The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  Alf paid and they left the place and entered the crowded street, Sid still carrying the bags like a servant. Alf took the middle of the pavement, forcing passers-by to walk round him. Now and again, one of them would resist, and then give way for the sake of peace when he saw the sneer and the cold eyes.

  They wandered in the direction of Peel Road and then Alf suddenly seemed to become aware that Sid was still with him.

  'We've passed the bus station, haven't we, just down there? You'd better get the next one to Castletown and leave me here . . . '

  'But . . .'

  'I said, leave me here. I'm tired. I'll find some digs and then have a rest and tidy up. Then I'll see what the place is like. Your aunt'll be waiting for you.'

  He picked up his bag.

  'But . . . '

  'Don't keep butting . . . Just scram, Sid. That's a good boy.'

  He moved away and turned down a side street without looking back.

  Sid picked up his own bag. He didn't quite know where he was. Alf's treatment and sudden disappearance had given him a shock. He didn't feel like facing his aunt yet. He wanted to sit down and sort himself out. He shambled his way to the old quay, which was full of visitors, strolling about, shop-window gazing, standing in little knots eyeing the coasters tied up to the bollards. Crowds were making their way up to Douglas Head. The concert party at the top was in full blast and the choruses, sung by the audience, wafted across the calm air. Sid turned-in at a small quayside pub and ordered a drink.

  There was a girl there, all alone, too. Sid paid for a drink for her. They were both melancholy. Her boy friend had found himself a fresh girl and was leaving with her on the afternoon boat. Marlene herself was returning by the midnight and now she was at a loose end.

  By the time they'd had more drinks, both Sid and Marlene (her name was Ida, she confided, but she'd changed it for the holidays) were as merry as the rest. They laughed at each other, pretending to make light of their misfortunes. He told her about Alf and his dirty trick. Marlene said he was better without Alf, who was obviously a no-good. And Sid said Marlene was better without Max (real name Maximilian) who sounded a square. They confessed they wished they'd known each other before and without more ado, went to Douglas Head, heard the concert and sang the choruses. They had some tea there, too, and then as daylight was fading, found themselves a place on the grass slopes, already teeming with amorous couples, and indulged in a little lovemaking themselves.

  Sid arrived at his aunt's after eleven o'clock. He said he'd missed the morning boat and caught one in the late afternoon. His aunt's face was sour, for she knew it wasn't the truth. She told him he'd better mend his ways or else he'd end-up like Uncle Arthur, who was the bête noir, the bogeyman of the family. He'd left home in his teens and gone to sea and returned a penniless drunkard in his late forties, to sponge on his sister. He had disgraced them by his eccentricities. Drunk at the harbour, singing bawdy sailors' songs; whitewashing somebody's house; in charge of a lot of donkeys on Douglas beach; hawking mushrooms or blackberries he'd gathered in his battered hat . . . In the end, he'd forgotten to turn right at the quay, walked straight ahead, and drowned himself.

  After all this, Sid's aunt told him he'd better get to bed and they'd talk matters over in the morning. His breath smelled strongly of beer and he ended with a violent fit of hiccups. She was sorry she'd asked him over. Still, she'd her duty to do. She'd made a promise to his mother. She gave him some supper.

  At one in the morning, the police knocked on the door.

  'Is Sid Wanklyn staying here?'

  A constable from Douglas, in charge of a car, shouted it as quietly as he could at Mrs. Creer, who was hanging out of her front bedroom window, with an article like a small fish-net keeping her hair in order.

  'Yes. What are you after at this time o' night?'

  'He's wanted in Douglas. Can I see him?'

  There was a terrific hullaballoo. Mrs. Creer started abusing Sid and talking about Uncle Arthur again before she'd even shaken him awake. The bobby was patiently waiting in the hall, whistling under his breath, and she took care that he heard it all, a sort of monologue extolling her own respectability.

  Sid eventually appeared, tousled, fastening his braces. Short of sleep, and with his stomach turned-up by the drink he'd consumed the previous evening and the cold pork pie his aunt had provided for supper, he didn't quite know where he was or what was happening. He looked a sight.

  The constable soon put him wise.

  'Do you know a man called Alfred Cryer?'

  'Yes. But . . .'

  'There's been a bit of trouble in Douglas and Cryer's been taken-in for questioning. It happened around half-past ten. One of our men says he saw Cryer come off the boat with you this afternoon and you both said you were coming here to stay with Mrs. Creer. Cryer states you were with him all night and the Douglas police want to verify it . . .'

  'I never . . .'

  'You'd better save your breath till we get to Douglas. There's a car at the door.'

  Mrs. Creer was speechless at the lies Sid had told her and the thought of the disgrace he'd brought upon her. She could only ask, 'What's he done?'

  'Well, it's a matter of an elderly man murdered on the Old Quay.'

  Sid was sick in the front garden.

  2

  Deep Waters

  ON THE way to Douglas, the constable driving the car said nothing. At first, Wanklyn tried bluff; then pretended to be indignant. He asked a lot of questions and made a lot of complaints.

  'They'll tell you all about it when we get there. I was just ordered to find you and bring you along.'

  The officer was pleasant enough, but didn't seem interested in anything but reaching his destination. Finally Wanklyn settled down in sulky silence, and silence made him more and more afraid.

  There was no traffic on the roads and they travelled at high speed.

  The lights in the control tower at Ronaldsway Airport flashed past. Then, the illuminated call-box at Ballasalla. A solitary light shone in one of the bedrooms of the housing estate. A lot of farms and cottages, all asleep, silhouetted against the darkness. The glow of Douglas in the sky, and then in the distance the street lights of the town, dotted here and there in the residential quarter on the high ground behind the promenade. The elaborate coloured illuminations had long been extinguished and, visible under plain electric lamps, it seemed dismal now.

  They skirted the Old Quay, ghostly and fluorescent, with coasters tied-up and silent in the basin, and, in the distance beyond the swing-bridge, a cargo boat ready for off on the next tide. Somewhere a drunk was singing at the top of his voice.

  The car drew up at the police station nearby. Wanklyn grew slit-eyed at the bright lights of the charge-room. There was a sergeant drinking tea at a desk and a constable standing with his back to the fire. They seemed good humoured and showed no excitement at the arrival of the newcomers.

  'Where did you find him, Kilbride?'

  'At his aunt's in Castletown. He was in bed, asleep.'

  'A cool 'un, eh? Did she say when he arrived?'

  'Between eleven and half-past.'

  'Would she be Sammy Creer's widow, the one who was harbour master at Derbyhaven?'

  'That's right.'

  The sergeant rose and crossed to a filing-cabinet for some papers. Wanklyn stood there speechless. He was quite bewildered; in a sorry state. His eyes were set in a fixed frightened stare.

  The sergeant returned and straightened out a form before him on the desk.

  'Name . . .? Address . . .? Age . . .?'

  Wanklyn gave them hesitantly, as though he hadn't used them for a long time. They all went down on the form in large, plain writing.

  'Parents?'

  'I haven't any.'

  'Nearest relatives, then.'

  He gave his aunt's name and address.

  'When did you arrive on the Island?'

  'Yesterday afternoon.'

  'Morning boat from Liverpoo
l?'

  'Yes.'

  'What did you do with yourself after you arrived here?'

  'I had dinner with a pal who'd travelled with me . . .'

  Then, the whole sorry story. How he'd met Alf; every detail of what they'd done on the boat and in Douglas. Then, of Alf's sudden change of mind and desertion.

  'Did you see him again?'

  'No.'

  'What time did he leave you?'

  'About four o'clock, as near as I can guess.'

  'You didn't arrive at your aunt's till after eleven. Where were you between four and eleven?'

  The sergeant was a large, round-faced, ruddy man, good tempered and quiet voiced. No bullying; no threats. It gave Wanklyn a bit of confidence.

  'What's all this about? I've just come over for a week's holiday with my aunt, and this happens. I don't know what you're getting at. I've done nothing wrong.'

  Plaintive now. He sounded ready to burst into tears. He was thoroughly sorry for himself. He had dressed hurriedly, and been got out of bed and hustled off without a wash or a tidy-up.

  The constable who'd driven the car and his colleague were both drinking tea by the fire. They didn't seem interested in what was going on. They were discussing a school for croupiers somebody was setting-up in Douglas in case a casino was opened.

  'What'll be the good of it if the casino doesn't come off . . .'

  The sergeant eyed Wanklyn closely.

  'You not feeling well?'

  'You ought to know how I feel at this time of night. Being pulled out of bed and . . .'

  'Better give him a cup of your tea, Kilbride.'

  Wanklyn gulped it eagerly. It was hot, strong and sweet, but he didn't seem to notice it. Down it went.

  'About the girl you said you were with . . . Her name was . . .?'

  He didn't know it. All he knew was that it was Ida and she called herself Marlene.

  It hadn't seemed odd at all after the drinks and with her close to him in the afternoon. Now it was incriminating. In fact, he knew nothing whatever about the girl. He'd held her in his arms on Douglas Head and made love with her and yet, he didn't know her name, where she came from, or where she was going.

  The sergeant didn't seem put-out. He was used to that kind of thing in the holiday season. But he didn't tell Wanklyn that, of course. He just opened his eyes wide.

  'I know you won't believe me. I left her on the promenade. She was going home on the midnight boat, she said. Going back to her boarding-house for supper and her bag. It seems she'd come over with her boy friend, but he'd fallen for somebody else in the same digs and left her in the lurch. That's all I know.'

  The sergeant had to struggle to keep a straight face. The usual penny novelette stuff of holidays. As soon as the spell wore off, Marlene, or Ida, or whatever her name was, would find herself going steady again with her fickle boy-friend. It was like drink. It wore off and left you flat and sorry.

  'You got the half-past ten bus to Castletown?'

  'Yes. I said so.'

  'Your buddy, Alf, didn't by any chance turn-up again later in the evening?'

  'I told you, I never saw him again after I left him at four o'clock.'

  'He says you did.'

  'What's all this about . . .?'

  The sergeant gave him a compassionate look.

  'You see what a mess you can get in by keeping bad company. The best thing you can do now is to tell the truth about the whole business.'

  'But I've told you the truth. I swear . . .'

  'No need to shout, young fellow-me-lad. I was only giving you a bit of friendly advice. Sit down.'

  Wanklyn did as he was told, sank on one of the wooden chairs, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. He licked his dry lips.

  'Well, if that's all you have to tell us, young Wanklyn, you'd better wait in the next room.'

  The sergeant nodded to the constable, who took Sid by the arm and led him off to a small room on the right, which looked like a store. There was a wooden chair there and a table. Hanging from hooks on the walls, all neatly labelled, were the firearms collected under the amnesty from owners without permits. Everything from an old blunderbuss and several muzzle-loading carbines to the latest service revolvers. A gunman's idea of heaven! The constable motioned Wanklyn to the chair and himself sat on the table, swinging his legs. He offered Wanklyn a cigarette, which he eagerly accepted, inhaling the first smoke like a parched man in a desert.

  'They won't be long. Just calm down.'

  Ten minutes later, they sent for Wanklyn again. The same policemen were in the charge-room. The constable was making a fair copy of Wanklyn's statement on a typewriter. His hands were large and he worked daintily, like an elephant gingerly crossing some stepping-stones. There was a newcomer in plain clothes. A tall, well-built, cheerful Inspector with large teeth and a polite way with him.

  Wanklyn didn't see Cryer, at first, but when he did, he lost his temper completely.

  'What lies have you been telling about me? Isn't it enough . . .?'

  Cryer, in spite of the pickle he seemed to be in, bared his teeth in a malicious smile.

  'You're not going to let down a pal, are you . . .?'

  The sergeant didn't let them get any farther.

  'Sit down, Wanklyn. And keep your temper. Shouting won't do you any good.'

  There was another strange object there, too. A slovenly unshaved man, like a tramp, with large new boots and no socks. They were charging him with breaking-in an allotment and stealing a lot of hens and a shovel. Then, he was led off to the cells to spend the night. He didn't seem to mind. The hens were in a sack in an adjacent room and were squawking and cackling. Their owner was on the way to take them home.

  The Inspector stood before the fire, his hands in his pockets, toasting the seat of his trousers. He seemed lost in thought until the smell of hot cloth made him move away.

  'The sergeant tells me you deny having seen Cryer after he left you at four o'clock.'

  Cryer chipped in again.

  'He's a liar, then! He's trying to get out of it and leave me carrying the can. Why should I . . .?'

  'Shut up, Cryer! Speak when you're spoken to. And don't interrupt Inspector Knell . . .'

  The sergeant didn't seem to like Cryer!

  Knell smiled. He was used to it.

  'You'd better tell young Wanklyn exactly why he's here, I think.'

  The sergeant took up another typed statement; the one Cryer had just signed.

  I'll not read all this. I'll just give you a short idea of what it's all about.'

  He cleared his throat, put his elbows on the table, and stared at Wanklyn with sad eyes.

  'At ten-thirty tonight, an elderly man was found stabbed in a side-street off the North Quay. He's since died without saying a word.'

  Wanklyn sprang to his feet, but instead of shouting, looked piteously around him, like a trapped animal which finally resigns itself to its fate.

  'I didn't . . .'

  'Will you listen? Your friend, Cryer . . .'

  'He isn't my friend. I hardly know him.'

  'Will you keep quiet! Cryer was caught, as he ran out of the side-street into Victoria Street, by a civilian who'd heard the shouts of the victim before he was knifed . . .'

  It was Cryer's turn now.

  'I didn't knife him. I'd no knife. How many times have I told you, I picked up the wallet in the street as I left Sid Wanklyn. . . .'

  'As I was saying, Cryer was turned over to a constable by the civilian. During the scuffle with the said civilian who, by the way, happened to have been a wrestler when he was younger and stood no nonsense with Cryer's butting and kicking. . . . During the scuffle, Cryer tried to throw away a wallet which was later identified as belonging to the victim, John Charles Croake. Cryer, as he has just loudly informed us again, says he found it in the street. He also says he'd just left you at the time of his arrest, which was ten-thirty.'

  Wanklyn looked round at the surrounding faces. He was like
a trapped rabbit. At ten-thirty, he had been on the quay, running to the bus station for the last Castletown bus after leaving Marlene. Cryer must have seen him. It was dead on ten-thirty, too, because he'd seen the clock on the quay and started to run for it.

  'Cryer says you'll testify to that and say that he couldn't possibly have robbed or killed anybody in the time between leaving you and reaching Victoria Street. I must tell you, the alibi's so thin, we think the pair of you were in it together.'

  Wanklyn and Cryer both started to shout at once; Cryer that he'd done nothing, but parted peacefully with his friend, Wanklyn that he'd seen nothing of Cryer since four o'clock.

  The interview went on until dawn and then they weren't any nearer. So Wanklyn and Cryer were locked in the cells until breakfast time. Both stuck to their stories. Wanklyn to his escapade with Marlene, Cryer to his tale of finding the wallet after leaving Sid.

  Before they locked-up Wanklyn, the sergeant took a description of Marlene. For one who'd been so intimate with a girl, Sid made a poor show. She was smaller than he was, fair hair erected on her head in the shape of a beehive, nails painted red, black shoes with stiletto heels, light blue jeans, a thin yellow jumper with bare arms, and her real name was Ida, although she called herself Marlene.

  'Oh . . . and she'd green eyes. She told me. She was proud of them. I hadn't noticed.'

  The sergeant flung down his pencil and cast his eyes to heaven. He had a nice wife, four daughters and two young grandsons, and he was a somewhat sentimental man.

  'A real young lover you are, aren't you? I could go on Douglas promenade any time tomorrow and pick-out hundreds answering to your description. Including the green eyes. You'll have to do better than that if you want us to find her.'

  And he started with her style of hairdressing and ended up at the way she walked. He went through the whole erotic catalogue, like a judge at a beauty contest. Sid did his best and tried to please to the extent sometimes of gilding the lily. Finally, he said Marlene looked a bit like a well-known French film star, whereat the sergeant said he'd had enough and locked him up for the night. Sometimes, when prisoners were amiable and well-behaved, they were allowed to occupy the same cell, but in this case it was thought prudent to keep Sid and Alf as far apart as possible. Even then, Alf spent half the time until breakfast shouting abuse at his one-time pal. The man who had stolen the hens slept peacefully through it all.