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

by George Bellairs

  'And ran right into the arms of a teddy-boy, who snatched the wallet, and almost got himself convicted for murder?'

  'I guess so. We heard the row going on outside and we went in the bar and mixed with the crowd as a sort of alibi. You see I'm telling you the truth. When we heard the teddy-boy had been taken for the crime, we said we'd lie low and see how things went . . .'

  'Thanking your lucky stars and ready to let him hang for you.'

  'Nothing of the kind. The teddy-boy might have stabbed him, as well, because, remember, he was fit to walk when he left the Bishop's Arms.'

  'What a hope!'

  'Is that all?'

  'No. What happened today? How did you come to get yourself locked and drunk in the cellar?'

  'I called-in this afternoon to tell Walmer that the police were still on the case, there was doubt about the teddy-boy committing the crime, and what had we better do about it. He said he knew and we'd just act normal; nobody would ever think of suspecting us.'

  'Where was Jenny?'

  'I was coming to that. She was at the bar. Walmer and me were in the private room at the back, where . . .'

  'Where you murdered Croake?'

  'I object. I tell you I'd nothing to do with it. You can't pin it on me. Walmer did it and he's dead . . .'

  'And can't answer for himself. Go on with your story.'

  'We were in the back room, when suddenly the door of the bar bangs open and someone stamps in. "Where's those two murdering swine, your father and Bottomley . . .?" It was Juan Curghey, the one they call Red Juan, from Ballacroake. Jenny said after, he'd a twelve-bore across his arm and looked ready for murder. She told him we weren't in. We quietly nipped-out by the side door and round the block. Red Juan, Jenny told us, went round the house before he believed her and then he went out and off in his land-rover somewhere. He went to Keristal, it seems, after me.'

  'And what did you do to Jenny?'

  'I did nothing. She turned on her father suddenly as though something had dawned on her. "Did you have anything to do with the murder of Mr. Croake? " she says. "Of course we didn't. Red Juan's always been a bit mad. It's turned his head," Walmer says. "I don't believe you," she says. "The very look of the pair of you's enough ". Before she could say another word, her father up and slaps her across the mouth. I'm fond of Jenny and I saw red. I pushed him away . . .'

  He looked at Littlejohn and Knell aggressively as though he were going to push them away, too. Then he nodded his head in self-approval. Littlejohn could imagine Bottomley putting up a fight. Pushing people, instead of giving them a sock on the jaw.

  '. . . Walmer hit me, too, then. I didn't remember anything else, till I woke-up in the cellar.'

  'So you attacked the port down there and got maudlin'-tight, didn't you?'

  'I did not. When I came-to and realised where I was, I went up the stairs and tried the cellar door. It was locked. I knew the mood Walmer was in and I'd seen him stab Croake. My sword-stick was in the back room. What would you have done? Raised the roof and brought him down again. I didn't feel very well after the clip on the jaw he'd given me . . .'

  Littlejohn sympathised momentarily. He'd had one, too . . . from Walmer's foot I

  ' . . . So, I opened a bottle. I thought, at first, it was brandy. Then, when it turned out to be Burgundy . . .'

  Just like the little fool not to know the difference!

  '. . . I took a substantial drink to pick me up. Before I knew where I was, I'd drunk the lot, although, mind you, I was down there several hours. My head was spinning from the blow and I fell asleep.'

  'You did indeed. You and your Burgundy! It was cheap port, like methylated spirit. You must have a stomach like leather.'

  'My digestion's not been bad for years, although, now and then . . .'

  'Oh, for Pete's sake . . . Let's finish all this and then you can go to your cosy little cell.'

  'I want a lawyer. My lawyer's Samuel Clucas Kallen. Now, don't make any mistakes when you send for him. It's the youngest. There's Jasper, the very old man; then his son, the old man, who's called Mark; then the middle-aged one, Samuel. It's Samuel I want.'

  'You can have him in the morning. You can have all three then, if you like, but we're not upsetting their family party at this hour of the night. Another question; what about the fake pieces of Dresden that appeared among the good ones at Ballacroake?'

  'When we told Croake we wanted . . . Or rather when Walmer did . . .'

  'Go on; we know all about it.'

  'Croake said he couldn't take the figures without the family missing them. Walmer remembered I had some . . .'

  'His memory assisted by yourself, no doubt.'

  'If you don't stop being sarcastic, I won't assist you with the case at all. It's not good enough the way you talk to me.'

  That was a good one! The pious burglar . . . or was it murderer?

  'Go on.'

  'Walmer remembered I had some at Keristal. You see, I was once agent for some modern figures for a German firm . . .'

  No wonder they didn't sell, if those in the case at Ballacroake were samples! Bottomley probably tried hawking them to the shooting-galleries and hoop-la stalls on the Onchan fun-fair.

  'So you handed some over to Croake.'

  'That's right.'

  'Doing him a good turn, so to speak.'

  'I ignore that crack. It's beneath my dignity. What happened to Jenny after Walmer laid me out?'

  'He tied her up and gagged her. Then he took her and locked her up in a room upstairs. It seems she told him she'd report it to the police. She was lucky he didn't kill her with your fancy sword-stick, but he thought better of it. Unfortunately for him, as he was doing his thinking and laying further plans for himself over a fortifying glass of whisky, the police, in the shape of Inspector Knell and myself, turned-up. Then, the band began to play again. Red Juan had gone to Keristal in search of you, Bottomley, and Walmer ran straight into him. You know the rest.'

  'How did Red Juan know about what happened to Croake?'

  'We knew, and I was speaking to Mr. Ewan Croake about it at Ballacroake. Red Juan was cleaning out the room next to Mr. Ewan's and both windows were open. Hearing our discussion, Juan listened-in. What he heard made him take out the land-rover and hare off hell-for-leather to murder the pair of you. Nessie told us where he'd been and that she'd seen him leaving. We put two and two together. . . .'

  Bottomley's mental image of Red Juan must have been a nightmare one. He turned green, clutched at the table, and staggered to his feet.

  'I'm going to be sick.'

  They rushed him out to a suitable spot.

  Later Bottomley signed a statement and asked about the motor-boat in Keristal Creek, said it was his own, and he'd called her Nessie. Strange man! He and Walmer had arranged, if matters grew too hot for them, to take themselves quietly off in her to Dublin. Walmer had evidently decided later that it was wiser to go alone. No wonder! Alone at sea with a crackpot like Bottomley would have been a nightmare.

  In spite of the united efforts of the Kallens, Ross Bottomley was found guilty of manslaughter and sent to gaol in England for ten years. He is now head decorator and designer in a well-known prison, where his artistry frequently causes riots among the inmates.

  Alf Cryer got two years for robbery with violence. He smiled as he received sentence. After all, he'd just missed hanging or life imprisonment, thanks, of all people, to the police! He bowed mockingly and turned to go, but the Deemster called him back as he hadn't quite finished. In addition to the two years . . . ten strokes of the birch. Alf Cryer fainted and had to be carried from the dock.

  Dear Reader,

  My name is Tim Binding. I am a novelist, but I want to tell you about George Bellairs, the forgotten hero of crime writing

  George Bellairs was bank manager and he wrote over fifty novels in his spare time. Most of them were published by the Thriller Book Club run by Christina Foyle, manager of the world famous Foyle’s bookshop, and who b
ecame a friend. His books are set at a time when the real-life British Scotland Yard would send their most brilliant of sleuths out to the rest of the country to solve their most insolvable of murders. Bellairs’ hero, gruff, pipe-smoking Inspector Littlejohn appears in all of them.

  Many of Bellairs’ books are set in the Isle of Man – where he retired. Some take place in the South of France. All the others are set in an England that now lives in the memory, a world of tight-knit communities, peopled by solicitors and magistrates, farmers and postmen and shopkeepers, with pubs and haberdasheries and the big house up the road - but though the world might have moved on, what drove them to murder, drives murder now: jealousies and greed, scandal and fear still abound, as they always have.

  So, if you liked this one, dip into the world of George Bellairs. In the coming months and years there’ll be plenty of books to choose from. Why don’t you join me, and sign up to the George Bellairs mailing list?

  •First thing you’ll get is a free book.

  •Then, from time to time I’ll send you publishing information.

  •In the New Year I plan to visit the George Bellairs’ archive. Who knows what I’ll find there. Letters, unpublished work? I’ll let you know.

  So join me in forming a George Bellairs community, you can sign up here: http://eepurl.com/ba6DNn

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Tim Binding