Death Sends for the Doctor (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “He’s not himself. I’m going to take him away to Switzerland as soon as he’s fit to travel, Superintendent. He’ll forget all this in the clean air and mountains. Won’t he?”

  But Vincent wasn’t listening.

  “Sam was just telling me …”

  “Never mind that, now. You must rest, Vincent.”

  Sam, in his role as his brother’s keeper, took away his cup and his piece of half-eaten cake, and put them on the bedside table.

  “I haven’t finished my cake, yet, Sam. I want it.”

  Cromwell blew through his closed lips.

  Littlejohn was having no more of it.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent, but I’ll have to ask you to come with us now. I spoke to the resident M.O. and the matron on my way in. They say you’re fit to get up and go out again.”

  Which was true. The matron was eager to get rid of Vincent before he did anything worse! Already Mr. Percival had been on the telephone making hoarse threats and complaining about the discipline in the wards.

  “But, you can’t. I’m not fit.”

  “Come along, sir. No more fuss.”

  “But where are you taking me?”

  “I’m arresting you, sir.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Twice attempting suicide.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “As a lawyer, Mr. Vincent, you ought to know better than that. Please come along.”

  Sam Pochin had been silently watching and thinking, and his face expressed relief.

  “Yes, Vincent. Come along, that’s a good fellow. I see what the Superintendent means. It’s protective arrest. That’s all. You’ll be confined until all this is over. Just a day or so. Then, when the murderer has been caught, you’ll be released.”

  “But the disgrace of being in prison?”

  “We’ll let it be known, sir, that you’ve been detained for your own safety. The public will think we suspect the murderer of being after you.”

  Vincent jumped at it.

  “Is that right, Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  No mention of bail or the legal niceties. Sam seemed glad to be relieved of the responsibility for his unruly brother.

  “You’ll not let it be thought that I’m arrested on suspicion of killing Beharrell?”

  “Of course not.”

  Vincent Pochin went with them to the lock-up like a lamb. The cell they found him in Caldicott police station was quite comfortable and on Littlejohn’s instructions, the bewildered Plumtree added a cosy armchair, borrowed from the Guildhall, and a decent mattress and bedding from Pochin’s flat.

  “It’s as comfortable as the hospital, at least, but I wish it was over,” said Pochin, with a book to read and the assurance of an early release.

  “Don’t forget to tell the reporters that I’m under protective arrest.”

  They left him eating a steak and chips from the Red Lion, for his evening meal.

  Cromwell was as bad as Plumtree in his amazement. This latest move of Littlejohn’s and the complacence of the Pochin brothers in the face of it. He wondered what Brodribb would have said …

  Littlejohn explained everything over dinner. The long day of doing little was to end in a solution that night.

  Outside, dusk had fallen and the gas lamps shone through the trees of Upper Square. It had grown sultry again, as though another storm was in the offing. The blackbird had finished his evening song and gone to roost, and the usual idlers around the memorial had gone home to roost as well. Lights went on in the rooms of the tall grey houses, and from the open window of one of the caretaker’s quarters among the rooftops came the sound of sombre West Indian music over the radio and a passionate singer tearing his heart out. His voice mixed with the primitive wailing of erotic cats in the gardens behind the square.

  The whole of the police force seemed to be mustered. First one and then another of them passed the window of the hotel dining room from which the lights shone out, making those inside look to passers-by like lonely fish in an aquarium. At one time, Littlejohn could see three bobbies in different parts of the square. The Mayor had been bullying Plumtree for more police patrols, because another murder would just put the tin hat on things and cause general panic. Plumtree had consulted Littlejohn. It suited the Superintendent’s purpose to keep the Mayor quiet. “Do it quietly, then,” he told Plumtree. This was the result. You couldn’t hear the police, but you could see them well enough! They had orders to detain anybody suspicious, whoever it might be.

  Plumtree silently reviewed his troops, parading here and there from the police station to the church and back. Protecting the square, that was it. He felt his responsibilities keenly. He looked round. The surgery at Dr. Beharrell’s old place was over, and the last patient left the rooms next door to Bank House and shuffled away, coughing. Lights went on in Beharrell’s old drawing-room and Plumtree saw Macfarlane drawing the curtains with a cigar in his mouth. It hadn’t taken him long to enter into possession.

  The door of the church opened and closed quietly. Plumtree saw someone emerge and stand in the shadows looking out into the square. He approached to find out who it was. The figure stood still until the sergeant was within a yard of him. Then, as Plumtree took another step to make out his face, there was a shot and Plumtree fell in the porch within a few feet of where they’d found the body of Tommy Drop.

  Littlejohn, standing in the hall of the Red Lion, heard the commotion and rushed outside. Police whistles were being blown all over the place. He caught the arm of a bobby running past.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Another murder … Somebody’s been shot at the church again.”

  Littlejohn ran behind the constable to the little group which had gathered round the church door. Every minute saw somebody else joining in. Police, caretakers, civilians who materialised from nowhere. To Littlejohn the night seemed pitch black at first after the lights of the hotel. Then he gradually made out the details of the scene. The sacristan of the church was doing most of the talking.

  “I was settin’ out the chairs for a service tomorrer. There wasn’t much light. Suddenly, I hears somebody come in by the north door and make for the west one. People does that sometimes. It’s a short cut. I didn’t bother. Next thing, I heard is a shot. I runs to the west door, but before I can make out who’s there, I gets his fist full in me face … And when I picks myself up, there’s poor old Plumtree lying in ’is own blood in the porch and the one who’s done it gone back through the church an’ off.”

  He was still mopping his mouth and nose with his handkerchief.

  They had carried Plumtree in the church and laid him on a carpet on the floor. He was groaning and his eyes wore a pathetic questioning look, like patients who think they’re going to be given their death warrant, cast at the doctor.

  Two policemen stood beside him. They’d cleared everyone else out. Lydia Horninglow was kneeling at Plumtree’s feet. She had already slit one of the sergeant’s trouser-legs and revealed the wound. A hole in the side of the calf, a bullet hole from which a little blood was oozing. Plumtree’s long woollen pants and the top of his sock were soaked.

  She looked up at Littlejohn.

  “I was a nursing orderly in the W.R.A.F. I’ve just washed the wound in disinfectant and we’ve sent for the doctor.”

  She looked very efficient and it was a good job she’d been handy. In next to no time, she’d got to work. A bowl of hot water, cotton wool, surgical scissors, all spread around. And Plumtree groaning gently.

  “I never saw who it was and I never said a thing to him. He just shot at me.”

  He sounded pained that one of those he was supposed to protect should have done such a dirty trick.

  Macfarlane arrived without hat and coat. He was panting from running. Cromwell followed him in. He took in the scene at a glance, and dropped on his knees beside Lydia Horninglow. Satisfied with what she had done, he took a bandage from his bag, put a pad of lint over the
wound and bound it up. The ambulance had arrived, and they put Plumtree on a stretcher and took him away.

  “Let my wife know it’s all right, won’t you?” he said as they slid him in the vehicle. Half a dozen people promised.

  Macfarlane picked up his bag and prepared to leave for home and telephone the hospital with particulars and instructions.

  “How many more?” he said peevishly to Littlejohn as he left the church.

  “I was just settin’ out the chairs for the service tomorrer …” The caretaker, still dabbing his nose, was telling his tale to a reporter this time. Flash lamps exploded as the photographers took more pictures of Littlejohn and the scene of the crime.

  “I can’t stop my nose bleedin’. The doctor might ’ave give it the once-over. If it had been old Dr. Beharrell he’d have noticed it.”

  Somebody took a photograph of the caretaker with blood streaming across his mouth and lips.

  “It’ll look more realistic.”

  Littlejohn took Cromwell by the arm.

  “Round them up, old chap, as arranged. Start with Sam Pochin. He’s probably in the flat keeping near his brother. Then the rest. Get them to the police station as quickly as you can. Use one or two of the constables to help. They won’t be needed as protectors again tonight. The murderer’s limit seems to be one a day …”

  Cromwell was a bit surprised. Poor old Plumtree off to hospital and the chief as good humoured as could be!

  A large figure loomed out of the dark.

  “Is the Superintendent about?”

  It was the Mayor. He moved over to Littlejohn.

  “What did I tell you, Superintendent? Now the killer’s turned loose on the police. Things are going from bad to worse.”

  “We’re doing all we can, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Plumtree might have been killed.”

  “Fortunately he’s more frightened than hurt.”

  “I must say I don’t like the callous way …”

  “I’m busy, Mr. Mayor. Goodnight.”

  Littlejohn vanished in the dark and the Mayor pulled himself together, and groped for the nearest telephone and asked for the Chief Constable at Dofford.

  18

  THE SWEAT OF FEAR

  WHEN Littlejohn arrived at the police station there was nobody there except a policeman he’d never met before and whom he caught smoking a cigarette and reading a comic paper. The constable sprang to his feet, dropped his diversions, and saluted.

  “Pity about Sergeant Plumtree, sir.”

  “Yes, it is. You seem to be missing his disciplinary eye here already. How is Mr. Vincent Pochin?”

  “Quite comfortable, sir. He’s reading a book and smoking cigarettes one after another.”

  “Bring him in, will you, please?”

  When Pochin entered it was obvious the bobby’s remarks were an over-statement. He looked awful. Littlejohn couldn’t help remembering the first time they’d met him in the train on the night of their arrival. The highly polished shoes, the immaculate grooming, the gloves, the jaunty green hat with a feather in the band. Now, unshaven, with rings under his eyes, a soiled collar and clothes looking as if he’d slept in them, he was a perfect wreck.

  “Good evening, Mr. Pochin. Are they looking after you properly?”

  “Very good of you to enquire, Superintendent. In fact, I’m most terribly grateful for all your trouble about me. The officer here has just told me there’s been another murder in the square. Poor Plumtree this time. It might have been me. I’m sure it would have been if you’d not put me in protective custody.”

  His distress was pitiful.

  “It was hardly murder, sir. Just a bullet wound in the fleshy part of the calf. He’ll soon be all right again. But it might have been much worse.”

  “Have they got the man who did it? I’m sure he’s after me. I can’t stand much more of this. And, of course, I can’t spend the rest of my life in prison, can I, keeping out of his way? He might even break in here one day and shoot me, too.”

  Vincent was working up to another brainstorm and looked wild enough to try committing suicide again.

  “Control yourself, sir. It will be all over before morning. Then you’ll be free to move about in safety again. Why are you so afraid? Has someone threatened you personally?”

  “Not exactly. But my brother, Sam, said I’d have to take care of myself until the police had captured the murderer. You see, he might think I was in the house at the time Beharrell was killed, and that I might be able to identify him and testify against him.”

  “I see. Yes. There’s quite a lot in that. Anyhow, you’re safe here.”

  The telephone rang. It was the bobby Cromwell had sent to bring Macfarlane across to the police station.

  “He says he’s some calls to make and he can’t come.”

  “Tell him he’ll either come at once under his own steam, or you’ll arrest him and bring him over … Tell him whilst I’m on the line.”

  A pause.

  “Hello, sir. He says he’s coming. But it’s under protest.”

  “I don’t care what it’s under. Tell him to be here right away.”

  The party was beginning. The little room, so short of something without Plumtree’s massive form in it, would be just about large enough to hold them all. Outside, a car pulled-up.

  It was the Chief Constable from Dofford.

  “Your assistant rang me up to say Plumtree’s been shot. What’s been happening here? It looks as if …”

  There was no time to answer before Lydia Horninglow arrived, accompanied by the constable who’d been to bring her. He looked as if he’d arrested her. He had a stiff official air and he kept a close eye on her as though she might bolt at any minute. The Chief Constable bowed to her.

  “Hullo, Miss Horninglow. What are you doing here?”

  He turned to Littlejohn for an explanation and then his eye fell on Vincent Pochin, sitting in one corner, smoking another cigarette in a holder, looking now like a battered toff.

  “Will you please explain what all this is about, Littlejohn? As I was coming out, the Mayor rang up complaining that you’d been most impolite to him.”

  “I’ll apologise later then, sir. Meanwhile would you care to sit down? I’ll explain everything when the rest have arrived.”

  “The rest? You seem to be arresting the whole damn town.”

  More feet in the lobby. Hope’s voice raised in complaint, as usual.

  “As if I hadn’t enough to do just now with my own troubles. You’d better get it over quickly. I’ve a lot to do and there’s customers to attend to. We’re both going on our holidays to Nice tomorrow.”

  Littlejohn interrupted the argument.

  “Bring them in, please, and find some more chairs, will you?”

  The Chief Constable had taken a seat in Plumtree’s chair just to show he was in charge. Nobody argued about it.

  Mrs. Hope entered first, dressed up to the nines, powdered, scented, wearing her best costume and jewels. It gave the Chief Constable quite a turn. He straightened his tie and twisted his small moustache.

  Hope followed looking like nothing on earth. He was completely punctured when he saw the distinguished gathering to which he’d been invited. Then Macfarlane arrived with his escort.

  The doctor looked annoyed, to say the least of it. He’d hoped to take on the mantle of Beharrell at once. Everybody had respected and made way for the old doctor, even kowtowed to him. This was a poor start for Macfarlane, whom the constable had addressed as “Doctor Mac”, an abbreviation he detested, and had insisted on bringing him here like a common crook.

  “I’ve patients to see, Superintendent. I shall hold you responsible.”

  “We won’t keep you very long.”

  Finally, Cromwell and Sam Pochin. Sam looked fresh and spruce, very different from his brother, who was usually the smartest of the pair of them. He started to apologise.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Littlejohn. Good evening, C
hief Constable … And you, too, Lydia.”

  Then his eye fell on Vincent. He hurried over to him.

  “What are you doing here, Vincent? Are you all right, old chap?”

  Sam’s presence, the fact that here was someone on whom to load all his troubles again, made Vincent querulous. He whined in his reedy voice.

  “I’m all right, Sam. They’ve been very good to me, but it’s a strain and I’m glad to see you. You know there’s been another crime. I’m sure it’s me they’re after.”

  Sam patted his shoulder.

  “Bear up, old fellow. It’ll soon be over.”

  Littlejohn had been talking softly with Cromwell. He gave an order to the sergeant, who nodded and left the room immediately. They heard his footsteps grow fainter and fainter in the silence outside.

  Littlejohn sat at the desk opposite the Chief Constable.

  “Shut the door, please, constable. Will you all please sit down?”

  It was like a seance, with everybody expecting something startling to turn up. They all looked at each other questioningly.

  “We’d better make a start, as I don’t wish to detain you long. If you don’t mind, ladies, we’ll smoke.”

  Littlejohn lit his pipe and Macfarlane, to show he wasn’t in the least put-out, cut and lit a cigar, probably one of Beharrell’s. Vincent Pochin, who’d smoked four cigarettes since they brought him in, took out another and fitted it in his holder.

  “Last Friday, Dr. Beharrell was murdered. The scene was partly overlooked by the vicar as he stood on the scaffolding round the clock tower, and he thought he knew who committed the crime.”

  Everybody sat up. This was a startling beginning, at any rate. The guilty man among them must have begun to sweat.

  “Do you mean to say that whoever murdered Beharrell is in this room at present?”

  The Chief Constable’s eyes nearly left their sockets.

  “Yes, sir. That’s why we’re all here.”

  The atmosphere changed at once. It was no longer a friendly little party, but a grim ordeal.