Corpse At The Carnival (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  'I thought I'd better let the police know, although Trimble's done this before. . . . Vanished for a day or two and then come home again looking like nothing on earth. He's a bit temperamental and I guess he's gone off on a spree somewhere.'

  She gave them seats and asked them if they'd take anything to drink.

  'No, thanks. . . . We won't keep you long, Mrs Trimble. I just wanted to ask if there was any reason why your husband should suddenly take it into his head to bolt.'

  'I've already answered that one, Superintendent. I think he's suddenly got all temperamental and gone off for a spree.'

  'But where? Has he friends he can stay with or has he been in the habit of going off to some specific place for his sprees?'

  'Sorry, I can't help you there. When he's been off before, I've never been able to get out of him where he went.'

  'You know, of course, Mrs Trimble, I was here yesterday when you were out, and interviewed Susie, the maid. Your husband wasn't present at the interview, but seemed a bit anxious and put-out that it should occur at all. Why should he feel like that?'

  She bit her lip and her face grew hard and set.

  'I really don't know. Would it be asking too much to inquire what she told you? I mean, did my husband overhear any of the conversation which might have upset him?'

  'I can't see why. She told me of the interest Fred Snook took in her well-being and how he tried to help her better herself.'

  Mrs Trimble's face was now positively sour. She seemed to be turning over words carefully in her mind before speaking.

  'I didn't like the way things were developing between Mr Snook and Susie. She's little more than a kid and he was sixty . . . I don't like old men's darlings. It's not natural. I'm sure my husband felt the same.'

  Littlejohn lit his pipe.

  'But that has hardly anything to do with Mr Trimble's vanishing, has it? Do you think he might have been upset, or even afraid of something he thought Susie told me, and felt he couldn't face interrogation?'

  She tried to smile, but it seemed she was too angry to do it.

  'Whatever should Trimble have to fear about Susie? You don't think Mr Snook and he were keen on the same girl . . . Susie . . . do you, and one killed the other on account of her? It sounds like grand opera! I can assure you that nothing of that sort was going on. I'm just as much in the dark as you are about who killed Uncle Fred, but I'm sure Trimble didn't do it. He hasn't the guts.'

  'Suppose we have another word with Susie.'

  'It's all the same to me. I'll get her. Want to speak to her alone?'

  'No . . . . It might be helpful if you stay.'

  Mrs Trimble left to get the girl. The Archdeacon had been listening and saying nothing. Now he spoke.

  'Do you think that's right, Littlejohn? Trimble hadn't the guts ? He struck me as being one who might do anything if he lost his temper. The flabby sort who go off half-cock and commit acts of folly they afterwards regret.'

  'He struck me as being the same.'

  Mrs Trimble was back, pushed Susie through the door, and stood with her back to it as though the girl might try to run away. Susie was sulky again and gave Mrs Trimble an eloquent, scorching look which boded no good for the peace of Sea Vista when the two women were left alone.

  'Come here, Susie, please. Now tell me, after you and I spoke together yesterday, did Mr Trimble ask you what it was all about?'

  'Yes. I told him it was confidential.'

  Mrs Trimble drew in her breath with a hiss.

  'You saucy little madam. That was no way to talk to your boss.'

  'Boss, did you say? You know as well as I do, who's the boss here.'

  'Please. . . . Don't let's get down to quarrelling among ourselves, Susie. You told Mr Trimble what you and I said was confidential. What then?'

  'He asked me a lot of questions, trying to get at it that way. He stood between me and the door, to keep me there till I'd told him.'

  'What kind of questions?'

  'He wanted to know if you asked about him, or Mrs Trimble.'

  'Was that all?'

  'He tried to get to know if you'd asked me what sort of relations existed between him and Uncle Fred, and then he said did you ask about Uncle Fred and Mrs Trimble.'

  Mrs Trimble crossed the room like a tigress and Littlejohn had to stand between her and Susie to prevent an open quarrel, if not violence.

  'It's no use you trying to frighten me. . . . I'm only telling the truth and you can ask Mr Trimble when he comes back. . . . If he ever does.'

  'What do you mean by that, Susie?'

  'I think he was frightened that you'd asked me and got out of me something that would make you suspect him or Mrs Trimble. . . . And when I wouldn't tell him, he cleared off and hid himself out of the way.'

  Mrs Trimble made another effort to get at Susie, but Littlejohn was in the way again.

  'You little liar! After all we've done for you. Brought you up and looked after you like our own. Well. . . as soon as you leave this room, you can pack your bag and get out. . . . I won't have you in the place another hour. . . . You hear?'

  'I hear. And I wouldn't stay if you begged me on your knees. If it hadn't been for . . .'

  She paused. Mrs Trimble finished it for her.

  'If it hadn't been for Old Snook. . . . Go on, say it. Always playing up to him. That's what you were. Always playing up to him. Don't try to tell me you didn't set your cap at him, you little liar. . . . Out for all you could get. . . .'

  'That will do, the pair of you. You'd better go, Susie.'

  'She'd better have her bag packed next time I see her, or I'll throw her out.'

  'Get along, Susie.'

  'I'm going. . . . Wild horses wouldn't stop me after this. You owe me a month's pay, and I want extra instead of notice. You can't sack me without notice.'

  Littlejohn took her gently by the arm and piloted her into the passage. The house was quiet. All the guests out in the fresh air, which was a good job. Upstairs someone was using a vacuum cleaner. . . .

  Mrs Trimble was so upset she could hardly speak. She crossed to a cupboard and helped herself to a glass of what looked like gin.

  'You'll excuse the language and my temper, reverend . . . I didn't intend to let go like that in front of you. But the things I've put up with from that girl. It's all over now. She'll have to go.'

  Littlejohn sat down again opposite Mrs Trimble, whose colour was returning as the gin did its work.

  'Is all this true? Uncle Fred's interest in Susie wasn't entirely paternal ?'

  'Of course it wasn't. She played up to him. I must say, that when she's dressed up, she's quite good-looking, if you like them that way. Uncle Fred was smitten on her. Any woman of the world could see it going on before our eyes.'

  She paused, took another drink, and raised a warning finger.

  'Now, don't get me wrong. Uncle Fred was as decent as the day and I won't have a wrong thing said about him. He was too much of a gentleman to try anything on with her. But she used to put on that air of dewy innocence with him. He fell for it. She wouldn't let any of the young boarders here take her out, even to the pictures, in case Uncle Fred might think she was flighty. He fell for it, as I said. And him a man of the world. They get that way sometimes. Heaven knows how much she got out of him. I threatened to send her packing a time or two before, but Uncle Fred went off the deep-end about it and we were so fond of him here that we let him have his own way. Well, there's nobody now to take her side and she's on her way out.'

  'Isn't Mr Trimble likely to object if he returns?'

  Another pause. The large eyes opened wide.

  'You're not suggesting . . . ? Surely, you don't think my husband . . . ?'

  Then she laughed. A vulgar, self-confident, noisy laugh.

  'Ferdy! Ferdy setting his cap at Susie? I'd have liked to see him do it! He knows better than try tricks with me . . . You'll forgive the unpleasant turn the conversation's taken, reverend, I'm sure, but I'm trying to help
all I can.'

  Mrs Trimble seemed at least to have been brought up with a great respect for the Church and the cloth of its clergy. The Archdeacon nodded gravely, but his blue eyes twinkled.

  There was no window in the room and it had never been intended to hold three people. The air was heavy and soaked with kitchen smells. Littlejohn was anxious to be off.

  'Just another couple of questions and then we'll leave you to your own affairs, Mrs Trimble. . . . Did you know Mr Snook before he came here and asked for lodgings?'

  He eyed her keenly. She hesitated and then made up her mind.

  'No. He just turned up one day and seemed to settle down. We liked him, and he liked us.'

  'Did he ever help you financially? I mean, did you ever borrow from him or did he invest money here in the business ?'

  Another pause. She seemed to be wondering just how much Littlejohn knew.

  'I think I ought to tell you, Mrs Trimble, that his private papers are at our disposal. They may contain references to his investments.'

  'I hope you're not suggesting that I'd tell lies to you. No. We didn't owe him any money. We make ends meet quite nicely in the season. Sometimes, he had lent us a hundred or so, just before the new season started. . . . When we wanted to do some decorating or such like. . . . We always paid him back from profits in the summer.'

  'Good. Can you tell me then, why he should settle down in a town like Douglas, crowded to such an extent in the season that he had to move up to the top floor from his usual quarters ? He was a man who liked the country and quietness, as far as I can gather. . . . What held him to your place, Mrs Trimble?'

  For the first time, she looked distressed. Tears rose in her eyes and she couldn't speak. Then she recovered and dabbed her eyes dry.

  'He liked us. He said so. After all, we always made him feel at home. He was one of the family. That's what kept him here.'

  It might have been true. Perhaps the inertia of the Trimbles' establishment had got in Uncle Fred's blood. The kind of place where they didn't care what you wore or when you came in or went out. He'd done just as he wished and nobody had bothered. Gone to Cregneish, stayed away for a day or two, returned smelling of drink. . . . No fuss, no questions asked. Life started again just where it had left off. It seemed to be the same with Trimble now. He'd made off somewhere leaving no message, no excuse. And here was his wife, quite unperturbed, quite indifferent, carrying on as if he'd just crossed the road for a drink and would soon be back. And when he returned, if he did, he'd probably just take up again as though he'd never been away.

  'Any news of the lady who came here with Finnegan? I believe she's run away, too.'

  Mrs Trimble's good humour was back again. She'd just finished her second drink.

  'You're not suggesting that Ferdy and Finnegan's woman have bolted together, are you? That would be funny. Just all that was needed to make a comic opera of it.'

  She laughed harshly again. Now that the gin had loosened her up a bit, she looked like a real third-rate theatrical trouper. But funnily enough, she never lost her freshness. All her anger at Susie, all her mirth at Ferdinand and his ways, all her apparent fondness for Fred and her memories of him, all the gin she'd consumed. . . . She emerged from it all just as, long ago, she'd probably left the footlights and arrived in the wings as fresh and neat as when she went on at her first cue.

  'Has anyone any idea where Finnegan's friend went?'

  'None, as far as I know. She was staying with the Kellys next door. After she broke with Finnegan, she wouldn't stay here. . . . As a matter of fact, it was a bit funny.'

  More hearty laughter.

  'You see, after the police discovered they weren't married, she came all over virtuous. . . . They'd been occupying the same room and she suddenly said she wanted a room of her own. A woman of her type, too. . . . You'll excuse me, reverend, but the Superintendent asked me We hadn't a room to spare, so I asked the Kellys and she went there.'

  'I see. Perhaps we can get some clue, some idea, if we call on the Kellys.'

  There was a tap on the door and without waiting, a stranger opened it . . . or at least, she was a stranger to Littlejohn.

  'Oh, excuse me. I didn't know you'd visitors.'

  'What is it, Mrs Brew?'

  A little wisp of a woman with her hair untidy and a streak of soot across one cheek. The daily help. She spotted the Archdeacon, smiled at him, and bobbed a half curtsey to him.

  'I just wanted to say that there's nobody in Mr Finnegan's room.'

  'He's usually out at this time of morning, isn't he?'

  'Yes, but his bags has gone. . . . He's packed up . . . . Done a moonlight, as likely as not. . . . Come an' see for yourself, Mrs Trimble.'

  Mrs Trimble was quickly out and back again.

  'It's true. He's packed up and off. Though I must say he's left money for his bill on the dressing-table.'

  'I'd better use the phone, Mrs Trimble.'

  Littlejohn broke the news to Knell, who lamented bitterly.

  'It never rains but it pours, sir. What are we going to do now? Pass the word along the line about him as well as Trimble, Mrs Finnegan and Fred Snook? It's getting more than we can manage.'

  'Don't worry, old chap. The more the merrier, you know. They'll all come home to roost. They'll have to, if they can't get off the Island.'

  'We'll see to that.'

  Finnegan had thoroughly spring-cleaned his room. Not a scrap of paper, a letter, nor even a cigarette end to give any idea of what he'd been doing or where he'd gone.

  'He ate his breakfast with the rest, as usual. He never was one for talking to others. Him and his woman had a little table of their own and except for passing the time of day as they came and went to meals, they never mixed. He must have been ready packed . . . or else he got his luggage away in the night and then came down for breakfast before following it. . . . As Mrs Brew said, he must have done a moonlight with his bags.'

  Next door was a more palatable place. The Kellys were cheerful busy people, the house was clean and modern, and there was more air and space in the rooms and hall. Mrs Finnegan's room had been left untouched on police orders.

  'I hope you'll let us clean it and get it ready today, sir. There's more arrivals on the incoming boat and we'll want the room.'

  A chubby cheerful fellow, this time, and obviously prospering at his business. There was a good carpet on the stairs and the room he showed them was carpeted, too, and furnished decently. The house was called Rossendale, a souvenir of its first owner, a man from Lancashire, presumably nostalgic for the place he came from, who'd ended by going bust and returning to Rossendale in double-quick time.

  Littlejohn looked round the room. Finnegan's light of love hadn't been quite as tidy as her partner. She'd left powder sprinkled over the dressing-table, hair combings in the washbowl, cigarette ends and charred paper in the hearth, which held a gasfire.

  'What a mess she's left. Can we clean the place up now, Superintendent?'

  'I'll just take a look round first and then you can get on with it, Mr Kelly.'

  There was nothing much to guide them where Finnegan's woman had gone. Odds and ends of rubbish, a pair of nylon stockings hung out to dry and forgotten, a box of chocolates with a few left in it. Indications of self-indulgence and untidiness all over the place. There was ash in the fireplace as though the woman had been at pains to burn letters. Littlejohn turned it over with his forefinger and it all fell away to dust.

  'Are you wondering where she's gone to?' asked Mr Kelly who had been standing watching quietly.

  'Yes. Do you know?'

  'Not for certain, but there was a woman from next door came in with her when she moved her things to here. A Mrs Nessle, I think I heard her called. I came up to see that the room was satisfactory and I just heard the tag-end of a conversation. Mrs Nessle was saying . . . "I was always charmed with Agneash . . . so quiet . . . ." I wondered . . .'

  The Archdeacon was on it like a shot.

&nbs
p; 'Of course. You remember, don't you, that Knell told us the lady in question took a taxi to the Manx Electric Railway terminus and got a tram there? That railway goes to the north of the Island along the coast and passes Laxey, the stop for Agneash, which is quite near it. It's a mining village in the hills there and, incidentally, I should think a wonderful hide-out. Shall we go and try?'

  'No harm in taking a chance, sir. It will at least be a pleasant outing. Thank you, Mr Kelly. And you can get on with the cleaning of the room now if you want to let it to someone else.'

  Littlejohn telephoned Knell again, just to cheer him up and let him know they were on a promising trail.

  'No news of Trimble?'

  'No, sir. All the men on the beats have been told to ask about strangers or suspicious circumstances. We're doing our best, but it looks like being a long hard grind.'

  'Cheer up, Knell. You can't do more than your best, can you?'

  'That's right, sir.'

  Littlejohn left the phone-box and was silent for a while as they made their way to the tram terminus at Derby Castle, where a police car was to meet them to take them to Laxey.

  'I've just been wondering, parson. . . . Is there any spot on the Island where there's no constable on the beat? Knell says all his men on patrol are combing the place. If you wanted to hide out of the way of a roving bobby, where would you go?'

  The Archdeacon didn't hesitate for a minute.

  'To the Calf of Man,' he said.

  'The Calf. . . . Why didn't I think of that before? I've never been there.'

  'There's a warden on the island, of course, who's really in charge of the bird sanctuary. But one could easily get on and off without his knowing. It's a large stretch, no police, no telephone, very few visitors and they don't stay there long. There's plenty of cover and one could hide there indefinitely, provided one had food.'

  'Yes. I wonder if Trimble thought of that. He must have been there with Uncle Fred on one of his fishing trips, I'm sure. He said they went together sometimes.'

  Another port of call. Uncle Fred seemed to have started a trail all over the Isle of Man!

  The breeze had died away and now the sun was shining fiercely and the heat was sizzling again. Horse-trams, some people in a landau jog-trotting along the seafront, the beach cram-jammed full of people sunning themselves in deckchairs. . . . A bowling-green surrounded by little tables at which customers were drinking beer, whilst their companions leisurely rolled the woods about on the cool green turf. . . . Littlejohn mopped his forehead and lit a cigarette. It was too hot for a pipe.