The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

by George Bellairs

  AFTER the inquest Littlejohn and Cromwell parted.

  The Inspector was anxious to interview the newsagent on whom Sam Prank had called just before his death. Meanwhile, he sent his Sergeant to pick-up any news he could from the crew of the murdered man’s ship, The Bluebell, before she sailed on the next tide.

  Lee’s shop on the quayside was one of the oldest properties in the town. A little window filled with anything from soiled jam-pot covers to rusty penny-whistles and balls of twine. On each side of the doorway, tiers of newspapers and lurid periodicals erected like ladders on strips of wood.

  There was nobody in the shop when Littlejohn entered. The place exuded a musty smell like stale toast or dirty dish-cloths. The bell clanged as he opened the door and he had to go down two steps, for the stone floor was below street level.

  A little grubby counter littered with cheap magazines, novelettes and racing literature. Disorderly shelves full of dusty stationery, bottles of ink, stacks of low grade fiction and pornographic paper-backs. On a revolving stand on the counter a lot of fly-blown, highly-coloured, libidinous post-cards.

  There was hardly room to whip a cat round.

  At the back, an open door, panelled in glass with a red cloth curtain across it for privacy. Hanging on this door, a mirror fixed at an angle which showed the occupant of the living-room beyond who was at the counter. Through this glass Littlejohn saw a distorted face looking at him.

  “Well.… What d’yer want?” came from the inner room.

  “Mr. Lee?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want a word or two with you.… I’m a police officer. It’s about Sam Prank.”

  “Come in.”

  Sitting in a chair before the fire was the ugliest old man Littlejohn had ever set eyes on. It was plain to see why Mr. Lee had been given the Rosie cognomen. His likeness was not to flowers but to Falstaff. “His face is all bubucles, and whelks, and knobs and flames of fire.” Another bright red nose seemed to be trying to grow on the end of the original organ. He was obviously a seasoned alcoholic vessel, bearing the signs of his toping in the grog-blossom of his face. His mouth was large and fleshy and looked to have been frozen in its most accustomed position, that of sucking beer from a pint pot. His eyes were small and cunning and he had a bad cough which punctuated his every sentence and held-up the conversation whenever it grew dangerous.

  Rosie Lee’s gross body was sprawled all over a large armchair in which he was taking his ease. He did not rise, but turning his head fixed Littlejohn with a stare from two jellied eyes.

  “I’ve bin expectin’ you,” he said hoarsely. “Guess somebody see Sam Prank leavin’ my place on Saturday night. Can’t keep anythin’ private here.…”

  “The visit was private, then?”

  “What d’yer think he was here at ten o’clock for? The mornin’ paper?”

  Whereupon Mr. Lee laughed himself into a paroxysm of coughing.

  “’Ow, ’ow, I’m chokin’,” he panted and applied himself to his panacea in a pint mug at his elbow. When it was over, he slowly emerged with bloodshot eyes and heaving chest from his state of suffocation. He was in his shirt sleeves, with no collar and his shirt-neck, unfastened, disclosed a pale, enormous, almost hairless chest as far as his breast bone.

  Mr. Lee seemed to keep house for himself. The place was dirty and stank abominably of beer and stale air.

  Business seemed slack. Littlejohn was sure that Lee kept himself alive by other means than selling papers and odd packets of cheap cigarettes. Another rival shop farther along the quay seemed to do a roaring trade. There was always a crowd round the counter. The shop girl was a pretty blonde.…

  “Now, Mr. Lee. Will you tell me what Sam Prank was doing here just before he was murdered?”

  “Owed me some money and was arrangin’ to pay some of it off. No harm in that … I help lots of the sailors with a bit of ready cash now and again. Proper good Samaritan to the boys is their Uncle Rosie Lee.”

  “How much did Prank owe you, Mr. Lee?”

  “Three hundred pounds.”

  “Three hundred pounds!”

  “I thought that ’ud take yer breath away. Yes. Three ’undred jimmy-o’-goblins is what Sam Prank owed his Uncle Rosie.”

  “But surely that’s not the usual sort of loan you’d make to a sailor arriving for help after spending all his pay on a good binge?”

  “Not on yer life, cocky. A bit of high finance, as yer might say, was that loan. Granted on note of hand only against his expectations from his wealthy old aunt to who ’is Uncle Rosie said he’d spill the beans if repayments wasn’t made right and proper.”

  “What was the original sum you lent Prank?”

  “Five ’undred of the best, mister. Got ’imself in a proper jam, did Sam Prank. Got a girl out of South Redport, one o’ the ports the Bluebell calls at, got ’er in the fam’ly way. And her with an ’usband as ’ad bin in the Middle East for two years. Sam ’ad to pay to ’ush it up, and pay the doctor’s bill, and pay somebody to adopt the kid when it came.… But ’e didn’t tell that to ’is uncle Rosie. Oh dear, no. ‘I’ve bin bettin’,’ sez ’is nibs.”

  “How did you get to know, then?”

  “Don’t think I wuz goin’ to lend five ’undred o’ my ’ard-earned smackers agen a tale like that, do yer? No. I gave a quid to one o’ Sam’s shipmates to do a bit o’ snoopin’ round for me, see? An’ my scout walks right into the whole bag o’ tricks when they puts-in at Redport. Follers Sam to his light o’ love’s house and then gets talkin’ to the local gossip, see? The whole tale came out.”

  “So you lent him the money?”

  “Why not? Old ’arriet Prank was well known to me. I knew wot she was worth to within a few thousands. Got me scouts out agen, see? Found out that Sam was all right by ’arriet’s Will. Why, a bank ’ud ’a lent ’im the dough against security like that. Besides, I’d got another way o’ making Master Sam behave ’is self. All I gotter do was jest to let his aunt know as her lovin’ nephew was leading a wild life and she’d ’a cut ’im off with a shillin’. Very straight-laced was ole ’arriet.”

  “I see. And did Sam pay off his loan and his interest as arranged?”

  “Yes. More or less.”

  “And what was the purpose of the call late on Saturday? Was he bringing you another instalment?”

  Mr. Lee paused for another lacerating convulsion of coughing and spitting and then resumed.

  “No. Called to say ’e couldn’t pay. Said he’d ’ad a bit o’ bad luck on ’is last voyage. ’ad his pocket picked and all the cash ’e’d drawn he’d need to keep ’im goin’ till he got his next pay.”

  “And you said?”

  “Told ’im he’d better get it from somewhere, and I wasn’t foolin’. You see, when you lend money to the boys like I do, you gotta keep ’em under control. Once let ’em off their payments and you’re done. Sign o’ weakness they think it is, see? So I tole Sam Prank I’d give ’im till Monday to pay me somethin’.… Nothing less than ten quid, I sez, or else to Miss ’arriet I goes.…”

  “And Sam said?”

  “’e’d get it. I think ’e usedter go to ’is aunt himself with some tale or other and touch ’er for a few pounds whenever he’d boozed ’is wages away and couldn’t pay me. One spell, he got quite good. Paid off a couple of ’undred quid of the principal. Quite a shock to me.”

  “Did he get a windfall from Miss Harriet, then?”

  “No fear. I’d say ten quid would be the ole girl’s limit. Two ’undred’s quite out o’ the question.”

  “Any idea where it came from?”

  “’ow should I know? All I know is, it was in good ’onest pound notes, which was good enough for Uncle Rosie.…”

  The shop-bell tinkled and Lee stretched himself to catch the reflection of the newcomer in the mirror on the door.

  “What is it?” he bawled.

  “Penny bottle of ink,” replied a child’s voice.

  “Go an’ ge
t it at Humphrey’s further down …” shouted Lee, and the child obediently trotted off. The odds and ends of the shop were small beer to Mr. Rosie Lee. He had larger fish to fry.

  “Have you no idea where the lump sum came from?” persisted Littlejohn.

  “’ow the ’ell should I know?” impatiently replied the ugly old man and coughed away his irritation violently.

  “These sailors do get in on rackets, you know,” he volunteered at length. “Some of ’em black-marketing or doin’ a bit o’ smugglin’. It’s offen easy to carry stuff about on a coaster and dispose of it at a good profit to here a one and there a one at the ports.…”

  “I see. So, with the exception of the two hundred pounds in a lump sum, Sam Prank hasn’t been very flush with money. Just paid a bit when he could?”

  “That’s right. An’ that’s all I know. He jest called ’ere on Saturday to say ’e couldn’t pay me, and I sent ’im off and told ’im he’d better find the dough if ’e knew what was good for ’im. So off ’e went and never seen agen …”

  “And with him your money, eh?”

  Rosie Lee was seized with a more violent spasm of coughing than ever. To such an extent was he racked, that he sprang to his feet and performed a sort of salaam, as though trying to squeeze an imprisoned demon out of his chest.

  At length he was fit to gulp down more beer and flopped exhausted in his chair again.

  “My money, did yer say? Oh, that’s all right. I got Sam’s note of hand and ’is aunt ’avin’ died first, Sam’s exors’ll get the dough and pay-out ’is debts. So I’m O.K., see?”

  “I see. And is that all, Mr. Lee?”

  “The whole bloody issue as far as I’m concerned. You ’aven’t got a thing agen me, so don’t be tryin’ anythin’ on. I jest did Sam a good turn when ’e needed a friend. A good Samaritan to the boys is their Uncle Rosie, as I said before.”

  “Well, I may call again shortly if anything turns up. You’ll be about, I suppose, Mr. Lee?”

  “Do I look as if I’m goin’ to take up me bed an’ do a bunk?”

  “No. But we found you out all day yesterday, when we were most anxious to interview you.”

  “Can’t a chap even ’ave a rest on Sundays now without the police ’avin’ a lot to say about it?”

  Littlejohn was glad to get in the open air and away from the repulsive old man, whom he left still indolently spread in his chair with his pot of beer.

  “He just seems to run the shop as a side-line,” said Hoggatt when Littlejohn got back to the police station and told him the result of his visit. “A boy who’s just left school gets the papers from the station when they arrive, delivers a few on a sort of round, and then spreads the rest out in the shop. As far as I can gather, there’s not much legitimate business done there. The old chap’s quite well-known as a sailors’ money-lender, however. Sort of shark they go to when they’ve boozed away their pay and want a bit to get on with till the next draw.”

  “Yes. He told me that quite frankly. Candidly, I don’t like the fellow at all. Besides being a dreadful looking old chap, he’s a wily rogue as well, or I’m a Dutchman. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t mix a spot of blackmail with his other activities. He’s got the air of a well-fed spider, a corrupt bloodsucker, about him and I’ll bet if it were known there’s plenty in his catalogue that would earn him a spell in gaol. We must keep an eye on him, although he’s a crafty devil. He seems to run a sort of private enquiry bureau of his own, too. Keeping track of the activities of the clients to whom he makes loans.…”

  Cromwell entered after his efforts among the crew of the Bluebell. He was dressed in grey flannels and a tweed jacket and had abandoned his bowler hat for a light grey soft felt. Since his marriage he had gradually relaxed in matters of dress and improved in taste and the style of his clothes. Which was all to the honour of Mrs. Cromwell. Now, he looked like a parson on holiday, for nothing could remove the ecclesiastical cut from his face.

  “Well, how did it go?” asked Littlejohn.

  “Not so bad,” answered Cromwell with his usual reserve. “It seems Sam Prank was on top of the world when he was murdered. From what I’ve heard from one of his mates on the ship, I’d say he was blackmailing somebody.…”

  VIII

  THE BLUEBELL

  CROMWELL had no difficulty in locating the Bluebell when he sought her out among the craft moored in the inner basin. Several loafers, mistaking him for an evangelist in search of souls, watched him with eyes dilated with curiosity and then, hearing him ask for the ship, assumed he was a lawyer calling for the gear of the deceased Sam Prank and offered to show him the way in the hope of gathering crumbs of information. The detective, however, turned upon them his most terrifying look, nay, he hurled it at them like a boomerang and they melted away discomfited.

  The Bluebell had a local reputation for being a steady, well-behaved and good ship and the captain had had no difficulty in filling Sam Prank’s place. The new recruit, a man with no chin and peering eyes, like those of a myopic who had lost his spectacles, was just being initiated into his duties by his shipmates. In addition to the skipper and mate, who were in the owner’s office, the Bluebell carried a crew of five. The engineer, his assistant, who also was fireman, and three deck-hands. The mechanical side of the party was busy cleaning machinery and getting up steam; the remaining trio were mopping-up after taking on a cargo of limestone.

  Cromwell made his way gingerly across the gangway. Judging from his age, bearing and the way he was leaving most of the work to the other two, one who must have been the senior seaman detached himself from the group and accosted the intruder. He looked officious and ready to throw the sergeant overboard.

  “Hey, you! Wotcher after?”

  Cromwell had again been mistaken for a parson evangelising or else hunting for copy for a series of sermons. He explained who he was and what he wanted in far from clerical terms.

  “Why didn’t yer say so at first?” thundered the sailor and slapped Cromwell on the back. Whereas, hitherto, the deck-hand had been treating the detective like a snob who cuts dead someone he knows in the street, now he became as one who, having discovered that the victim is a grocer and able to confer benefits from beneath the counter, fawns upon him in hope of favours to come.

  “Come below.… We’ll be quiet there. Prank was a special pal o’ mine.”

  They went forward and descended into a dark cabin reeking of tar, bilge and rancid ham. Cromwell didn’t like it at all and thought how easily he might be shanghaied and carried off, although, unknown to him, the imminent trip was merely to Sunderland.

  “Let’s get a drink at one of the pubs on the quay,” he said. Things moved with such rapidity after this suggestion, that before he knew where he was, the sergeant found himself in the snug of the “Hardstone Arms” with a pint of beer before him and his companion, Breeze, with his nose in another.

  There was no question of alibis for the crew of the ship. The local police had checked the movements of each of Prank’s shipmates and found them easily accounted for. Captain, mate and two of the crew had been drinking with parties who gave them confirmation and testimonials. The remainder, more homely men, had been in the bosoms of their large families with plenty to prove it. So, it was for some background about the murdered man that Littlejohn had sent his subordinate.

  As a source of information, Ted Breeze proved to be an empty vessel. All he knew was that Sam Prank was a good chap, fond of the girls, free with his money, and, God bless yer, too much of a Don Jewon to get married. He liked ’em, but not enough to marry ’em. Loved ’em and left ’em, did Sam, and managed to keep from gettin’ himself entangled in matrimony, the artful, lucky devil!

  Cromwell regarded the pint of beer as wasted and rose to go before there was any suggestion of paying for another.

  Outside they met the captain and mate of the Bluebell. They heard them, first, however.

  “Ahoy there, Breeze, you lazy bastard, what d’ye
think you’re doin’…? Forgotten we sail next tide?”

  Breeze opened his mouth but no words would flow and Cromwell had to explain the situation.

  “Come aboard,” said the Captain and pushed the detective before him to his own small cabin behind the bridge.

  “Cobb’s my name. Yours?”

  “Detective-Sergeant Cromwell, of Scotland Yard.…”

  “Good God! That bad is it? Have a drink?”

  Cobb poured out tots of rum and Cromwell, drinking too copiously, felt to have swallowed an incendiary bomb which burst into a thousand burning fragments among his viscera.

  “Confidentially, Mr. Cobb,” he said when he had recovered from his convulsions. “Confidentially, we haven’t got the slightest line on who killed Sam Prank. All the possibles we’ve looked at so far have watertight alibis.…”

  “Includin’ yours truly,” thundered Captain Cobb and laughed so loudly that he shook down a shaving-brush, two razors and a tooth-brush minus bristles from a narrow ledge over a miniature washbowl. “Good job I got an h’alibi. Many a time I could ’a’ murdered Sam Prank, good hand though he was.…”

  “Why?”

  “H’impident, that’s what he was. H’impident. Took ’is orders with a sneerin’ sort o’ smile, as if he didn’t want to do, but was just ’umourin’ you, like. But I always got my turn. Come pay day and Sam spent-up, as ’e always was, he’d sing a different tune.…”

  “A spender, eh?”

  “Spender? That’s a mild word. Threw it about like water, he did. Women …”

  Captain Cobb breathed the last word with hoarse awe like one who utters a magic formula before a closed door, and jerked his head knowingly.

  “Ah!” said Cromwell.

  “Now I see you standin’ Ted Breeze a drink ashore. No good, that. Ted Breeze doesn’t know a thing. Too much of a talker is Ted to be in Sam’s confidence. Neither was I in Sam’s confidence, as you might say. Captains never are with the crew, except when it’s a case of wantin’ advances of pay, like Sam did. Then, like as not, he’d not tell a proper tale and come with some cock-an’-bull rubbish. Now, if you was to ask Tom Kitchin, that’s the chap with the big ears as you’d see cleanin’ on deck … Tom’s yer man. See Tom.… See ’im in here. I’m goin’ down to the engines.… Not that I’ll be welcome, but goin’ down I am.…”