The Case of the Headless Jesuit

by George Bellairs

  “’Im. ’Im. See ’Im. You ever seen ’im afore?”

  “Can’t say I have. Why?”

  “Where was you when the team came out?”

  “Here.”

  “That’s a good ’un. You seen ’im then. Not like that, though. Too ’igh and mighty for an ordinary Tommy now. That’s ’is Worship the Mayor o’ Glebechester.…”

  The man kicked the carpet in a frenzy of mirth. He coughed and swore horribly in his glee.

  “Show it to ’im. Print it in the paper. That’ll get ’im. One ’ud think he’d been Field Marshall instead of a ruddy private.… Private Enery Widgett, that’s wot he was. Turn agen Widgett, Lord Mayor o’ Glebechester. And wot did I get? Rollin’ up the ruddy carpet ’e’s wiped his big boots on.…”

  Cromwell had had enough. He’d made the first step. Now it was up to Mister Mayor. He bade the carpet-roller a quick good-day and made off for the town centre.

  The Superintendent of Police welcomed Cromwell like a long-lost brother. Always glad to see and co-operate with Scotland Yard. What could he do to help? His breath smelled faintly of port. He’d been toasting the conquering heroes and had just popped into his office before the feed to attend to matters, mainly the deploying of his men to clear the streets of drunks after the day’s holiday.

  “It’s going to be a bit difficult getting at the Mayor to-day. Anyhow, we’ll see what we can do. It’ll have to be after the luncheon.…”

  He was rather on the small side, and portly with it. His round, flushed face beamed in anticipation of the victuals to come. He liked his food!

  “Tell you what we’ll do. I’ll take you in with me to lunch. One, more or less, won’t make any odds. You can have a feed—and it’ll be a good one, I can tell you—and it’ll find you something to do till we can get His Worship aside for a little talk. Eh?”

  Before Cromwell knew what was happening, he was being shoved by the elbow to a place at the high table among the Mayor, Corporation, Borough officers and footballers.

  “My friend Cromwell, of Scotland Yard. Here on business.…” The Superintendent introduced him all round. It caused quite a commotion. It wasn’t often they had a man from Scotland Yard among them. It filled some of them with awe. You could see people eyeing Cromwell rather fearfully, as though he might be Sherlock Holmes or a mind reader.

  “He really wants a word or two with you, Mr. Mayor, when you can manage it.”

  Mr. Widgett turned pale and fiddled with his robes as though weighed down by them. He eased his huge gold chain too as though it irked him.

  “What is it?”

  He couldn’t wait!

  The waiters were serving soup to the fifty guests, so, instead of learning his fate, the Mayor had to fall-to with the rest. He hadn’t much appetite.

  Cromwell sat down and left His Worship to entertain the footballers. He ate a splendid meal and listened comatosely to speeches of congratulation and thanks. They drank several toasts and the Superintendent, after granting Cromwell official indulgences, declaring him off duty and urging him to be matey, pressed drinks upon him. They were, therefore, all rather merry when they met at length in the mayor’s-room during the intermission.

  “Come to arrest me?” asked the Mayor with a titter.

  “No, sir. Just for a little help to trace a man we want to question. Alveston was the name.”

  The photograph was produced again and Cromwell pointed out the man he was seeking. The Mayor looked at it, grew even redder than he already was, and hastily returned it before anyone else should see it.

  “Yes. That’s me. But the man you mention isn’t Alveston. It’s Jimmy Grigg.”

  “Jimmy Grigg?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Jerry Alveston’s wife gave me the photo. She said that was her husband.”

  “Wait a minute.… Wait a minute. It’s a long time ago, but it’s coming back to me.…”

  Mr. Widgett sat quietly pondering as though allowing his memory to tick-over and produce the necessary information.

  “Yes. I’ve got it. His real name was Jimmy Grigg. But he enlisted under another name. Yes, it was Alveston that he enlisted under.”

  Cromwell felt a little light-headed from the lager he’d consumed, but surely this wasn’t right!

  “His real name was Alveston, but he called himself Grigg. That what you mean, Mr. Mayor?”

  “No, no. Other way round.”

  Then it dawned on Cromwell. His allowances to his wife would have to be paid under Alveston’s name. But he wanted to be known as someone else for some reason or other. So he said his real name was Grigg. He told the Mayor.

  Mr. Widgett patted Cromwell’s knee affectionately.

  “We’re gettin’ all mixed up,” he said fruitily. “Less leave it at that. What does matter is, what d’you wanta know about him?”

  “Did you go through the war with him, sir?”

  “Yes. We were demobbed together. Good chap. Found him a job when he came out. As a matter of fact, we were partners for a time.”

  “His Worship is a builder in the town,” explained the Superintendent.

  The room was cosy and warm and the padded chairs lulled you to sleep. Especially after such a good meal and drink. Cromwell decided it was time he was moving. He’d a lot to do and at this rate he’d be nowhere at bedtime.

  “How long were you together, sir?”

  “Six years. Then Jimmy got restless. Said he felt like a change. I didn’t want to lose him. He was a good worker and knew his stuff. Very secretive, though. Never said where he’d learned his trade.”

  “He left you in the ’thirties then?”

  “Early ’thirties, yes.”

  “Do you know where he went, sir?”

  “Yes. Glencastle. Started up on his own. He wrote to me a time or two, but then it all stopped. I heard he was drinking.”

  “Where’s Glencastle, sir?”

  “About twenty miles north of here on the main line.”

  “Do you happen to have Grigg, or Alveston’s address there, sir?”

  “No. It’s so long ago. Why? What’s happened about him?”

  “We’re on the Cobbold murder case, if you’ve heard about it, sir. Grigg was a native of Cobbold and we want to find his whereabouts.…”

  “Jimmy didn’t do it, did he?”

  “No. We just want to question him.…”

  “I thought … He was a good sort. Didn’t know he came from there.”

  “He must have kept it dark.”

  From the banquet-hall a dull chant was sounding:

  “We want the Mayor.… We want the Mayor.… We want Widgett …”

  Mr. Widgett sniggered.

  “Sounds as if I’m wanted.… Must be going. The party’s starting again.… Anything more, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir. Thanks for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it. Glad to help any time. You coming in with me?”

  “No, sir. I must be getting on. Thanks for your hospitality. I’ve had a very good time.…”

  “Very glad. Well … good-bye. Sign the visitors’ book. Don’t forget. See he signs, Superintendent.…”

  With that, Mr. Widgett again became Mayor by putting on his gown and chain of office and departed.

  “Good ole Widgett.…”

  The footballers greeted him like a long-lost brother.

  “Seems very popular.…”

  “Yes. He’s president of the club. Used to play for them, too, I believe.”

  At Glencastle, Cromwell was very lucky. He descended from the slow train at tea-time and forthwith asked the stationmaster if he knew anyone called James Grigg.

  “There was a man of that name hereabouts for years. We used to deal with his timber on the railway. A builder in rather a big way.”

  It was only a small branch line and the stationmaster was general factotum as well. He was busy unloading baskets of pigeons from the van of the train. As he talked he read the labels on the wicker cages. In
side the birds clucked, purred and ruffled their feathers.

  “If that isn’t the limit. We loose these at nine in the morning. That means I’ve to give ’em food and water.… As if I hadn’t enough to do.”

  “Keeps you busy, eh?”

  “I’ll say it does. I’m fond of ’em though. This is one of the main centres. We release hundreds from all over the place in a year’s time.”

  He was tall, cadaverous and stiff in the joints. As he bent to view the birds, his limbs creaked and groaned, and he placed his hands on his bended members as though fearing they would fly apart.

  “About Grigg.… Doesn’t he live here now?”

  “No. Went bust. Left the place about five years since.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

  “No. What you want to know for?”

  The stationmaster, still on his knees with the pigeons, turned a curious suspicious look on Cromwell.

  “Just a friend I’m looking up. Together in the first war.”

  “Can’t say I admire your choice of friends.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a drunkard. I’m strong T.T. myself. If you know the number of men I’ve seen ruined by drink …”

  Cromwell excused himself. He felt, after the banquet he’d recently left, he couldn’t bear a lecture on temperance. The stationmaster was by this talking to the pigeons.…

  “There, there, my beauties. Uncle Oscar’ll get ’em some corn and water. Hungry, my pets? Uncle Oscar …”

  At the post office they took a long time looking up the change of address forms. The postmaster was away and his deputy had been there thirty years. He remembered Grigg all right, but had forgotten where he went. Luckily, the official forms were still preserved, though deep in the archives. It took an hour to lay them bare.

  “James Grigg … c/o G.P.O. Latchbury.”

  “Many thanks.…”

  At Latchbury, Cromwell found more traces of the decline and fall of Jimmy Grigg, alias Alveston. He was known to the police. In fact, he’d done time for receiving stolen goods. And he’d been in the lock-up for other short spells on charges of being drunk and disorderly and using violence when arrested.

  “Where did he get to eventually?” asked Cromwell of the sergeant-in-charge. The senior officers had gone off to a funeral.

  The huge bobby rang up places, turned up records, questioned his subordinates. Grigg hadn’t returned to Latchbury, but, luckily, one of the constables, sent on a message of serving a writ to a nearby town, had seen Grigg there. They’d been repairing war damage and Grigg had been foreman on the job.

  “Always a good workman, but a fool to himself,” said the sergeant.

  The name of the town in question was Barby, and the Latchbury police, who were a friendly lot, took Cromwell there in a patrol car.

  “He looks dead-beat,” said the sergeant sympathetically to the road-cop. “Take him to Barby and bag one or two speed-merchants on the way.”

  They made Cromwell some strong tea and packed him off in the natty little M.G. By way of a little diversion, they gonged and booked four unlucky motorists on the highway.

  “Brought me luck,” said the speed-man as they parted in Barby. “I don’t usually get more than two.”

  He might have been out rabbit-shooting!

  At Barby the Town Hall was closed when Cromwell arrived, but the police station proved a port in a storm again. Yes, they’d heard of Jimmy Grigg. A good chap, but fond of the bottle. He’d worked for the corporation for quite a time and then got the sack for irregular timekeeping. They hadn’t seen him about since.

  “Was his home here?”

  The Inspector seemed to know all about everyone and everything.

  “He was in rooms. Somewhere down Poortown.…”

  “Poortown?”

  “A working-class district of the place. Not as bad as it sounds. I’ll find out where …”

  The Inspector took Cromwell in the telephone room and there the man on the switch flashed the Poortown police-box. The man on the beat had a reply pat.

  “Lodged with Mrs. Reilly, 23 Orchard Street.…”

  “I’ll run you there if you like, Sergeant.…”

  “Thanks …”

  The name of Scotland Yard acted like magic!

  The diggings were clean and respectable and the woman a decent little elderly body. She looked alarmed at the sight of the police.

  “Has Jimmy Grigg been here lately, Mrs. Reilly?”

  “No. He got stopped from the Corporation a fortnight since an’ came home drunk. I told ’im I wasn’t havin’ that sort of carryings on in my house. I’ve my good name to think of.…”

  “I’m sure you have. Where did he go, Mrs. Reilly?”

  “I don’t know. But he left his things here. Said he’d send or come for ’em later. I was wonderin’ what to do with them. He’s not been back nor sent even a post-card. I can’t keep two cases lyin’ about here for ever. I want to let his room, too, though he paid up till this week-end.…”

  “May we see the room, please?”

  She led them up a narrow flight of stairs, carpeted in thin cokernut matting. The room was clean and bare. An iron bedstead, a painted chest, a cheap table, long lace curtains at the windows, and a stuffy smell. The place had been tidied up and the only signs of an occupant were two battered fibre suitcases on top of a rough wooden wardrobe. The old lady protested a bit when the police examined the cases.

  “What am I goin’ to tell ’im when he finds you’ve been rummagin’ ’em?”

  “We’ll be responsible.”

  One case was almost empty. Nothing but a clean shirt, some collars, soiled ties and dirty pyjamas. The other was the same. Toilet articles, razor, soap, ration book in the name of Grigg, a clothes brush and other odds and ends not of much use in the investigation.

  “Did he take a case away with him, Mrs. Reilly?”

  “No. He said he’d be back. When he was drunk, he said he was going abroad. Starting afresh. He was fed-up, he said, with the old country. Though he couldn’t complain much, if you ask me. He did well at his job. It was the drink did it.… He told me when he was drunk he was goin’ to where he could lay hands on some money and then he was off.…”

  “And when he was sober?”

  “The next mornin’ he ate his breakfast and went away, sayin’ he’d be back and to keep his room.”

  “And he didn’t come back?”

  “No.”

  So there the trail ended. The police helped all they could. The railway station, the bus depot, the local taxi drivers.… Nobody remembered Jimmy Grigg’s leaving town.

  That was the report Cromwell gave Littlejohn, when, tired and hungry, he got back to “The Mitre” at past midnight after just catching the night mail.

  Things were very wide awake, however, in the cathedral city. The film unit was taking some night shots. To-night it was a try-out. A number of adventurous citizens, at two pounds a time, were dancing round a bonfire in the cathedral close. In the script, it was supposed to come on rain, spoil the celebrations and lead up to a dreadful scene in the dark and another murder. The local fire brigade, in the absence of obliging nature, were providing the rain.… There was a terrific hullaballoo going on outside, the director yelling through a microphone and supers shouting and dogs barking.

  “What do you say about moving out to the pub at Cobbold, sir? Anything rather than this.…”

  Littlejohn agreed, and next day, with the benevolent help of Pennyquick, they took up quarters at the “Royal Oak”, Cobbold, a few minutes’ walk from the scene of the crime and not far from where the Headless Jesuit was said to prowl to the discomfiture of all who saw him.

  EIGHT

  THE FLAT IN MAYFAIR

  DURING Cromwell’s absence on the track of Alveston, Littlejohn returned to London. He’d one or two things to square up at the Yard and, more important still, he wanted to visit Granville Salter’s flat in Mayfair and find out what he could about the de
ad man’s affairs at home. He made the journey, there and back, in a day, with time to spare.

  The place was in a second-rate neighbourhood behind Curzon Street; a tall, bomb-scarred house let off as small flats and housing a motley assortment of tenants.

  Littlejohn didn’t need to ring the door-bell. The charwoman, who was cleaning the step, gave him a disinterested look when he arrived, and moved her pail to let him enter. He stood for a minute wondering what to do.

  “Yes?” shouted someone from below-stairs.

  “I want to see Mr. Salter’s flat.…”

  “Why? Come down. I can’t be shoutin’ and bawlin’ all this distance.”

  Littlejohn descended the narrow flight of steps which led from the once elegant, now dingy hall, and found himself in a cosy room with an enormous fire burning in the open kitchen grate. Talk about fuel shortage!

  The room was neat and tidy, very stuffy from the heat, and smelling faintly of coffee.

  A large sideboard covered one side of the room. Photographs of all kinds, mainly military groups in frames, and a large marble clock littered the top. There was a camp bed in one corner and oddments of furniture, looking like the salvage of evicted tenants, scattered about. By the fire a large, worn arm-chair and in it a large fat man.

  “What do you want now …?”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth than the man saw Littlejohn. He recognized the official class at once, sprang to his feet and apologized.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was the lawyer’s clerk again. He’s never away. Servin’ writs mornin’, noon and night. What a lot o’ tenants we got these days! Now pre-war … it was different.… Real gentry then.…”

  A tall, heavy man, gone to seed from idling about at his job as caretaker and yet bearing the marks of an old regular soldier.

  “You from the police, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “I expected you.… Mr. Salter, isn’t it? I read in the paper about ’im. Pity.…”

  He shook his head and clicked his tongue against his false teeth, which fitted badly and slipped down as he talked.

  Littlejohn showed his warrant-card.

  “What do you know about Mr. Salter … er … what’s your name?”

  “Bedford, sir. Late Company-Sergeant-Major in the Buffs. Now ekin’ out my pension lookin’ after this lot.… Wot a come-down …!”