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

by George Bellairs

  Reuben didn't know where to look but he hadn't the impudence to deny his part in the drama.

  He giggled.

  'Just a little joke, that's all. I hid them both for a joke.'

  Ewan rose in a tearing rage again.

  'You mean to tell me, that with two of our family just buried after dying in tragic circumstances, you could find it in your heart to practise silly, childish jokes, first on the Superintendent and then on Joseph. I don't believe you. You must have gone mad. I want the truth, Reuben.'

  Reuben cowered as though Ewan were going to hit him.

  'All right, then, if you call me a liar in front of these two gentlemen, I'll tell the truth and you're not going to like it. I knew that John Charles was stealing the figures and selling them. Two or three times in the night, I've been wakened by footsteps passing my door. I got up twice and saw Charles go in the sitting-room, open the case, and take out some figures. He'd even got little figures like them and put them there in place of the good ones. I know something about those figures. Bridey and I used to talk about them. As for the fake figures John was putting in their place to make it look as if they were all still there, I took one of them down to Tiller, the antiques man in Ramsey, and he said they were modern stuff of very little value. I don't know why John should want to steal and sell them, but he did. . . .'

  'That accounts for the ghost walking, Ewan.'

  Reuben giggled again.

  'That's right. That's what I thought when first I heard of it. When I offered to produce the inventory, I suddenly remembered that if it were checked, the thefts would be discovered. So I hid it. It's gone. I know who did it. It was Joseph . . .'

  'No. It was Nessie. She saw you hide it.'

  'Well, it doesn't matter now. You all know. I was only trying to protect poor John's good name. That's why I hid the figure in Joseph's room. I thought if the thefts were discovered, I could suggest a search and Joseph would be blamed instead of John. The family wouldn't have prosecuted him for it. Only sent him away. I'd rather Joseph take the blame than John. I never cared for Joseph. He's a good-for-nothing, who's always spying on me. Can I go now? I want my tea and after that I'm going to have some of the plaice I caught cooked for my supper.'

  'Yes, go, Reuben, before I lose my temper. You've caused a lot of trouble with your clever ideas. Go and get your tea if that is all you can think about.'

  Reuben hurried away giggling to himself.

  'You must forgive my brother. Sometimes he does silly things. He must be growing senile, I think.'

  Ewan seemed to have forgotten that only a few minutes ago, he had himself been eager for his own tea at a time of dramatic gravity!

  17

  Hard luck on Littlejohn

  'LET'S GO in the room behind and have a talk.'

  Peter Walmer was standing with a double whisky in his hand contemplating the bar of the Bishop's Arms. There was nobody else about.

  Evening was coming on and the sun was hanging heavily over the hills behind Douglas. Even in the street there was little noise. It was the hour before the last meal of the day and everybody was indoors preparing for it. The odd one or two who were abroad seemed awestruck by the beauty of the fading light and sounded to be walking on tiptoe. Across the harbour in a garden on Douglas Head, a blackbird was singing and you could hear it clearly over the water. From one of the bedrooms nearby boarding-house came the sounds of a clarinet playing softly.

  Riverboat Rock, sailin' to the sunset,

  Riverboat Rock, rock ma baby in my arms . . .

  It sounded quite a different tune, a kind of gentle lullaby.

  Walmer hesitated and then led Littlejohn and Knell into his private quarters. It was almost dark there. The tall buildings behind cast long shadows across the windows. Outside, soft footsteps passed the door through which John Charles Croake had staggered and died.

  From their shelves, the rows of Toby jugs all looked alike in the shadows, rows of dark figures crouching like listening men.

  'What'll it be?'

  'Nothing, thanks, Mr. Walmer. We've just called for some information . . .'

  'No need to be unsociable about it, have you?'

  'Wait until you've heard what we have to say.'

  Walmer sat down at the table and put his elbows on it and rested his chin on his clenched fists.

  'Shoot! What is it then?'

  'Where's Ross Bottomley?'

  'How should I know? I haven't seen him since noon.'

  'He's usually here at opening-time, isn't he?'

  'When he feels like it. He's not answerable to me for his movements, you know.'

  There was a tense stillness about Walmer. Like someone waiting for the worst.

  'Which of you took a bundle of letters from a desk at the house of Mrs. Foster-Leneve the other week, Mr. Walmer?'

  Walmer looked at Littlejohn craftily from under his shaggy eyebrows.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'You were there. I can produce witnesses to prove it. They will also state that before you both arrived and were left waiting for Mrs. Foster-Leneve in her drawing-room, there was a packet of letters in the drawer of her desk. When you both left together, they'd gone. What have you to say?'

  'Nothing.'

  'We're not leaving until you tell us what happened.'

  Knell was standing near the door. He moved and placed his back against it.

  'Here. What are you two at? I told you I know nothing about it.'

  'Put your coat on, Mr. Walmer. I don't suppose you want to accompany us to the police station in your shirt sleeves.'

  'What am I being accused of? I want my lawyer.'

  'You can have your lawyer when we reach the police station. Get your jacket on.'

  Walmer moved and aggressively put his hands flat on the table as though making up his mind about something.

  'No need to make a fuss about it. I can tell you what happened. Bottomley was admiring the desk. It's a fine antique piece. He opened the drawer as you do with such things. It's sort of pleasant to slide the drawers in and out when they're made by craftsmen. They come and go as if they was on silk. Know what I mean?'

  'I think so. What about the letters?'

  'They were there when he opened it. You know him; or, at least Inspector Knell does. A busybody. Always prying into other people's private affairs. We could hear Mrs. Foster-Leneve walkin' about upstairs. Bottomley opened one of the letters. Then he pocketed the lot, shut the drawer and sat down. I was just going to ask him what he was up-to when Mrs. Foster- Leneve came back. I couldn't very well start ribbing him then about what he'd done. When we got outside, I asked him what he was playing at . . .'

  'And he told you the letters were very incriminating and written by John Charles Croake, and that he'd pay well to get them back.'

  Walmer was on his feet trying to brazen it out.

  'Have you been talkin' to Bottomley? If he's told you that, he's a liar.'

  'He told you what they contained and the pair of you concocted a nice little blackmail racket. Don't deny it. You and Bottomley were in this room together and met Croake when he made his Saturday call to pay his hush-money, or rather pay you in kind, to keep quiet. What happened to the porcelain figures he regularly brought in here with him?'

  'I don't know what your talking about. It's double-Dutch to me.'

  Walmer licked his lips. Then he turned on Knell.

  'What are you standing there for with your back to the door? You can't stop me from moving where I want on my own property. You've got nothing on me. Let me pass. I want to draw myself some beer.'

  'You can wait for your beer until we've settled this matter. I've a good idea that Bottomley was responsible for the idea of Croake calling here with his pay-off. He hated Croake and wanted to humiliate him. And to cover up Croake's visits, you put around the story that he was calling to see your daughter. That was untrue.'

  'It wasn't. He was crazy about her.'

  'That's what yo
u told people. You and Bottomley had him in your clutches and could make him do as you liked for the sake of avoiding disgrace for himself, a woman, and his own family. You and Bottomley are a pretty pair of scoundrels. He blames you and you blame him . . .'

  'What have you been doing to Bottomley and what's he told you . . .? Because if he's been . . .'

  Walmer stopped.

  'You're trying to trick me.'

  'To keep you quiet, Bottomley had to give you your cut. He took the Meissen figures, sold them, and shared the loot with you. It was considerable. Altogether it totalled several thousand pounds. What did you do with it, Walmer?'

  'Nothing. Bottomley ran the thing all the way through. All I had to do with it was letting them have this room while they did their private business. I know nothing about Meissen figures and blackmail . . .'

  'We'll see how Bottomley bears that story out when we face you with him. You'd better come with us. If what you say is true, Bottomley will probably deny it.'

  'You know he will. He'll only try to save his own skin.'

  'If I were you, I'd try to save my skin, too. You'll be charged with blackmail and you'll go down for a good stretch for what you've done. And unless you tell a convincing tale, you'll probably be charged with worse than blackmail. This case involves the murder of John Charles Croake, and it wasn't done by a passing teddy-boy, either. He was stabbed here, in this room, and staggered out in the street to die. Who stabbed him? Was it you, Walmer?'

  It was dark now, but even in the shadows, Walmer seemed to go to pieces. His body seemed to shrink.

  'I'd nothing to do with the murder. Why should I kill Croake? I'd nothing against him . . .'

  'But he'd plenty against you and Bottomley. He suddenly found himself in a position to call your bluff about the letters. The person to whom you threatened to show them was suddenly killed. Croake called here that last night to tell you that and to make the pair of you pay for the weeks of torment you'd given him. He said he was going to the police. There was a row. He was a powerful man, lost his temper, and got violent. You stabbed him to keep him quiet and defend yourself against him. Are you ready to come with us? Otherwise, we'll have to take you as you are, in your shirt sleeves.'

  'Wait. Have you got Bottomley at the station and has he been blaming me for all this mess . . .?'

  'You'll see. Facing you with him will provide the necessary element of surprise.'

  'I'm not taking the murder rap. I'd nothing to do with it . . .'

  'Who had?'

  'Bottomley. He's a little coward. He goes mad at the thought of any kind of physical violence. Once, when a couple of teddy-boys accosted him in the street, he raised the roof with his screams and they hadn't even touched him. When Croake caught him by the throat, he went berserk.'

  'What weapon did he use? A table knife?'

  'There were no knives about. No. He used the dagger in his stick. It's a short sword in it. He bought it after the teddy-boys attacked him. Nobody knew it was a sword-stick, except me. I saw he'd got it after the teddy-boys affair, but I just thought it was a sort of bludgeon with a weighted top. One day he left it here. He was back like a shot when he found he'd forgotten it, but before he got back I took a look at it. I found out the secret about it. He never knew I discovered it, but I kept an eye on it whenever he had it with him, which was regular.'

  'You must admit, Walmer, that the pair of you were almost lucky enough to get away with murder . . .'

  'I had nothing to do with killing Croake, I tell you. It was all over and done with before I knew anything about it. He was alone with Bottomley in here when it happened. I was at the bar and when I came in, Croake had gone, and Bottomley was standing there, all roughed up, as you might say, with the sword-stick blade in his hand, looking like somebody who'd gone up the wall. As a matter of fact, he was a bit mad before all this happened.'

  'It was lucky for you both that a predatory teddy-boy happened to pass, and saw what he thought was a drunken old man clutching a wallet, emerging from the pub. He snatched at the wallet, but the old man, now with the mists of death around him, gripped the boy convulsively. The teddy-boy was caught with the wallet and the old man died in the street almost right away. What would you have thought, Walmer, in such circumstances? That the old man had been knifed by the young thug? You see how lucky you almost were . . .'

  'It's nothing to do with me, I tell you. I didn't knife Croake.'

  'Probably Bottomley will say the same. He'll try to blame it on you. Shall we go, then?'

  'Where to?'

  'The police station. The pair of you can argue it out there.'

  'Who's going to look after this place while I'm away?'

  'Your daughter. Isn't Jennie at home?'

  'No, she's not. She left by the afternoon boat to visit her aunt in Liverpool. We've had a row.'

  'What about?'

  'She's got a bit above herself. Since she took up with John Charles Croake, she's got too fancy to do work about the Bishop's Arms. This afternoon, after a bit of an argument, I told her she could go. So, she went.'

  'As simple as that.'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you mind, Knell, asking the local police to send a message to Liverpool and tell the police there to meet the boat and detain Miss Walmer. We'll check her father's story, then.'

  'I've told you the truth. You're only giving yourself a lot of trouble for nothing.'

  Knell went to 'phone from the instrument in the corner of the room.

  'I'll get my jacket, then, if you insist on taking me with you. You're making a mistake, though. You'll look foolish when you find I'd nothing whatever to do with Croake's death. I tell you, I was in the bar when it happened.'

  'We'll see about that. Get your coat. Where is it?'

  'Upstairs in my bedroom . . .'

  He made for the door.

  'I'll come with you.'

  'You needn't bother. There's no other way out except by the front door and the side door. The beer comes in through the cellar. So, I couldn't bolt if you asked me to.'

  'All the same, lead the way.'

  Walmer entered the saloon-bar and then led the way through a door from one corner into a private hall whence the stairs rose to a landing. It was a relic of the days when the Bishop's Arms took-in boarders and this was their private entrance to the rooms above. Littlejohn followed on his heels as Walmer made his way up, slowly, like a man suffering from a bad heart.

  What followed certainly took Littlejohn off his guard. It was lucky for him that Walmer was short-legged and fat; otherwise it might have been much worse.

  Walmer, as they reached the top of the stairs, turned as if to round the banister at the first landing, but instead, made a quick half-circle back and kicked Littlejohn on the point of the jaw with his heel. The Superintendent clutched at the newel-post, missed it, and slid down the stairs from top to bottom. A door slammed as he picked himself up and, hardly able to hold himself together, almost crawled upstairs again. Knell, hearing the commotion, rushed to join him.

  There were four doors all alike on the landing and they were all closed. The first was locked and presumably that was the one behind which Walmer was sheltering. Littlejohn was in no shape to lend much help in breaking-in and, as he stood at the stairhead gasping to recover and fingering his bruised jaw, Knell flung himself three times against it before the lock gave way and the screws parted from the wood.

  It was a sort of junk-room now. A dismantled bed, a dusty dressing-table, a rolled-up mat, boxes, and odds and ends all over the place. Presumably, if they had to take a lodger in now and then, this was one of the rooms they tidied-up and used. The window was wide open. On the bed Jenny Walmer was lying. Her hands and legs were bound with insulating tape and there was a wad of adhesive plaster over her mouth. To anchor her to the bed, a length of clothes-line, or something such, had been passed round her body and the bed three times.

  Knell rushed to the window. It overlooked the side-street where Croake ha
d died a few days ago. Directly below was a small back-yard, with a door to the lane. There was nothing particular happening down below. People were coming and going down the alley quite unaware of the pantomime which had been taking place above them. Below the window was a wooden shed. Walmer, if, as was presumably the case, had used that way out, would have found it easy. A scramble through the window, a short drop to the top of the shed, and then down in the yard and through the door, which was now ajar.

  At the end of the alley on the quay, Knell could see that something was afoot. A small crowd had gathered and a couple of them were apparently dandling between them a man who seemed to be being violently sick.

  Littlejohn appeared at the door, and then between them they disentangled Jenny from the tape, the plaster and the clothes-line. When they'd finished the job, she fainted.

  'Did he beat-it through the window, Knell?'

  'Yes, sir. I think I'd better go down and see what's happened at the end of the street on the quayside. There's a crowd gathered there. You all right, sir?'

  'Yes. My jaw aches a bit, but I can see straight again now. Just pop along then, old man, see how the land lies, and I'll join you in a minute. I'll find somebody to attend to Jenny and then I'll just take a dose of medicine from one of the bottles in the bar and give my jaw a dab in the bathroom, and I'll be with you.'

  'Feel you can make it?'

  'Yes. I'm all right now, Knell.'

  Knell bolted down the stairs three at a time and ran to the spot where the crowd had collected. Someone recognised him.

  'And time, too. It's a funny thing, whenever you want a policeman, you can never find one. Here's a chap been beat-up and 'ad his car pinched. And do you know who did it? Walmer of the Bishop's Arms. He must have gone off his rocker. What should he want to pinch a car for? And he was in his shirt-sleeves! '

  'Oh, shut up, you! You're only delaying him . . .'

  One of the men holding-up the object which had presumably owned the missing car, looked up and silenced the complainant.

  'Look at this chap. Nearly killed him. It seems he was just gettin' out of his car and taking the ignition key out, when the bloke gives him a rabbit punch and nearly puts paid to him. Then he leaves him in the gutter and does a bunk with his car . . .'