maybe the strain and the things we said about her have unhinged him. He may have become mad and homicidal. I am terribly afraid, Inspector.’

  Littlejohn rose.

  ‘We’ll settle this, here and now.’

  Hastily he crossed the landing and tapped on the Sheldons’ door.

  Their wrangling voices ceased and there was a pause as they

  listened silently and wondered who was knocking.

  Sheldon appeared at length.

  ‘Hullo, Inspector! What can I do for you?’

  ‘Will you kindly accompany me to Mrs. Beaumont’s room?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  His wife’s head appeared round the door-frame.

  ‘What has happened?’

  The pair of them followed Littlejohn with slow puzzled steps.

  Mrs. Beaumont rose and out of emotion didn’t answer when they greeted her and asked her how she was.

  They stood in a group.

  ‘You were up in the night, about two o’clock, Mr. Sheldon?’

  Husband and wife exchanged glances.

  ‘I told you what it would be. You would interfere. Trouble, trouble, trouble.’

  She was starting a fresh row, her eyes blazing and her disgust apparent.

  ‘I thought I heard someone prowling round on the landin’. My wife didn’t want me to interfere, but after all, with things goin’ on as they have done in this place, I didn’t feel I could let it pass. I got up and went to see. It was just somebody goin’ to the bathroom.’

  ‘You didn’t see who it was?’

  ‘No. But it could only have been Marriott, if it wasn’t Miss Blair. The other floors have their own bathrooms. I spoke to Miss Blair this mornin’. Apologised if I’d disturbed her. You see, she told us that Mrs. Beaumont sounded unsettled in the night. Walkin’ about, she said. So I said I hoped it wasn’t through me. I’d tried to be quiet.’

  His wife sno
rted with disgust again.

  ‘She…Miss Blair, I mean, said she was asleep well before two…and didn’t wake for the first time till four, when she heard Mrs. Beaumont movin’ about.’

  Littlejohn turned to Mrs. Sheldon.

  ‘You confirm that?’

  ‘Of course. My husband only went briefly in and out.’

  ‘Very well. Please don’t mention this to the others. It’s very disturbing and there’s been enough disturbance here already. Thank you.’

  The Sheldons left without another word, very serious, almost crestfallen.

  As the door closed, they could hear Mrs. Sheldon start rebuking her husband again.

  ‘Please don’t mention all this downstairs, Mrs. Beaumont. In fact, don’t say a word about your fears or last night’s episode. Keep up the tale that you were trying to get to London for legal help for the rest of your friends here.’

  ‘I see. But when will it all end?’

  Littlejohn patted her hand comfortingly, like a doctor reassuring a patient.

  ‘Not long, now. Stay in your room today…all the time. There’s a detective keeping an eye on you. You’ll be safe. I’ll call to see you again before dinner. Remember, keep to your room.’

  ‘I promise, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘You haven’t something else to tell me? Something you’re reticent about. Something a kindly woman like yourself wouldn’t mention?’

  She looked surprised at first, and then nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was said in a whisper.

  ‘Marriott also asked you to marry him, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Twice…in Bolchester. I refused emphatically. I was sure it was my money. He is reputed to be very badly-off…almost bankrupt.’

  ‘Did he ask you on this trip?’

  ‘No. But I think he was getting ready to do so. In fact, that might have been the reason for his coming. He was behaving as if ready for another try. I hate to say all this. It hardly seems fair.’

  Two ageing men, courting a comfortable, plain elderly woman, and perhaps her money, as well. Two elderly rivals. And now one was in the cemetery at Cannes. And the other…

  On the way down, Littlejohn again tapped on the Sheldons’ door.

  ‘Again, Inspector?’

  ‘Just another word with you, sir. On the night of Dawson’s death, you overheard him having high words in the morning-room with Mrs. Beaumont?’

  Sheldon flushed angrily. He closed the door between himself and his wife.

  ‘My wife’s name was mentioned. I resented it, sir. Most disturbin’, and a lie, as well.’

  ‘You were taking a bag upstairs?’

  ‘Yes. How do you know?’

  ‘Was there anyone else about as you got the bag?’

  ‘Yes. That fellah Marriott. He was in the corridor which goes past the door of the mornin’-room to the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you. Please keep this to yourself.’

  ‘I must say I resented very strongly the lyin’ remarks about my wife. If Dawson hadn’t died and caused all this fuss, I’d have made him answer to me for it. I could have killed the fellah.’

  He suddenly realised what he had said, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

  15 - A Farewell Party

  ‘Excuse me! My name’s Landru of the Journal de Nice…’ Landru! What a name! It made Littlejohn shudder.

  A small, thick-set man, with grey hair and a skin wrinkled in fine lines. Hooded eyes under bushy brows and a beret askew on his head.

  ‘Have you any statement to make to the press? I take it you’re one of the guests at Bagatelle…’

  The reporter had evidently been watching the place and had popped out from behind a huge eucalyptus as soon as Littlejohn appeared outside.

  Passers-by looked hard at the pair of them and a nursemaid, strolling along with a magnificent pram containing a dark-skinned baby which looked like the offspring of some Eastern potentate, rolled her eyes at Landru.

  ‘So far, the French police have kept us off with promises. It’s time we got a proper tale. May I have your name, sir, please?’

  Littlejohn smiled and removed his pipe.

  ‘Chief Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard…’

  The reporter’s eyes grew wide and greedy and he prepared for a scoop.

  ‘Yes. I’m resuming my holiday with my wife and the French police are taking over the case entirely. That’s all. Good afternoon.’

  The man called Landru could hardly get to the nearest telephone fast enough.

  It was almost six o’clock and the silence of before dinner was falling over Cannes again. Lights were appearing in the villas along the road and down the long straight stretch which led from Bagatelle to Palm Beach. Somewhere a gramophone was churning out jazz and a few doors away a quartet of addicts were indulging in a jam-session. The rival noises mingled, one set out blaring the other and then itself being out blared…

  Beyond everything, the sea, calm and darkening with approaching night. A luxury yacht was making for the harbour and the last motorboat was hurrying to port from the Lérins. In the far distance, the mountains of the Esterel etched against a sky of pink and green.

  When the party in the lounge at Bagatelle had asked Littlejohn to dinner, he had accepted but excused his wife. He didn’t want her involved in any emotional scenes and there looked like being plenty.

  ‘This will be a farewell party. I’m finishing on the case tonight. The French police are taking over.’

  The Turnpikers were flabbergasted and dismayed. They all began to talk at once and ask why he was deserting them. Even the phlegmatic Curries and the bored Mary Hannon seemed put out.

  ‘You see, I’m not getting anywhere. Those of you who could help me, won’t. We’re no nearer a solution of the case than when we started.’

  Marriott had begun to get excited, but this time Gauld pushed him aside.

  ‘What do you mean, we won’t help? If we don’t know anything, you can’t expect us to make up a tale. Why this sudden decision to throw up the sponge?’

  Littlejohn patiently puffed his pipe.

  ‘I’m not in charge of the case, you know. It’s by courtesy of the French police that I’ve had any standing at all. And that because the diplomatic powers-that-be in Paris asked that I be allowed to handle the preliminary inquiry and keep things discreet. It doesn’t seem to have worked, and now orders are that the local police are to have it their own way.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  Marriott’s voice grew reedy with an emotion which sounded like fear.

  ‘It simply means that all suspects will be questioned and questioned again, until one or another cracks and tells a whole tale. So far, nobody has cooperated with me. Not even Mrs. Beaumont, who knows quite a lot she won’t tell. Now, the cooperation is going to end. From the English aspect of all being innocent till you’re proved otherwise, you will all be guilty, French fashion, until you’re proved innocent.’

  ‘But you aren’t going to leave us in the lurch like this, Chief Inspector?’

  Marie Ann Blair was at last showing some interest and Humphries was looking as furious as he could to back her up.

  ‘It’s not good enough. We ought to have been home long ago.’

  Littlejohn rose and made ready to go.

  ‘You seem to have a funny idea of what is and what isn’t good enough, Humphries. There have been three deaths here since the party arrived. I’ve tried to find out who committed these crimes so that you could all go home without being grilled in an undignified manner by the local police. And not one of you has helped me. All you’ve told me or the French police has been dragged out of you. You seem to have the idea that because you’re all English and one of you is a murderer on French soil, you ought to hang together and get away by hook or by crook, irrespective of the crimes. Who really feels Dawson ought to be avenged? Not one of you. You all want to go home.’

  They all started to shout at once, but the Inspec
tor opened the door.

  ‘I shall be back about eight. Think it over and if any of you have information for me, that will be your last chance. Au ‘ voir.’

  And when the reporter caught him on the doorstep, he gave him the news for the evening edition, just to underline his decision.

  No wonder the dinner at Bagatelle that evening was a strange affair. The party there was suffering from conflicting emotions. They were grateful for what Littlejohn had done, angry at his decision to leave them, afraid of what would happen when Dorange and Joliclerc had them completely at their mercy, and eager to appease Littlejohn so that he would change his mind. There had evidently been a meeting before the Inspector arrived.

  ‘Don’t come to a hasty decision, Chief Inspector. Let’s enjoy our dinner first and then talk it over…’

  Marriott, fortified by a whisky or two, met Littlejohn on the mat and almost fawned on him in his anxiety to please. ‘Let’s have a drink or two before we start.’

  He rang a bell and the cross-eyed waitress arrived.

  ‘Just bring in the Inspector’s favourite drink, Fonsine. Oh, I forgot; you no compry…Emportay lu Pernodd. Savvy?’

  ‘How is Mrs. Beaumont, Marriott?’

  ‘Better, I think. She’s comin’ down to dinner. I ‘aven’t seen her myself, but Mrs. Currie says she’s bucked up this afternoon.’

  ‘I promised I’d have a word with her before dinner. Could I?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Marriott stood there brandishing the Pernod bottle. Then he led the way to the lounge where the rest were gathering. ‘Mrs. Currie. The Chief Inspector would like…’

  Before he could get it out, Mrs. Currie had taken Littlejohn in tow, upstairs, and to Mrs. Beaumont. The old dragon looked better, almost herself again.

  ‘Is it true, Inspector, you’re giving up the case?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Beaumont, I’ve promised Dorange either to settle things or get out tonight. All I ask you, is to support me in anything I say. Don’t be surprised at any turn in events. Let me have everything my own way without argument.’

  ‘Very well, Chief Inspector. It’s a bargain.’

  ‘And I’d like you to follow the old custom after dinner, and lead off the ladies to the drawing-room and leave the men to talk. Will you?’