The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

by George Bellairs

  The orgy of religion was ended. The feast fell flat. It was like the morning after the night before. They separated Jane from the terrified deacon who continued to flail the air defensively for some time after like a punch-drunk pugilist, and four men had to hold her until the police and a doctor arrived. Then came the ambulance and they packed her off to the county asylum. It was the only safe place for her.

  XI

  OUT GOES ANOTHER ONE

  “WHERE exactly do we stand now in this case?” asked Hoggatt, vigorously scratching the hair at the back of his ear.

  “Well, I think the confession and removal of Jane has cleared the air of an encumbrance. With Harriet and Sam getting themselves murdered almost simultaneously, we’d a bit too much on the agenda. Now that Harriet’s death is more or less cleared up, we can go ahead with Sam,” replied Littlejohn.

  They were sitting in Hoggatt’s room at the police station and had just got rid of a number of deflated Bushers, who, the wind having been taken out of their sails by the sensational performance of Jane Prank, had been shepherded to the police station by the sergeant-in-charge and had constituted a crowd of witnesses giving testimonies concerning the course of events. It had been a scene like those beloved of the Old Masters. The numbering of the people at Bethlehem! Everybody told a different tale, of course. Instead of tallying with the lengthy and unctuous verbatim report given by the Rev. Micah Scewbody, who led them, they gave as many accounts as there were Bushers.

  Roughly summarised, Jane Prank’s staggering outpouring made in chapel and in the asylum amounted to this: Sam Prank, knowing that Jane was burning to be free from her bondage to Harriet and wishing to get his own inheritance speedily, too, had craftily suggested an increase in the dose of digitalis. The old woman’s heart was bad, her life hung almost by a thread, and her sudden death would surely be certified by the doctor as from natural causes. Otherwise, she might live to a hundred and cheat them out of enjoying their dues. At last, after constant and cunning pestering by Sam, the distraught Jane had succombed, but, in her overwrought state had tried to compromise with her conscience. She had only given half a lethal dose and then, instead of calling on an efficient and speedy neighbour for help, had caused delay in which to allow Harriet to die by asking the assistance of a couple she hardly expected to answer promptly on account of Mrs. Dabchick’s condition. Meanwhile, Sam had called and finished off the job. The heat of Mr. Scewbody’s discourse, fanned by Mr. Whimbrel’s third-degree had caused the pot to boil over.…

  The evening was sultry and from somewhere Hoggatt had produced bottles of beer, which he, Littlejohn and Cromwell were slowly consuming with great relish. It needed a lot to wash away the taste of the surfeit of Bushers.…

  Littlejohn pressed down the tobacco in his pipe with his middle finger and carefully re-lit it. Cromwell, too, who had taken to smoking a pipe, drew out a meerschaum—a present from his colleagues on the occasion of his marriage—from its case, approvingly surveyed the colour it was assuming and filled and lit it lovingly.

  “Now where were we?” said Littlejohn. “Yes. Before we couldn’t see wood for trees. Now the field is clearer. From the information you’ve gathered, Hoggatt, together with the results of my visit to Lee and Cromwell’s to the Bluebell, the affair seems to boil down to this. Sam Prank was blackmailing someone. As far as we can gather, he’d got hold of letters or something and was putting the screw on the unknown victim.…

  “I suppose that’s the murderer. Find the victim, find the man we’re after,” interjected Cromwell, and resumed his luxurious puffing.

  “As likely as not. Sam had been getting himself into trouble with a girl he’d met on his travels. She happened to be married. So he’d to find a fair amount to hush it up. Rosie Lee lent him enough to tide matters over and then began to press for repayment. Presumably Sam in turn got hot on the track of his victim and, at the same time, set to work on Jane Prank with a view to hastening the time when he’d get his aunt’s legacy, too. Sam’s victim must have got desperate and struck hard to free himself.…”

  “So now what?” chimed in Hoggatt, who had been listening thoughtfully, his head on one side and his cigarette forgotten and burning away between his fingers.

  “Cromwell found out from Sam’s shipmates that he was likely to have left the blackmail letters in the hands of a friend ashore. That friend, we understand, would probably be Lee. That’s our next job. We’ve got to see Lee again and force him into the open. He’s as wily as a fox and wouldn’t talk last time I saw him. Now that we know he’s likely to have the letters, however, we’ve a lever to use. Doubtless, if he does hold them, he’ll try to cash-in himself. A bit of blackmail’s probably quite up his street.…”

  “And how about the girl Sam Prank got into trouble?” added Hoggatt. “Mightn’t it be that somebody connected with her called and took revenge on Sam Prank? Her brother, husband, father, might have got to the bottom of what had happened and sworn revenge.”

  “Yes. And that’s a job for you to-morrow, Cromwell. Did you get to know where in South Redport Lee’s spy found out about the affair?”

  “No. I overlooked that.…”

  The sergeant stared hard into the bowl of his pipe. He didn’t often miss anything. He could have kicked himself.

  “All right, Cromwell. Don’t worry. The Bluebell’s only coasting. We can find out from her owners where she puts-in and get the details by telephone. Hoggatt’ll perhaps look after that. Get a message through and ask Tom Kitchin of the Bluebell to ring-up Werrymouth police as soon as they dock at wherever they’re bound for. Ask him the name and address of the girl at South Redport that Sam Prank had been visiting and paying money. And tell him he’d better disclose everything or else he’ll find himself on the wrong side of the law. We’ll call on Mr. Lee to-night, however, and try to squeeze the information out of him to save trouble, but I’ve not much hope. He coughs himself almost unconscious when questions get near the danger line and manages somehow to evade the issue.”

  Hoggatt rose and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Well.… That’s that. We see Rosie Lee again and try to get something out of him about the letters and who wrote ’em. We also get on the trail of the girl at South Redport.… Anything else?”

  “That’ll do for this sitting, Hoggatt,” replied Littlejohn. “I admit we’ve not got very far yet. Let’s hope Mr. Lee’s a bit more communicative. You can leave this to us and I’ll ’phone you if there are developments. We’ll get off straight to our lodgings otherwise. It’s getting late and we mustn’t miss the last ’bus.”

  Cromwell carefully cleaned out his presentation pipe, polished the coloured bowl on his sleeve and tucked it snugly away in its case, patting the pocket to which he consigned it affectionately.

  “Good night.…”

  It was dark outside. An offshore wind whistled down the hill on which the police station stood and teased the water of the docks, which lapped and flopped in the basins. In the distance, the boom of surf on the beach of the upper town.

  A few dimmed lamps shone on the quay, mere matters of form, for nobody could find the way by them. The riding-lights of ships blinked and bobbed in the harbour and threw twisted reflections in the choppy water. Timbers creaked and groaned and ropes flapped in the breeze. Now and again one boat bumped another or beat the dockside with a dull thud.

  There were a few loungers on the quay, mostly lovers cuddling in dark corners and shop doorways, or else sailors out for a binge, busy pub-crawling. From the quayside taverns emerged sounds of shouting, singing, cheering, quarrelling. Someone was vomiting noisily over the side of the docks. The man on the Halfpenny Bridge was sitting smoking in his cabin by the turnstile. He felt like playing truant and risking whether or not anybody wanted to take the short cut.

  With the help of Cromwell’s torch the two Scotland Yard men found Rosie Lee’s shop. The shutters were up and the door fast. They hammered in vain. Not a sound from within. At length, their noise broug
ht to the door of the adjacent shop, which sold canary and budgerigar food, dog biscuits, cuttle-fish and ferrets, a shuffling shadow of a man, whose height was alone distinguishable from the direction of his mouth and voice, and who timidly remained in the darkness of his doorway.

  “No use knocking there. He’s out,” fluted the newcomer in a reedy voice. From somewhere in the blackness of the shop could be heard the squeaking and chirping of small live things the smell of which seemed to surround their unseen owner like a protective cloud.

  “Did you see him go out?”

  “Yes. About eight o’clock.”

  “What direction did he take?”

  “Over the old bridge. I was standin’ at the door ’avin’ a smoke as ’e went out. I noticed it special on account of ’is not goin’ out much.… Get in! Get in!”

  The sudden exclamation was made to two cats which seemed to be rubbing round the trousers of the animal dealer. He seized them by the scruffs of their necks and deposited them behind him, where they began a chorus of pathetic mewing. This interlude seemed to disturb the other occupants of the shop, which began to chatter and squeak and a parrot could be heard swearing like a trooper. The man closed the door the better to converse with his visitors.

  “So Mr. Lee didn’t go out much?”

  “’ardly at all. A little girl—distant relative of ’is, I understand—comes in the mornin’s and does a bit o’ shoppin’ fer ’im. And Mrs. Box, from behind here, tidies up fer ’im twice a week. Not that I takes much notice. Lee and me’s not on speakin’ terms, as yer might say. I usedter keep me ferrets and sich in hutches in the back yard and Lee said they stunk ’im out. Sent fer the sanitary inspector, he did, an’ made me shift the whole bloody lot ’ad to keep ’em in the cellar and the shop after that.…”

  “Very awkward, I’m sure. You’d have heard Lee if he’d come back, you think?”

  “Certainly. The lock on ’is shop door’s an old spring one and he ’as to slam it like ’ell to get it to catch. Nearly knocks down the whole ruddy row of buildings when ’e locks up fer the night. No, ’e’s not come in, I tell yer.”

  “Has he had any strange visitors of late, do you know?”

  “Not as I’d notice. People come an’ go, you know. After all, that’s what you expect in a shop, mister, isn’t it? If there’s no comin’s and goings there’s no trade and if there’s no trade there’s the bankruptcy court.… Now, take me.…”

  Littlejohn, anxious not to be hearing the whole of the shadow’s business history, quickly interposed.

  “We were round on Sunday afternoon and found Mr. Lee out, too. Did he make a habit of being out on closing day?”

  The invisible man paused to light a fag-end. The glow of the match disclosed a thin consumptive-looking face, with high cheek-bones, a long, narrow, hooked nose and a ragged black moustache. Like an engraving of Don Quixote. The sudden flare of light illuminated the bulging eyeballs and tapering fingers with long dirty nails. He looked like a strange animal himself.

  Don Quixote inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

  “No. I never knew anybody who kept house like Rosie. Never stirred out o’ doors except on special occasions. Sat in ’is chair swillin’ beer most o’ the time and too lazy even to get up an’ attend to the shop. Queer goin’s on, if you ask me.”

  “Any idea where he went last Sunday afternoon, Mr.… Mr.…?”

  The name was over the shop window but was not legible in the darkness.

  “Tinline’s the name. Tobias Tinline.… Yes, I think I know where ’e went. But what d’yer want to know all this for? Not debt collectors or the bums, are yer?”

  “No. We’re police officers.…”

  Littlejohn thought he’d better tell Tinline and get it over with; it was cold on the quay and he had no wish to be invited indoors among the stench of the miniature menagerie.

  “Wot’s up? ’as Lee bin up to somethin’, like?”

  “No. A friend of his is in trouble and we really want to see Mr. Lee for a bit of help. But about last Sunday afternoon.…”

  “Oh, yes. I was just gettin’ ready to take the dogs out for a walk round the houses, when I sees Lee passin’ the window. Funny, I thinks to myself. Ain’t seen you out for many a long day. Somethin’ must ’ave ’appened to get you out o’ doors. So, as I’m goin’ the same direction, I ’urries up a bit and follers in ’is footsteps. Not that it was any of my business, I admits that, gents, but you know ’ow you are … you know.…”

  “Yes, we know.”

  “Rosie didn’t go far. Just round the corner and into the Samaritan.”

  “Off for a drink, was he?” muttered Cromwell in a voice hopeless with disappointment.

  “No, no, no. The Samaritan’s not a pub! It’s the ’ospital. Big place as backs on the rear o’ my premises, see? I saw Rosie go in by the front door and then bothered no more about ’im. One o’ my dogs got in a fight and that put Rosie quite out o’ my head.”

  “Well, well. Was he an out-patient, or something?”

  “Search me. I’m not on speakin’ terms, I told yer. It ain’t likely Rosie’d tell me ’is troubles. Looked as if ’e wanted treatment o’ some sort, I’ll tell yer. Fat as a pig, soakin’ up beer all day, and a face like Vesuvius in eruption.…”

  “Perhaps he was visiting somebody.”

  “Wot! Rosie? Don’t make me lawf. Turned sick visitor in ’is old age? Callin’ eatin’ other people’s grapes, wot?”

  Instead of laughing however, Don Quixote burst into a series of quick-fire sneezes which convulsed him like a jerking marionette.

  “Must get in. Catchin’ cold. Night air gettin’ on me chest.”

  And with that, he hastily disappeared like a jack-in-the-box into the dark, noisesome shop.

  Cromwell fumbled in his pocket and took out the large watch which his father had given him when he reached twenty-one and, producing the petrol-lighter which never lit the first time, managed to tell the time by the sparks from the flint.

  “The last ’bus home has been gone more than ten minutes,” he muttered with studied resignation.

  “Let’s get back to the police station, then, and see if one of the patrol cars is going in our direction,” answered Littlejohn.

  Hoggatt almost cheered with relief when his two colleagues re-appeared.

  “Gosh! I’m relieved to see you back. Things have been happening since you went. We’ve got another stiff in the mortuary. Mister Rosie Lee!”

  “What! We’ve just been on his track ourselves. What’s happened to him?”

  “He was brought in just after you’d gone. He was found dead in the road just past the old bridge. Apparently he’d been walking back to town in the dark from somewhere and had been knocked down and killed by a car. The doctor said he hadn’t been dead more than half-an-hour when they found him.…”

  “You said apparently. I agree. If the doctor’s at work on him now, we’ll soon know the truth. In the circumstances, I don’t think it was an accident.…”

  As if to confirm Littlejohn’s views, the Mephistophelian face of Dr. Swann was thrust round the door.

  “Hullo, Littlejohn.… Another body for you. Nasty bit of work this time. Died of a broken neck. Wheel of a car seems to have passed over the back of his neck and snapped it like a bit of twig. But there’s a lump on the back of the head which makes it seem that he was unconscious when he was killed. I’d say he was deliberately put in the road and then run over.… Mind you, I won’t swear to it until I’ve given him another thorough going-over; but that’s my provisional report. The body was in dreadful shape. If he hadn’t met a quick death, he’d have had a long and lingering mess of an end before long from natural causes!”

  “Can we see the body, doctor?” asked Littlejohn.

  “Certainly, if you can bear the sight of it. He looks pretty bad as a corpse. Bad enough when he was alive, but a hell of a sight worse dead. Come on.…”

  They entered the cold, gloomy morgue where the las
t of Mr. Rosie Lee was enduring the onsets of rigor mortis under a sheet.

  There was nothing helpful in the pile of stuff the police had removed from the pockets. Thirty shillings in notes and change. A bunch of keys. A dirty handkerchief and some string. A knife and a corkscrew and the caps of two or three beer bottles.…

  Littlejohn bent and picked up a pair of boots with frayed laces knotted here and there where they had broken, and soles barely clinging to the uppers.

  “These his boots?” he asked, inspecting the soles and then having picked up the dead man’s knife, prodding in the angle where the heel meets the sole of one of them. Taking an envelope from his pocket he shook a portion of what he had loosened into it and showed it to Cromwell and Hoggatt.

  “What is it?” said Hoggatt, sniffing it and turning up his nose.

  “Pig dung,” said Littlejohn. “Mr. Rosie Lee seems to have been out in the country. But had he walked far, that would have been dislodged from his boots. It looks as if he was laid out somewhere, brought in by car and put in the road near the town to make his death look like an accident.…”

  XII

  THE PATIENT IN WARD 10

  IT was in the small hours that Littlejohn and Cromwell arrived back at Playfair’s cottage in a patrol car.

  They had been assisting Hoggatt and his men to make a thorough search of the premises of the dead Mr. Lee. In the course of turning the whole place upside down in the hope of finding anything which might throw light on the Sam Prank affair, the police came across evidence of a number of shady and repulsive transactions, but no trace of anything whatever connected with the murdered seaman.

  “It’s ten to one that Lee had the letters, or whatever it was, in his pocket when he was killed and whoever did it took them away,” grumbled Hoggatt.

  The rest agreed. They were all disappointed at the fruitless quest. It was bad enough having to turn over the noisesome contents of Lee’s unholy quarters, without drawing a blank for their pains. It was too far in the night to think of taking baths at once, but all the officers felt they would never be clean again.…