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

by George Bellairs

  The victim was still heaving rhythmically, like a seasick man who wants to vomit but can't. His complexion was almost grass-colour.

  'You'd better take him in the Bishop's Arms and lay him flat on a seat and get an ambulance. There are two others there, too, who might need the ambulance. Which way did Walmer go?'

  About a score of them were ready to give the exact bearings. One louder than the rest managed to make himself heard above the babble.

  'He took off over the bridge and along the road past the Nunnery. He'll be lucky if he gets away with it.'

  A police car arrived ringing its bell. Someone had had the presence of mind to telephone the police station.

  As though stimulated by the sound of the bell, the man who'd had his car pinched suddenly recovered a bit. He vomited, reared himself upright, and started to talk.

  'Who the 'ell hit me?'

  He squared-up like a boxer, as though ready to take Walmer on, made a frantic swipe at the air, and then collapsed in the arms of a little man behind him, who, unable to bear his weight, measured his length himself, with the other sprawling on top of him.

  18

  The Cliffs at Keristal

  THE MARINE DRIVE runs from Douglas to Port Soderick,a shelf road chiselled along the rock, with views of the seaand mighty cliffs below it. Like the Corniche d'Or and the Corniche Sublime of the Cote d'Azur rolled into one and on a sunny day, with the sea like blue glass and the waves dashing on the rocks a hundred feet below, as splendid as as either of them.

  That was what Hubert Hinks, on holidays from Manchester, told his wife in simpler terms one afternoon.

  'Why go all the way to the South of France like we did last year, when we can 'ave all this an hour away from 'ome?'

  He'd hardly got the words out of his mouth before the fun began. It ended in court for Hubert, but he didn't mind. He was only a witness and he got another week on the Island under a subpoena, and paid for.

  The Hinkses had covered the first phase of the Marine Drive, where the road forks and one branch leads on and down to Port Soderick, and the other goes off to the main road at Oak Hill. On the right stood a small bungalow, a blot on the otherwise splendid landscape. You wondered how in the world anybody had been allowed to put it up, not to mention stay there with it. On the left, a stretch of fine sea-turf, a drop over the edge, and below, the rocks and the little bay of Keristal. Hauled on the shingle of the cove was a small motor-boat which captured Mr. Hinks's attention and distant admiration, for he did a bit of sailing himself on Hollingworth Lake.

  'From here she looks a little beauty,' he said to his wife, who didn't share his enthusiasm for a sport which, one day, she was sure would make a widow of her.

  It was late afternoon and there weren't many people about. They were either at tea or else had gone back to town to get ready for the pleasures of the coming evening.

  First, a land rover, driven by a man without a hat and with a shock of unruly red hair blowing in the breeze, tore along the Manx Corniche, turned up the ramshackle road to the wretched red bungalow without slowing down, and pulled up at the door. The newcomer beat on the panels with his two fists and finding it locked, he kicked his way in.

  Mr. Hinks was a tall, gangling, thin man, who looked as if a puff of wind might carry him off to heaven, but he didn't lack guts. He left his missus after an argument in which she implored him not to interfere in what didn't concern him. He set off at a shambling trot in the direction of the suffering house calling, Hey! Hey! as he did so, in the hope that the intruder would realise that he'd been spotted and would run away. Instead, the red-haired man turned and faced him. He was huge. Like a giant in the excited imagination of Mr. Hinks. A perfect Goliath of a chap, Mr. Hinks later told his friends at home.

  'You keep out of this,' the redhead shouted, and Mr. Hinks did. He stood and watched the rest of the drama without doing much about it.

  First, the man who'd broken in the place could be heard exploring it. His heavy nailed boots resounded here and there all over the floors. Then he shouted.

  'Where are you, Bottomley? No use hiding. You can't get away from me.'

  Then there was silence as if the redhead were listening for the heavy, fearful breathing of his quarry. Mr. Hinks could only hear the sound of the water lashing the foot of Keristal and the panting of his wife, who was ascending the rough road in low gear either to drag her husband away by force, or else protect him in some way from the wrath he had brought upon himself.

  'Come on, Hubert. Let's go. He's mad and might do us harm.'

  But Hubert remained rooted like a pillar of salt.

  The uproar started again. The man in the house sounded to be pulling it down piece by piece. Now and then an article of shabby furniture flew through the open door and crashed on the long grass which once had been a lawn. It was all of no use. The man he was hunting wasn't there.

  On the Marine Drive, some distance away, other figures appeared, noticed that something queer was going on, and started to mount the rough road, as well. Soon there was a small crowd of spectators standing at a distance asking Mr. Hinks what it was all about.

  'I don't know. He just drove up in a car, kicked down the door, and started pulling the house down and smashin' up the furniture.'

  One of the party suggested that he might be a holidaymaker who'd rented the place and when he'd found out what it was like, had taken a turn for the worse and was having his revenge.

  'Somebody ought to do something about it. What about sendin' for the police?'

  Before anyone could act, a further diversion arose. Another car appeared, driven by a man in his shirt-sleeves. He was fat, excited, and sweating heavily and, at first, drove up the drive to the shabby little house. Then, when he saw the crowd, he halted, climbed out of the vehicle, and tried to look as though he'd made a mistake and taken the wrong turning. As he clambered out of the car, the red-headed man appeared at the door. At first he seemed amazed to see the spectators and then he spotted the new arrival.

  'Walmer!' he bellowed.

  Walmer had been hurriedly taking a can of petrol from the boot of the car and at the sound of the shout, leapt like someone stung. Then, still clinging to the can, he started to trot in the direction of the cliff edge, where a narrow goat-path ran down to the cove.

  The massive red man followed him, running with remarkable agility for his size. Walmer had almost reached the start of the path when his pursuer caught up with him. The men in the crowd hesitated, held a brief committee-meeting about what to do next, and then, like a sheriff's posse, set off after the other two.

  Before they reached them it was all over.

  The big man seized the little one with his two huge hands, twisted him round and shouted in his face.

  'Where's that murderer Bottomley? Where is he?'

  The little fat man who was only interested in freeing himself and fleeing down the path, didn't seem to give the right answers. The redhead thereupon took him in his arms like a child and walked to the edge of the cliff, obviously threatening to throw him over if he didn't speak up. The other's resistance and silence finally enraged him. He lifted him in the air and tried to heave him over the edge. As he did so, the clawing fingers of the sweating, terrified little fat man caught the mop of red hair and clutched it frantically. For a second they seemed glued together. Four legs, two bodies twisted about each other, two pairs of hands and arms heaving and thrashing, and then the whole mass vanished over the edge.

  The posse behind came up just too late. There was shouting and crying and some of them recoiled at the edge, dizzy from the height. Two who were steeplejacks on holiday hung over and looked below. There were two smashed forms, still intertwined, lying far beneath on a ledge. Then, the calm blue sea, the edge of foam gently lapping on the rocks, and the disturbed seagulls wheeling out over the water and perching again on inaccessible ledges.

  Five minutes after the climax, a police car arrived with Knell. Littlejohn followed, still looking a bi
t shaken, in another car not long after.

  By the time further help arrived and the bodies could be brought to the top of the cliff, the two dead men were cold and stiff.

  'Perhaps it ended the best way,' said Littlejohn, as if to himself. Knell looked surprised.

  Ross Bottomley had disappeared. There were several theories about it at the police station. Something had obviously happened to startle him and Walmer into tragic activity. It might have been that they had quarrelled and Walmer had murdered Bottomley and hidden the body. Or Bottomley might have fled, gone to ground somewhere, and was waiting for a chance to get off the Island. In the latter event, it might be the devil's own job to find him, as the Island was thronged with hideouts of all kinds. Sooner or later, however, he'd have to break ground. He couldn't get away, with ports, the aerodrome, and the coastline all watched.

  Gus Watters, the potman at the Bishop's Arms, took over the management of the place in the absence of anyone better. The pub filled-up as usual for the evening; a party of birthday celebrants even arrived and ordered champagne. Gus went to the cellars for the bottles. He got a surprise. He stumbled over the body of Ross Bottomley at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn't dead, but fast asleep. There was an empty bottle of cheap port at his side. He was dead drunk.

  Whilst Ross answered questions at the police station, Gus told his story at the bar, over and over again, embellishing it as he went along.

  'It was like this . . .'

  By the time he'd told it half-a-dozen times, he'd found Bottomley mad-drunk and aggressive, and had only subdued him by sheer physical strength.

  Jenny Walmer had recovered sufficiently to attend at the police station, too, and make a statement. She was in better shape than Bottomley, who had a thick head and punctuated his account with many lamentations. Twice, he burst into tears. Then, as usual, he closed his eyes whilst he spoke, as though praying.

  'If I'd known when I told Walmer that the collection at Ballacroake was priceless, that all this was going to follow, I'd have kept my mouth shut. That's all I did. Told him about the collection.'

  Littlejohn was helping Knell with the questioning, but he'd rather have been at Grenaby. He'd recovered from the kick on the jaw, but the left side of his face felt as though all the teeth there had been extracted.

  'Now, Bottomley, let's have it all from the beginning. Then you can sign a statement and sleep-off your bad head. The cells are quite comfortable.'

  'What! I'm not going to be put in prison, am I? I haven't done anything.'

  'I'm glad to hear it. But there is a matter of murder to be considered. No bail will be granted.'

  Bottomley opened his eyes and started to weep.

  'You'd better tell a plain, truthful tale and it will be over sooner, then.'

  He'd been sick after his excessive potations, had had two cups of black coffee, his head held under a cold tap, and then two raw eggs broken in Worcester sauce, but Bottomley looked in poor shape still. He must have tried to smoke a cigarette in the dark, too, during his vigil in the cellar and had singed part of his little moustache on one side. His face was ashen and his nose red; he looked like a clown in a circus.

  'All I have to say is, that a bit more than a month ago, I told Walmer about the collection of Meissen figures at Ballacroake and how valuable they were. I know what I'm talking about on porcelain. I was once an assistant in that department at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Walmer started to ask a lot of questions about Ballacroake itself and I soon tumbled to it that he had in mind trying to burgle the place. I'd told him the figures were unprotected in a glass case in the drawing-room . . .'

  'But the pair of you soon found an easier way. Was that it?'

  'I was forced into it. Walmer went to see Mrs. Leneve about some Toby jugs she wanted to sell and found she'd also some china I might care to buy. So he took me to see it. While she was out of the room, Walmer started to examine a desk there; a lovely antique piece. There was a bunch of keys in the top drawer and Walmer opened the drawer and looked in. He pulled out a packet of letters tied up with blue ribbon. He took one off the top and read a bit of it. Then he put the lot in his pocket.'

  'Then, to put it briefly, the pair of you started to blackmail John Charles Croake.'

  'It was Walmer. He dragged me in it. I owed him money. He said it was a good way to pay off the debt.'

  'You, Bottomley, hated Croake, so you arranged for him to pay it off in the form of Meissen figures which you disposed of to a dealer in Liverpool.'

  'Who told you that tale?'

  'We've traced the dealer. What do you think we've been doing since the pair of you murdered Croake? Sleeping?'

  'I didn't kill him. It was. . . .'

  'Let's keep the story orderly. You suggested that Croake should pay in kind . . .'

  'It was Walmer. He said it would save our handling a lot of cash with Croake and we could sell the figures for far more than Croake thought they were worth. It would seem then that we weren't squeezing him too hard.'

  'He agreed.'

  'He said he'd let us know. There were six letters in the pile. Walmer said he'd settle for two figures for each letter.'

  'His price was high! '

  'He was a greedy, heartless man and saw he'd got Croake where he wanted him. Even after Croake's death, he went one night to the house at Ballacroake and tried to burgle it and get some more figures . . .'

  'But the dogs kicked up such a hullaballoo that he cleared off?'

  'You seem to know a lot.'

  'More than you think. Go on . . .'

  It was quite dark now and from time to time one or another of the police would bring in a drunk, sometimes singing happily, sometimes shouting the place down, declaring his sobriety or offering to fight the lot of them.

  'Croake came the next night and said he'd agree. He asked us to take cash, but Walmer wouldn't. . . .'

  'Nor would you, Bottomley, and don't profess your complete innocence in this affair. It suited you to humiliate Croake. You were getting even for an old offence. . . .'

  Bottomley's face fell and he looked ready to weep. Then he closed his eyes and spoke up aggressively.

  'I was once courting the housekeeper at Ballacroake. When he found out, John Charles Croake took me by the collar and threw me out in front of her. Do you expect me to forgive that. Me, an artist and come from a good family. I'm as good, nay better than the Croakes any day . . .'

  'We heard a different story. You made a pass at Nessie who resented it and when you persisted . . .'

  'It's a lie! '

  'Lie or not, you tried to humiliate Croake by inducing Walmer to insist on the porcelain figures in payment. You, too, I suppose, insisted on Croake, a teetotaller, calling every Saturday, in front of a crowd of regulars, and meeting the pair of you at the Bishop's Arms to exchange the letters for the figures. And you kept him hanging-about there, until you chose to call for the pay-off.'

  'We couldn't have gone to Ballacroake to collect them! '

  'You could have done better than make Croake frequent a pub like Walmer's. And Walmer covered the visits by saying Croake was sweet on his daughter and Croake had to keep quiet to please the pair of you. You really filled his cup full of humiliation, didn't you?'

  'It was Walmer's idea.'

  'Go on.'

  'Walmer had threatened to take the letters to Mrs. Leneve's husband when he got back from abroad if Croake hadn't paid up in time. Well, on the night the teddy-boy killed him, Croake came in a different mood. Leneve was dead. He told us that and said, if the figures weren't handed back and the letters, as well, he'd decided to go to the police and tell them about the blackmail. Walmer sort of dared him to do it and said the husband's death didn't make any difference. We could still blacken the woman's name . . . And Walmer called her a woman of easy virtue, only he used a worse term I don't care to quote. It was like a red rag to a bull calling her that. Croake was usually a mild man. Now he lost his temper. He was a big, powerful man, as you k
now, and he caught hold of Walmer and held him off the floor with one hand and slapped his face with the other. I tried to stop him, and somehow we all got mixed up in a fight. . . .'

  Littlejohn held up his hand.

  'Stop, just one minute, Mr. Bottomley. Before you begin to blame the teddy-boy for the murder, let me make it quite plain – he didn't stab or kill John Charles Croake. It was done in the back room of the Bishop's Arms by either you or Walmer. Which of you did it? Walmer told me earlier today that it was you.'

  For the first time Bottomley showed a bit of spirit. He'd no dignity left, with his dishevelled clothes and his half-burned-off moustache, but he tried to pull himself up to his full height, which wasn't very much.

  'I was going to tell you the truth. It was Walmer.'

  'How did he do it? With a table knife or a pen-knife?'

  'Of course he didn't. I always carry a sword-stick, with a short blade. I've had it ever since some hooligans tried to rob me last summer in Drumgold Street. The police wouldn't grant me a licence for a revolver. I live in a lonely place, too. It's not right. So I got me a sword-stick. I don't know how to use a sword, but it sort of gives me confidence and might scare off anybody who tried to molest me.'

  'What about Walmer?'

  'He must have guessed what it was. As the three of us were struggling, he suddenly shook himself free, picked up the stick, drew the blade out, and struck at Croake. Croake took it right in the chest. It might not have been so bad, only Croake sort of threw himself at Walmer to take the sword away and met the blade.'

  'And then . . .?'

  'Croak drew himself upright, as though he'd not been wounded at all. We just stood there speechless. I really wonder whether or not Croake himself realised, at first, what had happened to him, because he put his hat on and he actually took out his wallet pulled out a ten shilling note, and said "for my drinks". And, as though the talking upset something, he started to bleed at the mouth. He went through the side door and vanished, with the wallet still in his hand.'