Light broke on Judkin’s face like clouds clearing before the sun.
‘He meant that somebody was out to kill him !’
‘Go on. And old Walter’s comment?’
‘His own flesh and blood! One of the family was trying to murder them. Which of ‘em. Willie? Winfield? Peter?’
‘Let’s go one further. I’ve seen Nancy at the Boone’s place. She doesn’t resemble Harry Dodd in the slightest. And Peg was wild when Nancy escaped from up in her nursery and came down and showed herself to me. She’s the image, not of Harry Dodd, but of Mrs. Harry Dodd. And also of Harry Dodd’s daughter, Lady Hosea, when she was Nancy’s age.’
‘But how can she be like Mrs. Dodd? Peg Boone’s the mother, I suppose.’
‘Yes. But Nancy’s the daughter of one of Mrs. Dodd’s children, not of Harry. That’s how she comes to resemble Mrs. Dodd. Is it the fantastic Lady Hosea, or the cold and proper Winfield, in a moment of forgetfulness and passion? Hardly likely. There remains Peter Dodd. Nancy’s Peter’s daughter and Peter is, or was, a frequenter of The Aching Man.’
Judkin, who had been leaning forward intent in his chair, flopped back and relaxed.
‘Got him! At last we’ve got him. But I’m surprised! Peter! Good Lord, we’ve let him have the run of the place because he’s a lawyer. Do I feel a fool…?’
‘Not so fast. We haven’t got him yet, by a long chalk. There’s plenty of motive, theoretically…He’s broke and wants the cash his father made. Peter was always in and out of Pharaoh’s office. He must have learned about the money and the new Will when he was talking over the business of his father and mother corning together again. Harry was going to change his Will. Once he did that, adopted Nancy, and gave his wife all he’d got, Peter would have to whistle for his share of the cash he hoped to get out of Peg. I wonder how far she went in persuading Peter to murder his father… And now I’d better go along to Cambridge again and have a word with Dr. Macfarlane about that alibi. If it’s watertight, it will put Peter Dodd in the clear. But you’d better put a man on finding Peter Dodd, Judkin, and tell him to keep an eye on him. One breath of suspicion that we’re after him and he’ll bolt.’
‘It’s as good as done,’ answered the Superintendent, and he bellowed for Drane at the top of his voice to show how intent he was.
The Scotland Yard man left Judkin irritating himself by gazing through the front window at the workmen engaged in building the new police office over the way and who, as was their wont, had just downed tools to drink their hourly cans of tea.
This time Littlejohn and Cromwell had a police car apiece, for whilst Littlejohn was interviewing Macfarlane, Cromwell was to make his way to The Aching Man and carry out a double check on the Boone alibis.
‘We can’t be too sure. That pair may be in the murders just as deeply as we think Peter is.’
Dr. Macfarlane lived in a large old house two blocks away from the Dodd residence. ‘No Afternoon Surgery’, stated, a card pinned over a corroded brass plate on which consultation hours had once been engraved and now, from much cleaning and later neglect, had worn away. Littlejohn rang the bell.
An elderly woman, presumably the housekeeper, eventually answered the door. She eyed Littlejohn up and down.
‘No afternoon surgery,’ she said acidly. ‘Is it an urgent call?’
‘It is. Will you kindly hand my card to the doctor, if he’s in.’
She took the card and eyed it, holding it closely to her face, for she had cataracts coming.
‘He’s just having his lunch. He was out late.’
‘I’ll wait.’
She bade Littlejohn enter and showed him into the waiting-room. It was bare and poorly furnished, smelled short of air, and the odour of iodine hung about it. Cheap wooden chairs all around the walls, old prints hanging from the picture-moulding, a hatch through which medicines were dispensed and prescriptions handed, and a large old-fashioned gas-fire hiding the fireplace. The floor was covered in cheap linoleum.
Littlejohn waited for a good half-hour. Meanwhile, there was not a sound in the house. Then, a door opened somewhere in the hinterland, and footsteps sounded. The doctor stood at the door. He was a little, clean-shaven, chubby man with white hair brushed back from a fine forehead. His complexion was ruddy, and his large nose, netted with fine purple veins, told of his disposition. His blue eyes were pale and liquid and protruded behind round, rimless spectacles.
‘Well, sir,’ he said. ‘You want to see me, I believe. Sorry to keep you. I was detained on a case, and you found me in the middle of lunch.’
His meal must have been mainly liquid, for he breathed a strong blast of whisky over Littlejohn as he shook his hand.
‘Scotland Yard, eh? We don’t often get you chaps down here. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s about Mr. Peter Dodd, sir.’
The doctor began to look irritable.
‘I don’t see why I should keep being bothered like this. The local police have already been checking Peter’s account of where he was on the night of his father’s death. I told them he was here, and gave the times.’
‘I called to confirm that, doctor.’
Dr. Macfarlane drew out one of the cheap chairs and straddled it. He looked to be having a job to make ends meet, for his suit, though neat, was threadbare, and there was a patch on one of his shoes.
‘Is my word not good enough?’
‘This is a murder case, sir, and we have to be quite sure.’
‘But you surely don’t suspect Peter of killing his own dad, do you?’
‘This is purely a formality, but what we hear has made this second visit essential…’
The doctor’s loose mouth opened and his watery eyes flashed.
‘Whatever you’ve heard can give you no reason for doubting my word. I’m a well-known man locally, I’m respected, and if Scotland Yard think I’m a liar, the police of Cambridge don’t. Now get it out of your system, Inspector, and let me return to work.’
‘Is it true that you were drunk on the night of the crime, doctor, and that Peter Dodd found you in no condition either to know the time or even dispense properly?’
Macfarlane sprang to his feet, knocking over the chair, and started to bluster. There was little conviction in his tone, however.
‘Of all the blasted impertinence! Who told you that, and how is the story justified?’
‘I must apologise, doctor, for the blunt way in which I’m having to put it, but I am determined to get to the bottom of this alibi. Is it true that you were out celebrating the departure from Cambridge of a medical colleague, and that you drank so much that you were sent home in a cab? I’m not concerned with anything but how this affected the alibi.’
‘I did go to the farewell dinner. I did drink along with the rest. There were several toasts and we drank them in alcohol, of course.’
‘You drank rather freely, I gather…’
The man’s will or pride must have been totally undermined by his habits, for he looked more like one rebuked than insulted.
‘We had a good time together. But you mustn’t get the impression that they picked me up from under the table afterwards and heaved me in a cab, like a sack of coal. No, sir. I got up and went downstairs under my own steam and got quite steadily in the taxi.’
‘There was no surgery that night?’
‘No. That’s what I’m driving at. Even if I did take a little too much in view of the occasion, I was able to take a suitable antidote of which I know, when I got in, sleep for a while, and then wake refreshed. I’m telling you this at considerable cost to my personal pride, for the sake of Peter Dodd. What I told the local police was true in every detail.’
‘May we just go through it again to refresh our memories, sir?’
‘Of course. Waste of time, though. Come in my room…’
They went into the surgery together. A distempered room, badly in need of redecorating. A large desk with a green-shaded table lamp on it. Cases of instrume
nts, optical cards, a couch for examinations…The usual paraphernalia of a doctor’s office. The framed diplomas on the walls showed high qualifications. Doctor of Medicine, Master of Surgery. Books all over the place. Macfarlane was one of the best doctors in the neighbourhood if he’d only mastered his one weakness. He was a lonely man who’d kept a large family of sisters and his mother until it was too late to marry and have children of his own. They’d died one by one of complaints he couldn’t cure, and here he was, on his own…
‘Like a drink?’
‘No thank you, sir. I’m on duty, you see.’
‘Mind if I do? I haven’t finished my meal…And now; this alibi, Inspector. I had just wakened from my nap at about nine o’clock when young Dodd rang the bell. Maggie, my housekeeper, let him in. His mother was a little upset after taking coffee. That was all. I’d previously given him some tablets for it, and he wanted some more, as the rest had been thrown away apparently. Dodd stayed about a quarter of an hour. I recollect giving him a drink and being unable to partake myself, because of the antidote I’d taken to my earlier potations. It doesn’t do to drink again after it…’
‘You’re quite sure it was about nine o’clock, sir?’
‘Positively certain. I looked at my wrist-watch when I heard the bell ring. It was exactly ten past nine. The clock in the hall and the electric one there on the mantelpiece were at the same time. I booked the case, too. Look here…’
He crossed to a cabinet, took out a card after shuffling rather unsteadily through them, and handed it to Littlejohn.
Mrs. Dodd. Then the address and a previous date. An entry about biliousness and the remedy. The price had been half a guinea. This was repeated again on the date of Harry Dodd’s murder. Not only that, but as if to justify the entry of a guinea, there was a pencil comment. ‘Night…9.30’, presumably noting an extra charge for after hours.
‘I gave him the tablets and we sat for a bit. Then I let him out. I can’t budge from that. It’s what I said at the start, and I repeat it emphatically. There’s another, too, who’ll reassure you, if you don’t believe me…’
He rang the bell by the fireplace and the housekeeper entered, peering at her master to see what he wanted.
‘Maggie…Do you remember letting in Mr. Peter Dodd the other night?’
‘Yes…’
‘What night was it?’
‘Your half day. Why?’
‘Would you have any idea of what time he called, Maggie?’
‘Between nine and a quarter past nine. I remember I was a bit mad about it, because I was just listening to the news before goin’ to bed. It was somethin’ about the Queen, God bless ‘er, and I said to myself, “You’ll have to wait… go on ringing…” and I let him ring again till I’d heard what it was.’
‘Do you remember how long Mr. Dodd was here?’
‘I left you to let him out, as I was just off to my bed after the news. I heard the door bang about half-past nine…Why are you asking me this?’
‘It’s all right, Maggie. Just a bet we’re having. That’s all, thank you.’
The old woman left, mumbling to herself in disapproval.
‘So you see, what I said was right. I ought to be very angry about all this, but I’m not. I don’t like young Dodd, and never have liked him. I wouldn’t put it past him to kill his own father and mother if it suited him. He’s a loafer who won’t settle down to work in spite of his qualifications, he sponges on his mother, he’s in debt up and down the place because he spends as if he earned a huge income, he’s generally disliked at the club and in town as a man who thinks the world owes him a living and he owes it nothing in return. I was Harry Dodd’s doctor once upon a time. I liked Harry. We’d a lot in common and spent much of our time together here, smoking. He was good company when one was lonely. But I’m sorry I can’t help you lay the finger on Peter for murder. He was here till nine-thirty, and he could never have got to Brande in time for the crime, if what the papers say is true and it was committed at ten o’clock.’
‘Thank you very much, doctor. I’m not disappointed, if that’s what you mean. Our only aim is to get the right man, not anybody we can pin it on. You’ve helped immensely, and I’m very grateful.’
So it wasn’t Peter Dodd who killed his father after all. Littlejohn felt a bit weary and fed-up as he started out for the rendezvous with Cromwell. He thought of Judson’s remark, smiled and repeated it.
‘To hell with Harry Dodd!’
Dr. Macfarlane passed him in haste as he slowly made his way back to the main road. He must have set out immediately on his rounds after the Inspector left him.
He was driving a grey Letchworth saloon!
18—The Reluctant Sponsors
The county police had the assurances of two sponsors that Peg Boone had served them with drinks between nine-thirty and closing time of the night of Harry Dodd’s death. These they regarded as firm enough support for her alibi. At the same time, both men had stated that Sid Boone was also about The Aching Man.
Cromwell had the two names in his black book.
Enoch Shoofoot, Crabtree Farm, Helton.
Samuel Macey, Maltkiln Farm, Norton St. Michael.
From an ordnance map, Cromwell knew exactly where he was going to look for the pair of them.
Crabtree Farm was about two miles along a by-road off the main Bath Road. It was a prosperous looking place, standing well back from the highway, approached by a long, well-kept drive. The house was a clean black-and-white structure, with a spread of new outhouses and cowsheds behind it. A pedigree herd was grazing in the field nearby, and far behind the house itself stretched acres of well-farmed, good-looking land.
Cromwell drew up in the cobbled courtyard and got out of his car. His progress had apparently been observed since he turned into the drive, and a large, cross-grained-looking man emerged from the tiled dairy and approached him. He had not missed the police sign on the car and wondered what he had been doing wrong. He let Cromwell speak first.
‘Good morning. Mr. Shoofoot…Mr. Enoch Shoofoot?’
‘That’s me.’
A vulgar man who had made a lot of money by skill at his job and ruthlessness in the markets, good or bad. He was gross and considerably overweight. His great bull neck emerged in folds from his shirt, on which he wore a tie without a collar. There was a cloth cap on his head and beneath it a heavy, round face, livid with satisfied appetites, thick-lipped, button-nosed, shifty eyed. His enormous hairy chest showed through the slit in his shirt, his trousers were a tight fit, with the two top buttons undone. He was without jacket, and a piece of material had been let in the back of his waistcoat to allow for expansion. His legs were so heavy that he stood with them wide apart, like a great tree with twin roots firmly holding it to its own soil.
‘You were at The Aching Man, Mr. Shoofoot, between the hours of seven-thirty and ten on the night of September 2nd?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that? A man can relax and have a drink when he likes, can’t he? This is a free country, ain’t it?’
His voice was deep and husky, and he started each sentence in a roar and ended up short of breath. He wasn’t going to live much longer by the looks of him, he would die hard, and need an outsize coffin and a quick burial, thought Cromwell, eyeing him over.
‘You stated to the county police that Miss Boone was on the premises all the time. I’ve just called to check that.’
Shoofoot’s face contracted in a grimace like that of an angry gorilla.
‘I’ve said what I’ve said. Call me a liar. Go on, call me a liar. I don’t let anybody, police or not, call me a liar.’
‘Nobody’s trying to call you a liar. All I want is…’
‘Peg Boone’s a fine woman. Nobody’s goin’ to insult a friend of mine. Enoch Shoofoot stands by his friends, and Peg’s a friend o’ mine.’
The very mention of her name filled his eyes with lust. Doubtless half the good-looking women of the countryside, and a lot more plain one
s, had suffered the pesterings of Shoofoot at one time or another.
‘Nobody’s insulting any friend of yours. I’m only after the truth.’
‘Well, I’ve already told it to the police. You’re wasting your time.’
A tall, shrivelled woman, limping about with the help of a stick, came to the door of the farmhouse. She looked unhappily in the direction of Shoofoot, shading her eyes with her hand. Presumably it was the farmer’s wife, long-suffering and anxious about her husband’s activities. A chubby land-girl crossed the yard carrying milking machinery, and in spite of his wife’s and Cromwell’s presence, Shoofoot’s pig-eyes followed her retreating figure lecherously, whilst the girl, aware of their scrutiny, strutted self-consciously into the cowshed.
‘What did you tell the other police? I’ve not got it quite clear.’
Shoofoot, knowing his own strength, eyed Cromwell bellicosely, whilst the sergeant, equally aware of his own boxing skill, met the stare.
‘I can’t be wasting time tellin’ my tale over and over again. I said it once and I say it again, I was at The Aching Man all night, an’ Peg Boone was there talking with me…’
He bellowed it for the benefit of his wife and all who cared to listen, and some pigs in a sty, hearing the familiar voice, thought it was feeding-time and started to squeal.
Cromwell knew that unless he tried trickery, he wasn’t going to get much farther.
‘That’s not what Macey said, anyhow. He said…’ Shoofoot thrust his face close to Cromwell’s and snorted like somebody snoring.
‘Macey? An’ what did Macey say? Macey and me both agreed about our tale. What’s he been sayin’ since, the little…’
Shoofoot emitted a string of obscene oaths and turned more livid. He called Macey all the names he could lay his tongue to.
Cromwell waited till it had all died down.
‘You and Macey agreed to say that Peg was in the bar all the time. Actually, she wasn’t. For a full hour at least, Sid was looking after you…’
‘Macey said that, did he? Next time I see the little perisher I’ll break every bone in his body…’
A Knife For Harry Dodd Page 22