Death Sends for the Doctor (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “It’s the room at the top of the next flight of stairs. It faces the square. When we’re full, they move to the back. But they’re down below at present.”

  “Thank you.”

  She passed on and entered a bedroom with her bundle.

  Littlejohn climbed the stairs to the next floor. There was a door facing him. Number 11. He opened it and went inside. He ignored the room and its contents. It contained twin beds, which had been made. The place was tidied, too, but the windows were closed. It smelled of last night’s sleep and of the perfumed powder Mrs. Hope used.

  He crossed to the window and looked across the square. An even better view of Bank House than from the church tower. Here was the full extent of the room in which Beharrell had met his death. It only needed the light on and the whole scene would be visible.

  In the large room in which Beharrell had spent his time, he could see Vincent Pochin and another man, presumably Brodribb, lounging in chairs with a table between them. Tea things, a white cloth. He could even make out the glint of the silver tea service. He quietly returned to the ground floor. Cromwell was busy talking in the telephone box. He raised his hand in greeting to his chief. Then he hung-up and emerged.

  “That’s all right, sir. They’ll get on with it. I said it was urgent. They’ll try to get a list and send all the information by letter in time to reach us in the morning.”

  “Thanks, old man. Now, one thing more. Whilst I’m at Bank House, please go to the police station and get me a call through to Nice. The Sûreté there, and ask for Inspector Dorange. You can have a chat with Plumtree till the call comes through. Then send across for me.”

  He went out into the hall again. Hope was still talking to his companions at the bar. He’d been drinking and the conversation amounted to an uproar which Littlejohn could hear plainly from where he stood.

  “If the brewery are interested and if they’ll pay my price, I’ll consider selling out. I’m fed up with hotel life. A man wants a bit of freedom, and at my age it’s time I started to enjoy myself.”

  They all laughed and slapped him on the back.

  Mrs. Hope was still in the office with the accounts in front of her. She was weeping bitterly.

  11

  QUEEN’S COUNSEL

  LITTLEJOHN halted at the door of the Red Lion. In the space of an hour, the weather had changed. It had grown sultry. Clouds had gathered and were approaching the town from all sides. Distant thunder rumbled and, as the Superintendent paused, wondering whether or not to return for his raincoat, there was a flash of lightning and the first drops of rain began to fall. Most of the regulars of the memorial garden had gone home to tea and the few who had remained, hoping the storm would blow over, now hurried away, the men turning up the collars of their coats. One by one, the lights of the square went on. In the drawing-room of Bank House, the lustre chandelier sprang into life.

  Littlejohn put on his waterproof and hurried across. The door was closed and as he reached the shelter of the portico, two shattering claps of thunder sounded and the heavens opened. It was like pouring rain from a bucket. All the gutters overflowed and the wallflowers in the garden were flattened to the soil. The square stood completely empty, save for a mongrel dog, soaked and bewildered, which scurried across the road and entered the open door of the church in panic. At the windows of the offices and flats faces appeared, watching the sudden deluge, like spectators at a firework display.

  Littlejohn knocked on the door with the huge brass knocker. The noise seemed to reverberate in a vast emptiness. Mrs. Trott appeared, gazed at the Superintendent in surprise, looked behind him in the flooded square, and bade him come inside.

  “It’s a good thing the funeral’s over, sir. What a sudden change. It’s almost like a sign from heaven …”

  Littlejohn remembered she was a spiritualist and doubtless had ideas of her own about the continued potency of Dr. Beharrell.

  “I’ll tell them you’re here …”

  She took his hat and coat and hung them in the hall. Then she entered the drawing-room, returned, and asked him to follow her.

  Vincent Pochin rose to meet him from the large Louis XIII armchair. He was dressed in black and a monocle with a black cord dangled on his chest. He looked older. Littlejohn was surprised at the change since last they had met. His step was slower and there was an unhealthy flush on his cheeks. Then the Superintendent’s eyes fell on a crystal brandy bottle and glasses on a side table, and he understood.

  At the same time another man rose from a similar chair on the other side of the fireplace. This one was fully in possession of himself. Dark, stocky, thick-limbed and brisk of movement, he had a pink, clean-shaven complexion and a bald head surrounded by a fringe of dark hair. An obvious legal type, who had retained a healthy preservation through taking good care of himself.

  Pochin introduced them.

  “Mr. Giles Brodribb …”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Superintendent. I knew of you before this disaster cropped up, but never thought we’d meet in such circumstances. How’s the case going?”

  A crisp, domineering voice. Brodribb was the type who always tried to dominate the situation, as he’d done in court when in practice.

  Pochin didn’t give Littlejohn time to answer. He rang the bell for Mrs. Trott, just as if he were in his own home.

  “Bring a glass for the Superintendent and ask my brother if he’ll kindly step in here. Is Mrs. Taplowe-Smith still with him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you tell him loudly enough that the police are here, she’ll probably go …”

  Pochin turned to explain.

  “My brother, Samuel, is looking up some articles of clothing for Mrs. Taplowe-Smith, who runs the Poor Gentlefolk’s Society. She attended the funeral and asked ...”

  His voice trailed away. He was obviously not himself.

  “Help yourself, Littlejohn. There’s whisky and brandy on the table. Cigar?”

  “I won’t smoke for the present, sir.”

  “Then, please excuse me a moment. I must see what my brother is doing …”

  Pochin left them and closed the door after him.

  “Sit down, Littlejohn … Pochin tells me the purpose of your call is to see me. May I ask what about?”

  Littlejohn felt nettled. It was obvious he wasn’t wanted. Pochin and his crony, Brodribb, were enjoying a session with the bottles and cigars and the other Pochin was busy sorting out old clothes for a charity, already. It seemed they could hardly wait for Beharrell to leave the house before dividing his goods among themselves.

  “Mr. Pochin, not I, suggested this meeting, sir. If it’s not convenient, I’ll leave it till another time.”

  “No, no. I’m going back to Peterborough this evening and I don’t know when I’ll be in Caldicott again. Have you anything to ask me?”

  Outside, the rain was falling as heavily as ever. Flashes of lightning illuminated the sky and the square was almost as black at night.

  “You often visited Dr. Beharrell when he was alive, sir?”

  “No, I rarely saw him. We hadn’t much in common.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the party. A brighter replica of Vincent Pochin, his brother Sam, followed an elderly woman in black, seventy or thereabouts, with brown dyed hair, a raddled complexion, and protruding brown eyes. She wore an out-of-date hat.

  “Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard …”

  Mrs. Taplowe-Smith gently inclined her head to show she was aware of his presence.

  “I must go. Samuel, please ask Trott to parcel the clothing and I will send Jackson round for it in the car. By the way, where is Jackson? He should have been here at five-thirty.”

  A French clock on the mantelpiece burst into a cascade of chimes and struck six.

  “It’s half an hour fast.”

  Vincent Pochin didn’t seem to hear. His brother was doing all the arranging and now hurried to the window to s
ee what had happened to the wandering chauffeur.

  Littlejohn took a good look at Samuel. He was very like Vincent in build and colouring. His features were the same, too, but there was more life and energy in him. He was self-confident and had none of his brother’s mental and physical flabbiness and self-pity. Sam seemed to allow Vincent to do all the talking and to take all the limelight most of the time, because Vincent’s preoccupations weren’t worth troubling about. When the occasion merited it, however, no doubt Sam could …

  “It’s terrible outside. Perhaps Jackson’s been delayed by the storm.”

  “Surely not, Samuel. The vehicle is waterproof! Please look again.”

  “He’s here. Just rounding the corner from the car park.”

  “In that case I will bid you all good afternoon. Trott will, of course, have an umbrella to hold over me as I go to the car?”

  She went, leaving a faint scent of eau de Cologne behind her.

  Littlejohn began to understand things a bit better. Brodribb had said he hadn’t much in common with Beharrell. Neither had the rest of the party he’d just met, and probably it extended farther into the upper ten of Caldicott, as well. The son of a bonesetter and the grandson of a farrier, educated at the local grammar school, he had lived a life of his own until Grace Brodribb entered it. Then, he’d carried her off under the very noses of the decayed would-be aristocrats who despised him, and the brother who didn’t approve of the match. In days of so-called equality, it was difficult to believe such a state of affairs could exist. But here it did, in the Taplowe-Smiths, the Pochins, the Gralams, the Brodribbs … Had the Upper Square coterie succeeded in finally estranging the doctor and his young wife and then, when Beharrell had acted resolutely—for Littlejohn was now almost sure he had killed both Grace and her lover—had they avenged themselves upon him?

  “I seem to recollect inviting you to meet Brodribb whilst he was here at the funeral, Littlejohn. In case you wish to chat in private, my brother and I will leave you together for a spell. We have matters concerning the estate to attend to. So excuse us, please.”

  Vincent Pochin, without more ado, took his brother by the arm and led him from the room. Samuel Pochin hadn’t exchanged a word with the Superintendent, except a formal acknowledgment of the introduction. This gave Littlejohn another idea. That the police here were regarded as part of the old tradesman class to be treated civilly on account of their power, and little else. Vincent Pochin was being polite and charming to the Scotland Yard men purely for his own ends. No wonder Beharrell had preferred the company and cosy fireside of Madame Alcardi to that of these anachronisms!

  Brodribb was piercing one of the late doctor’s cigars. He lit it, took a puff or two, sniffed it appraisingly, and sighed with content.

  “I suppose that is Vincent’s tactful way of leaving us alone together.”

  “You were saying, sir, you and Dr. Beharrell hadn’t much in common.”

  Brodribb gave his cigar a battery of little puffs.

  “I pride myself I’m a man of the world. Beharrell, on the other hand, was narrow. Always cooped up in this out-of-date town, engrossed in his medicine and his patients … He knew nothing of life.”

  “All the same, from what I hear locally, he did a good job. His patients liked him, he was a good doctor, and he didn’t seem to interfere much in other people’s business.”

  “In his own restricted fashion, I suppose he could have been a happy man. But he married a girl twenty years his junior and grew jealous.”

  “You objected to his marriage with your sister?”

  “Of course I did. He was too old for a young spirited girl like Grace. And he wasn’t of her class. She insisted, however. She was of age and always one for having her own way. I told her she was making her own bed and must lie on it. She was infatuated by the admiration of an older man. She paid dearly for her mistake.”

  “They seemed happy for a time …”

  “Until he grew jealous and tried to keep her all to himself.”

  “Or perhaps it was that the local people of her own class, as you describe it, sir, emphasised their differences in age, tastes and culture. Beharrell was a self-made man with a flair for good things in the home.”

  Littlejohn with a gesture indicated the furniture, the pictures, the silver, the old glass.

  “She taught him all that.”

  “Then he must have been happy to learn.”

  “As for the suggestion that their friends discriminated between them, I know nothing about that, Littlejohn. I didn’t visit them much. Grace and I disagreed, as I said before. I think the suggestion is rather an impudent one, however. Their friends were good to them.”

  They were getting nowhere. Brodribb resented being cross-examined, just as in the old days, when in court, he would have strongly objected had the witness he was bullying suddenly turned and begun to ask a lot of personal questions about himself.

  “Had Beharrell any enemies?”

  Brodribb looked annoyed. Littlejohn was spoiling his pleasure in the good cigar he’d selected from the box of best Havanas, treasured by his dead brother-in-law.

  “All men have enemies. An officer of your experience ought to know that. If you’re looking for a motive for the crime, I can’t tell you of a single person who would have wished to kill my bother-in-law.”

  “I’m surprised, sir. I could name half-a-dozen already, and I’ve only been on this case three days.”

  “Well, you’re more suspicious than I am, Superintendent. Do you actually know who committed the crime?”

  “There was a witness who saw it actually happen, sir.”

  All the stuffing seemed suddenly to go out of Brodribb. He made a face as though his choice cigar had suddenly turned into a twist of smouldering brown paper. Then, he emptied the glass of the doctor’s Napoleon brandy he’d been sipping.

  “Well, why the hell haven’t you made an arrest? This business is getting on everybody’s nerves.”

  “That’s what I intend it to do, sir, until I’ve got a full picture of how and why the crime was committed.”

  “How long will that take, may I ask?”

  “Not long now, sir.”

  Littlejohn strolled to the window and looked out. The storm had vanished as quickly as it had begun. The rain had ceased and the square now looked clean and fresh. At this hour, with all the professional occupants gone, a new population seemed to take possession. Caretakers who lived in the attics of the office blocks appeared, parading dogs which, during the day, must have been penned up under the rooftops. Other servants materialised dressed in their best, taking out their wives to the pictures or to see friends. From where he stood, Littlejohn could make out what seemed to be a small row of almshouses on the green behind the church. Old people were standing at their doors enjoying the freshness after the storm; others were taking little strolls in the square and precincts.

  Cromwell was leaving the police station and briskly making his way across to Beharrell’s door.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Brodribb seemed to have lost his gusto, as though what Littlejohn had revealed had shaken him with fear.

  “I was just thinking what a pleasant old square this is and how full it is of queer people and queer passions.”

  “Well! I’ll be damned! Instead of finding and arresting the murderer of Beharrell, you seem to be making a sociological study of Upper Square. What good will it do? Is this the new method of police procedure?”

  There was a rousing knock on the front door. Mrs. Trott entered.

  “Mr. Cromwell is at the door. He says you’re wanted on the telephone.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I must go and see who it is.”

  “Are you coming back? Is there anything else you need me for? I must be getting back to Peterborough.”

  “Nothing more, sir. I’m glad to have met you. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Brodribb’s voice trailed off in surprise. Here was a
situation he’d not envisaged at all. The fellow had asked him nothing, when all the time he was a mine of information. The Pochins, his sister Grace, Beharrell … He could have told him a few things if only he’d kept his place and asked systematically and respectfully. Above all, respectfully …

  Cromwell was smiling at the door.

  “Nice are on the phone. I wonder if they’ve had a downpour there. It’s so plain, you might be speaking to someone across the street.”

  “Thanks, Cromwell. Whilst I’m away, just keep an eye on Bank House from the window of my bedroom. You can see all that goes on in the drawing-room. If anything unusual happens, get across there at once.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Another murder, or anybody trying to run away.”

  Littlejohn hurried off to the police station. Plumtree was waiting beside the telephone, watching it in awe, as though it might explode or speak loud and oracularly at any moment.

  “The South of France is on, sir,” he said in a wondering whisper. Nothing like this had ever happened on his humble telephone before!

  “Please go and keep an eye on the back of Bank House whilst I’m telephoning, Plumtree. See that nobody runs away. If anyone tries, stop them, and bring them here.”

  “But, sir …”

  “Please do exactly as I say. I’ll explain later.”

  He took up the instrument.

  “Bon jour, man brave!…”

  After greetings and a burst of sociability and good friendship, Littlejohn got down to business with his old comrade, Dorange, of the Sûreté at Nice, ‘the best detective on the Riviera’.

  “You know the Hôtel du Bon Pasteur at Cagnes?”

  “The Auberge du Bon Pasteur? Oui. Owned by Monsieur and Madame Liautaud. Good people.”

  “Their niece? Oui. Married to an Englishman? Oui.”

  “Details of her relations with an English doctor about nine years ago? And the chauffeur who drove him there the following year and whom she married? I will enquire. The local gendarmerie will know. I’ll ring you back at where …? Please spell it …”

  Meanwhile, Cromwell, behind the curtain of the Superintendent’s room was watching all that went on at Bank House.