A Knife For Harry Dodd

by George Bellairs

  Uncle Fred was so pleased with his prognostications that he asked Cromwell to join him in a drink, and he was surprised to find that the sergeant wasn’t half-way through his first pint

  ‘Come on!’ he said, by way of a taunt. ‘Same agen for me, landlord. A double…’

  ‘What sort of a woman is Mrs. Dodd? Do you know her?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really say this, bein’ Dot’s uncle, but the old lady’s one of the best. A perfect lady of the old school. Real gentility. A bit too docile, though, if you know what I mean. When Harry went off the rails, she let the family completely take things in hand. It was said at the time she’d have forgiven Dodd and taken him back, but the family wouldn’t let ‘er. She must have still been fond of ‘im. Don’t tell my sister or Dot that I told you. Among men, we can talk like this. Women just don’t understand. I’ve always been broad-minded. Life in the Law makes you that way. Guess it’s the same in the Force. Broad-minded…Well…Guess I’d better be on my way. Cycled from Cambridge this mornin’, and I’ve got to get back before dark. Cycling’s my ‘obby. Keeps me young an’ fit…’

  Uncle Fred fixed his cycling stockings and looked ready for action. Cromwell wondered however he did it, in his condition and with so many pubs to pass on the way home.

  ‘How many miles will it be?’

  ‘Nearly forty…’

  ‘Good going! All the best.’

  ‘All the best. I’ll have to come back in a day or two, so I’ll be seein’ you…’

  He pedalled unsteadily past the window, took to the road, and was soon gone.

  Uncle Fred had no sooner disappeared than the sports car of Peter Dodd roared down the village street and pulled up with a squeal in front of the inn.

  ‘Wot, another? ‘said Mr. Mallard, putting his head in at the door of the Snug. ‘Pore old Harry Dodd’s bringing ‘em like flies round a ‘oney pot…’

  Peter Dodd had entered behind him. He ordered a pint of mild and appeared, carrying his drink, in the doorway of the room where Cromwell was sitting.

  ‘Umph!’ said Peter, and took his drink away with him.

  He was tall, slim, swarthy and curly haired, and his small, turned-up nose gave him a faint look of perpetual disgust. His thin, dark moustache accentuated this.

  Young Dodd suddenly changed his mind and returned to the Snug. He put his beer down on a table, flung himself on a bench, and crossed his legs. He wore his business clothes; black jacket, grey trousers and he carried a black soft hat.

  ‘You from the police…?’

  Cromwell took a drink of his beer and did not answer. Dodd was about twenty-six; Cromwell was old enough to be his father, and more. It was the insolent, affected drawl which got Cromwell’s back up.

  ‘I was speaking to you…’

  ‘And I’ll answer when you remember your manners…’ Cromwell took another drink, and then started to fill his pipe, the one like Littlejohn’s.

  Peter Dodd flushed and looked ready to jump up and start a row.

  Then he suddenly cooled off.

  ‘I’m bloody mad,’ he said. ‘People like those two women and their blasted Uncle Fred make me see red.’

  He drank half his beer and came up for air.

  ‘Been having a bit of trouble, Mr. Dodd?’

  ‘Yes. I came to see what I could do to help make the old man’s end a bit decent. What do I find? A lot of hangers-on trying to improve the shining hour by screwing as much cash out of the family as they can. Blackmail, that’s what it is. Unless we pay ‘em off, they’ll bleat to all the newspapers, and the Sunday readers’ll all have a field-day.’

  ‘You want to keep it quiet?’

  ‘Of course. Why the hell do you think I’m here?’

  ‘Now, now.’ Cromwell’s voice was sharp with rebuke. ‘If you want any help from me, moderate your language and your tone…’

  ‘Well, of all the…’

  Then he started to grin. It completely altered his appearance. He looked boyish and quite charming.

  ‘Sorry, old man. But it’s got my goat.’

  ‘Who sent you, if I may ask?’

  ‘Oh, ask anythin’. Quite O.K. by me. I came at mother’s request. She’s not well and I try to humour her. In spite of the filthy way he treated her, mother always had a soft spot for father. I was too young to interfere when it all happened, but I’ll tell you straight, it’s added years to mother. Strictly between us two, they ought to have left her to deal with it all herself. Instead…’

  He shrugged and drank his beer.

  ‘You’re your mother’s boy, then, aren’t you?’

  Peter Dodd flushed again.

  ‘Bein’ a bit offensive?’

  ‘No. Sorry to put it that way. Just trying to get at the truth. This is murder, you know. And, believe me, background, not clues, provides most solutions to crimes like this…’

  Cromwell wished Littlejohn could have heard that! It was just the chief’s method and idea, and he would have approved his pupil for the lesson he’d learned!

  ‘Indeed! This is interestin’. And what background is going to help clear up this mess, may I ask? A lot of rooting and grubbing in our family history. Because I’ll warn you from the start…’

  ‘Don’t start threatening. If you won’t provide it quietly, there are plenty more who’ll revel in washing a lot of dirty linen in public. The more help we get in a quiet way from the likes of you, sir, the easier it’ll be for everybody.’

  ‘What are you after?’

  ‘A little information, if you can give it. Did you know your father well?’

  Peter Dodd began to look a bit uneasy.

  ‘Better than the rest of the family,’ he said at length, rather sulkily.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the case.’

  ‘Hasn’t it? Let me make a guess, then. I said you were your mother’s boy…Now, now, now; hear me out. Your mother was still fond of your father. If she’d had her way, there’d never have been a divorce. She’d have forgiven him…’

  ‘Well? He didn’t damn’ well deserve it, but my mother was more charitable than the rest of the family.’

  ‘And because you think the world of your mother, you’re just a little bit inclined to be the same. In fact, you met the old man now and then, for your mother’s sake. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. You may as well know. Mother’s a mild and gentle sort. She’s completely under the thumb of my elder brother and sister and my father’s brother William…you know, the M.P. She once talked of taking father back…When she learned he hadn’t married that awful Nicholls woman…There was such a shemozzle that it made her ill and she never raised it again. But she wrote to father and he wrote back, and then they got meeting one another. That’s where I came in. I used to take her for a run in the country, and we’d meet dad at a quiet pub for an hour or two. It was awful, really. Sort of underhand…And for somebody like my mother to have to do it. All the same, she looked forward to it so much, that I said nothing about it. And dad was so happy about it, and so…so…so damned humble. If I’d only had the guts, I’d have told the rest of the family to go to hell and insisted on bringing them together again to finish their days out. Instead of which…father gets killed in a sordid sort of way, and mother’s as stricken as if they’d been a perfect Darby and Joan all their lives. It’s a bloody shame, and I don’t know what to do about it. Can I get the body and give him a decent funeral, without those two awful hens to follow the coffin?’

  ‘After all, you’re his family and the Nicholls women have no claim on him. At best, they were only his housekeepers. He seems to have lived with them because he’d nobody else. You’ll be able to set things right, as far as decency goes, after the inquest.’

  ‘That’s a relief, anyhow. I can’t bear to think of mother…’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. Look here, my chief’s in Helstonbury with the police there. Let’s drive over and talk to him. He’s one of the best and I’ll answer for him
giving a helping hand for your mother’s sake, at least.’

  ‘It’s damned decent of you. Let’s have a drink before we go, just to drown my cheek when I first met you.’

  ‘Right…Beer for me, please.’

  Cromwell took a drink.

  ‘By the way. where were your mother and father in the habit of meeting, Mr. Dodd?’

  ‘Mostly in one of the half-way villages. Hurford, Shopton, Stowsley.’

  ‘Did you meet at inns or hotels?’

  ‘Yes. Mostly at a quiet little place or other for lunch, and even tea later. It pleased them to be together. I’d have encouraged them to run away and start all over again, but you can’t do that at their age. You see, mother had an operation a year or two ago. She’s not strong. And my brother controls the purse-strings now. Absolutely crawling with complications.’

  ‘But did they have in mind starting again?’

  ‘I used to leave them together for a while. Lord knows what they talked about, but I know father wanted it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d decided it one day, in spite of all the obstacles.’

  ‘Did you ever call at any pubs owned by Hoods’ Brewery?’

  ‘No. They haven’t any places in the locality. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Funny thing, your dad had the cap of one of their beer bottles in his pocket when he died. They haven’t any houses near here…’

  ‘I can’t make it out.’

  ‘Don’t bother. What were your father’s arrangements when he met your mother? I mean, what did he tell the two women at the bungalow?’

  ‘He never mentioned them to mother, of course. But he once told me, kind of jocularly, that he called the meetings with mother his fishing trips. He often stayed the night before we were due to arrive, and was there to meet us.’

  ‘Had he plenty of money?’

  ‘He wasn’t rolling. The settlement was about six hundred a year. He wouldn’t have got that but for mother. It was paid to his bank in Helstonbury.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you about his other friends, the men he might have associated with when he went away for spells? He must have been in the region of Leicester some time, because Hoods’ houses are sprinkled round there.’

  ‘No. We didn’t talk much…He and mother had so much to say. I made myself a bit scarce.’

  Cromwell studied Peter Dodd carefully.

  ‘You rather liked your father, didn’t you?’

  Dodd flushed again.

  ‘Yes, I did. Mother ought to have had him around, instead of being a perpetual widow and eating out her heart all these years. He was so kind and considerate to her. It wasn’t much fun for him, either, even if he did start it all, to be condemned for life to live in that stuffy, silly little shanty with that awful blonde and her mother. He actually slept in the attic to get away from them, and I believe he used to fasten himself in to get a bit of privacy…It’s terrible. I could go berserk and wreck things.’

  ‘Do the rest of your family…your sister and brother and your Uncle Willie, M.P know you’re here?’

  ‘No. They’ll have a fit when they find out. I suppose they hope to bury or cremate him quietly here, and keep it as dark as they can. But mother wants him to come home and be buried in the family grave with a young brother who died, and I’ll damn’ well see she gets her own way, or I’ll kick up such a stink that’ll make the Sunday papers look pale pink beside it. My blood’s up. It ought to have been up long ago. This wouldn’t have happened if only I’d shown some guts. But I’ll see that mother gets what she wants in this, if I’ve to blast the whole tale wide open. They’ll not let it get so far…’

  ‘Is the family lawyer coming down?’

  ‘I dare say. I’m a lawyer, you know, but not a very good one. However, I stuck out against Uncle Fred, who was trying to work out the pay-off, with the body not yet cold. I packed him off in a huff. A drunken old scrounger, on the cadge…Why do you ask about the family lawyer?’

  ‘There’ll be the inquest, you know, and if it’s to be kept as quiet as possible, it ought to be in expert hands.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t feel up to it myself. Aspinall, our lawyer, is the man. I’d better get him along…’

  ‘Better see my chief first. Let’s drive to the police station in Helstonbury. He’s expecting me, I know…’

  ‘Right…’

  They got in Peter Dodd’s racer, and it seemed as though the young man couldn’t get there fast enough.

  ‘I’m a married man with children,’ protested Cromwell on the way.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m insured,’ answered Dodd above the noise of rushing air and clattering machinery.

  4—The Frightened Man

  With the advent of new industries, the overspill from large cities, and a natural increase in the size of its families, the population of the once quaint old county town of Helstonbury had almost trebled itself in ten years. This had called for a larger police force and police station. At the time Harry Dodd got himself murdered, the force was housed in temporary premises in an old house in the main square, whilst workmen pulled down their original headquarters and put them together again. It was originally estimated it would cost £10,000 and take six months to do. That was eighteen months ago, and they’d already spent £23,000. The jolly workmen on the new police station were still busy brewing tea, putting up and pulling down, brewing more tea, picking a few winners, and taking an odd afternoon off, now and then, to watch the local football team.

  Superintendent Judkin took Littlejohn into his office on the ground floor. It had been the sitting-room of the house, and on the faded green wallpaper you could see the shapes of the sideboard, the bookshelves, and the pictures, in the original shade before the sun got at it. The back window overlooked a cobbled yard, stables and coach-house. Through the open door of the latter a policeman with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his neckband turned in was sousing himself under a tap. Two more policemen were feeding three lost dogs in a wire-netting cage, and five more, dressed in full panoply, were drilling under a sergeant. It was like a Keystone comic!

  Judkin looked through one window at the new headquarters and then through the other at the contents of the stable yard.

  ‘The county police’ he said to Littlejohn, and started to laugh as though they didn’t belong to him at all. He sat down wearily at his desk, indicated a spare chair to Littlejohn, and started to rummage among a lot of files.

  ‘Let me see…Harry Dodd…Here we are.’

  There wasn’t much in the folder. The statements of the Nicholls women, reports from finger-print men and their photographic handiwork. And then a lot of grisly photographs of Harry Dodd, taken in Mrs. Nicholls’ bedroom at Mon Abri and in the morgue at the police station.

  ‘The body’s across the yard,’ he said. ‘We’ve even got a temporary mortuary. Like to see it?’

  ‘Not after these,’ said Littlejohn, handing back the pictures of Harry’s body. Why couldn’t they make a more artistic job of post-mortem photographs? A little more light and shade, and perhaps a few sepia tints! These were stark black-and-white, done under a glaring light. Harry Dodd’s family, who thought a good deal of themselves from all accounts, would have had a fit if they’d seen their poor father, stark naked on the slate slab of the temporary morgue, exhibit number one in the murder of himself.

  ‘Excuse me…’

  A polite young constable entered with a tray of tea things. Judkin, still fumbling with his file, introduced the policeman as his secretary, P.C. Drane. Drane, with the air of a professional waiter, set out the cups, applied sugar and milk, poured out the tea, and distributed it. He was very polite.

  ‘Excuse me…’

  He said it every time he passed in front of Littlejohn.

  ‘Where’s the doctor’s report, Drane?’

  ‘Allow me…’

  Drane laid his hand on it right away. Judkin read it out to Littlejohn. It was simple and straightforward. Dodd had been stabbed and had died from internal haemo
rrhage. Everybody knew the time of death as eleven o’clock the night before, but the doctor had, for some reason, thought fit to deduce it by scientific observation.

  ‘I would say the time of death was about four hours before I first examined the body…’

  ‘What time is the inquest, Drane?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock in the morning, sir. Mr. Dommett has been to see the body…’

  ‘Oh, hell! Is he back?’

  Judkin turned to Littlejohn and made a wry face.

  ‘That’s Sebastian Dommett, the Coroner. He’s been away on holiday, and I hoped he’d stay away till this was over. The Deputy’s easy and gets things done in half the time. With Dommett, it’ll be a real picnic…’

  Drane sniggered and then started to choke.

  ‘Excuse me…Excuse me…’

  ‘Get a drink of tea, man…’

  Littlejohn sat there waiting for something to start or turn up. He lit his pipe and sipped his tea, and thought how nice it would be, for a change, to be head of a county constabulary. Outside, the five constables were running round and round the yard, and another was emerging from the mortuary with a man, obviously an undertaker, who’d been measuring the body for a coffin.

  ‘Have any of Dodd’s relatives been here yet, Judkin?’

  ‘Yes. Young Peter Dodd called this morning and identified his father. He seemed fond of the old boy. Broke down when he saw him. I rather like that lad. He’s not tarred with the same brush as the rest of the family, and I think he’ll prove useful to us. I asked him to come on here after he’d finished haggling with Uncle Fred, as they called him. I think Fred was trying to sell the body, or something.’