The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Well.… These bits and pieces, not many of ’em, you know, because the staff take their share… payin’ for it of course.… As I was sayin’, these bits and pieces is sold to fent dealers.… Judge was one of ’em. He paid for what he got. Nothin’ underhand. There’s no dishonesty in my warehouse, mister.… Now then, Charlie. Find Beatrice somethin’ to do. She’ll do nothin’ unless she’s told.…”

  “O.K., Ben,” meekly replied his subordinate.

  “… And the money we drew, perhaps a pound or two a time, was put in a box in my desk.…”

  Ben produced a cigar-box stuffed with notes and silver to prove his point.

  “When it gets to twenty pounds it goes in the office and is booked.”

  “Yes, but what had Barrow to do with all this?”

  “On the Saturday he was killed, I had a rally of Brethren out of town and as Mr. Judge was due to call after the market, I mentioned to Mr. Barrow I couldn’t be here. To my surprise, he said he’d be passing and would call. Judge was here at six, and he’d hand over the remnants and take the pay.”

  “I see. Why didn’t you tell the local police all that? They wanted to find out if the Judge deal was straight and above board. They spent weeks on it. They also wanted to know why Barrow was here. You held the answers and said nothing.”

  Ben Yule’s little eyes flashed and his lips tightened.

  “They never asked me. Anyhow, I’ve told you, haven’t I? I’m not one for speaking out of my turn.…”

  “You should have made an exception this time, Mr. Yule. Didn’t anybody else know of these things and tell Inspector Faddiman when he called in your absence?”

  “No. Charlie there came to see me that Monday. Wanted to know if he should mention it.… Now then, Charlie, keep them lads movin’. That lot’s to be got out soon as we can.…”

  “O.K. Ben.…”

  “No, I tells Charlie. If they want your advice, they’ll ask for it. He’ll do nothin’ without me agreein’ first, won’t Charlie. So nothin’ was said.”

  “So, out of spite and pride, Ben, you withheld important information from the police. I’m surprised at you,”

  “I’ve no spite nor pride in me. I poured contempt on all my pride long ago. My conscience is clear.…”

  “I’m glad of that, Ben.”

  Littlejohn left Ben to think it out and called at the office again, He asked for Miss Lackland.

  The girl entered the shabby enquiry office and seemed surprised at the fresh visit. She still bore the traces of tears.

  “Could you tell me, Miss Lackland, if Mr. Barrow knew anything about professional make-up? I mean, did he do any for the amateurs?”

  “Oh, yes, Inspector. We had one or two lectures on make-up once and Mr. Barrow was very interested. He said he’d like to help before the show. Lend a hand, you know, before the music started. And he did. He was quite helpful and good.”

  “Thank you, Miss lackland. That’s all for the time being.”

  There were visitors in Faddiman’s office when Littlejohn arrived, A parson and his wife. The Rev. D. Theodore Brewer, of the church where Barrow had been choirmaster. Unfortunate name for a clergyman, but there it was.

  Mr. Brewer was a small, light-footed thin little man with pink cheeks, a bald head, a noble Roman nose and a meek, gentlemanly manner. His wife was twice his size; large, heavy-bosomed, with a flat round face and a firm voice. They both looked anxious, partly from the matter in hand, partly because they were expecting the Lord to call them from Brockfield, which they disliked, to distant seaside parts, and the letter hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Ah, here you are,” said Faddiman in a voice which hinted that Littlejohn had been taking a day off, unauthorised. “Mr. Brewer has called with some information.…”

  He introduced the parties and there was a lot of fussing before they all got down to business.

  “I am, as you may know, minister at the church at which Mr. Barrow played the organ. It was a very sad loss and a great pity, for he was a good man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mind you,” interposed Mrs. Brewer, “Mind you, there were things about his domestic life that were most unsavoury, but, then, that wasn’t his fault. It was his wife’s. Surprising how a woman can drag a man down.…”

  The Rev. D. Theodore Brewer coughed apologetically and looked firmly around to show that he hadn’t yet been stricken by his huge partner.

  “I have heard a lot of talk of late,” went on Mr. Brewer, “about police enquiries. It’s surprising how, recently, with the re-opening of the case, things seem to have… to have… er… WARMED UP, shall we say.”

  The little man looked terribly pleased with the metaphor and repeated it.

  “Warmed up.”

  Faddiman gave him a perforating glare. Was the little devil hinting that he had only been carrying on a lukewarm investigation?

  “That is hardly fair, my dear,” boomed Mrs. Brewer. Her husband was always putting his innocent foot in it. They were wanting to leave the Brockfield church because of a split he had caused by mixing up the names of the deacons at the opening of a bazaar. Everybody had laughed except the deacons and their retinues. After all, when you forget the names of men you’ve known for a dozen years.… He’d called Rainrider and Heathcote, Heathrider and Raincoat.…

  “That is hardly fair, my dear. Mr. Faddiman certainly did his best, but then, Scotland Yard is trained to capture murderers. You can’t expect the local police, who only get a murder now and then, to know how to do it.…”

  Mrs. Brewer always made matters worse. Faddiman was furious. Littlejohn didn’t know where to look to hide his smile.

  “Well?” asked Faddiman acidly.

  The parson looked up suddenly. He couldn’t understand what he’d done to deserve all this.

  “I only thought it my duty to call and say that I saw Mr. Barrow entering Fennings’ Mill on the night of the crime.”

  “Did you, indeed, sir? And why haven’t you brought this information earlier. The case has been open for months. It has never been closed, or off the boil, as you seem to think.”

  Mrs. Brewer opened and shut her mouth several times like a fish out of water.

  “I didn’t think it important. After all, he must have entered the mill to get murdered, mustn’t he?”

  Mr. Brewer smiled benevolently at his powers of logic.

  “Yes, but the time was important. You should have called before this. It’s most annoying.”

  Littlejohn intervened. Faddiman’s spleen was holding up the interview.

  “What time would that be, sir?”

  Mr. Brewer took out a gold hunter watch, a present from his former church, and carefully consulted it, as though the time in question were perpetually recorded there.

  “About a quarter to six, Inspector, as near as I can say.”

  “How came you there, sir?”

  “I was sick-visiting. One of my congregation, since dead, poor fellow.…”

  “Mr. Heading,” added Mrs. Brewer helpfully.

  “Yes, my dear. He lived in one of a row of houses opposite the main gates of the mill. I remember the time, because I had to be sure to meet Dr. Hornblower at the station. He was conducting a special service for me that evening. A good thing he could play the organ, too, for with Mr. Barrow dead and unable to be with us, we were in a dreadful fix. However, Dr. Hornblower.…”

  “Never mind Dr. Hornblower, Mr. Brewer,” snapped Faddiman, “Please get on with Barrow.”

  “REALLY, Mr. Faddiman,” boomed Mrs. Brewer.

  Only she was allowed to bully her meek little partner.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but our time is valuable and I’m anxious.…”

  “Of course you are. We all are. Well… as I was telling your colleague, it was a quarter to six when I left the Headings. He was at death’s door, then, by the way. As I closed the door and put up my umbrella, for it was raining hard, as you know, I saw Mr. Barrow enter the mill yard by the iron gate.…
”

  “Are you sure it was Barrow?” asked Littlejohn.

  Faddiman looked hard at the Inspector and the parson and his wife looked as pained as though he’d called the little man a liar.

  “Well, they did say the police found poor Barrow in a cloth cap.… Most unusual for him; he always wore a grey trilby.… And with a moustache on. The man I saw had such a cap and I saw his moustache under the lamp near the gate.”

  “Did you make out his features, sir?”

  “Nothing more, I’m afraid.…”

  “So, it might have been anyone else with a cap and moustache?”

  “Yes. I suppose it might. But who could it have been? Mr. Barrow was there and was killed. Oh, dear me.… It might have been the murderer. I never thought of that!”

  Mr. Brewer clicked his tongue against his teeth and looked utterly dismayed at the thought.

  “So you’re not sure, sir.”

  “It was about Barrow’s height.…”

  “Did the man let himself in with a key?”

  “No. I’m sure he didn’t. He was approaching the gate when I saw him, pushed it gently, found it open, and went in.…”

  “Thank you very much, sir.…”

  The clerical party left with many expressions of farewell and good will.

  Faddiman blew out his cheeks.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I’m beginning to wonder whether the murderer didn’t make-up Barrow and put on the whiskers after the crime.…”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Suppose he wanted to get in the mill without disclosing his identity. He could make himself up like we found Barrow. Then, kill Barrow and put the disguise on him. Remember Mr. Brewer surprised the fellow—Barrow, or whoever it was—entering the mill. The man knew he’d been spotted and enquiries would be made. He’d arranged to meet Barrow, or knew Barrow would be there, and intended to kill Barrow. To make it look that the man Brewer saw had been the one killed, the murderer transferred his disguise to his victim.”

  “Seems rather a tall tale to me.”

  “Just surmise, but a likely explanation. We’ll make another test. Which policeman found and brought in the body?”

  “132 and 124, Meads and Harris.”

  “Either of them handy?”

  Faddiman rang for an officer. P.C. 124 was on point-duty in the town centre. They soon had him there. A well set-up man with a red nose and soft brown eyes like a spaniel’s.

  “Harris, do you know anything about theatrical make-up?”

  “No, sir. But Meads does. He was in the Police Amateur Operatics at the last place he was at.”

  “Did he say anything about the make-up on the body the pair of you found at Fennings?”

  “Yes, sir. Said it was a rotten job. Showed me. Paint put on without any ground, as he called it. Just daubed straight on from the stick.”

  “There!” said Littlejohn. “Somebody put it on for Barrow. Somebody who didn’t know a thing about it and was in a hurry. Barrow knew how to make up properly and, if he wanted to get off the grease paint without a lot of fuss, which he did want to do, he would certainly have used a cold-cream or similar ground. Yes, I think the poor chap was disguised after he was strangled.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CLOTH CAP

  IT was turned noon when Littlejohn got back to Fennings’ Mill from the police station. He found neither of the directors there. James had left early on a business appointment; and Andrew had called and gone off to lunch at The Queen Anne. As Littlejohn turned to make his way back to the hotel, where he hoped to get his own meal and then perhaps catch Mr. Andrew for a talk, a buzzer sounded in the yard and all the hands, like prisoners released from gaol, poured hurriedly out of the mills to lunch. There was a canteen on the premises, but more than half of the personnel worked near enough to their homes to go there for the meal.

  Scores of them, men, women and young lads and girls crowded out and many of them mounted bicycles and pedalled off. Littlejohn soon found himself in the throng of factory hands. Some of them knew him. News travels fast. One and another nodded familiarly, others, particularly the young, started and pointed him out to one another. The Man from Scotland Yard was quite an event.

  The yard and neighbouring streets had been quiet and almost deserted before the siren blew. Now, after the workers had made their rush for food, a silence descended again.

  Facing the warehouse stood the tall engine house, through the high glass windows of which could been seen, from where Littlejohn was standing, the whole length of the bright piston of the huge engine. The crankshaft, driving the flywheel with rhythmic ease, looked like a great shining claw, reaching out and then withdrawing. The whole place shook with vibration, a steady thud, thud, which might have been the percussion of a symphony of machines, looms, carding engines, winding and spinning frames, each with its own particular note. Then, the strokes of the shaft slowly grew slower, the flywheel and governors gradually came to rest, the shrill whirr and clack of the machinery all over the mill changed and faded away. All that could be heard, at length, was the escape of steam somewhere and the movement of the factory hands.

  Beneath the engine-house was the fire-hole, where two great boilers, each with its roaring furnace, supplied the steam. Two firebeaters scrambled here and there, opening the furnace doors to feed them, shovelling the coal from the stacks nearby with almost graceful ease into the flames. The whole place was spick and span. A well-kept, prosperous concern.…

  As Littlejohn stood there taking it all in, a window in the engine-house opened, and a bald head was thrust out. Impossible to make out the features, for the window was a small one and the owner seemed only to be able to reach high enough to get his head through it. A hand came round the side of the jaw, two fingers were inserted in the mouth and bald-head managed to blow a shrill blast on them.

  Littlejohn looked up.

  “Hey! Can yo come up? Aw can’t come down to yer. Ah’ve me engines to see to.…’”

  Littlejohn waved and climbed up to the metal door of the engine-room by means of the iron staircase from the yard.

  The heat of the atmosphere caught the Inspector by the throat as he entered the place. The faint panic of choking and the unpleasant smell of hot oil.

  There were two men there, the engineer and his assistant, each dressed in blue overalls with little else on underneath. Both seemed to thrive in their semi-tropical atmosphere, for they were flabbily fat and cheerful. The chief was a head taller than his mate and apparently provided the technical knowledge and supervision whilst his mate did the heavier work. The younger man was busy with an oil-can, lubricating the bearings whilst the engine was at rest. The great machinery, looming with mighty harnessed energy, was beautifully well-kept, like a well-behaved animal, yet full of savage power. The two attendants looked dwarfed beside it.

  The chief welcomed Littlejohn with a smile which disclosed a mouthful of very even white false teeth. He was a jovial fellow and whenever be beamed on you, you saw nothing but the teeth. The face was smooth, oily and etiolated from the equatorial temperatures he worked in and his blue eyes protruded so much that it seemed a strain to keep the eyeballs in their sockets.

  “Ah just wanted a word with you,” said the engineer wiping his hands over and over again from force of habit, on a piece of oily waste. “My name’s Walker and ah’m th’ engineer here.”

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Walker.…”

  His assistant stopped work and stood beside the controls watching Littlejohn with great interest. By degrees he shuffled nearer and nearer in the hope of overhearing what the conversation might be about. He was in his twenties and looked as though, once having chosen the right size of overall, he had then inflated himself, for his uniform was skin-tight and bulging from the flesh beneath.

  “Get on wi’ thy dinner, Seth,” shouted Mr. Walker. “Them long ears o’ thine ’ll hear nowt good o’ thyself for listenin’.”

  Seth somewhat sheepishly
sought and opened a large tin lunch-box, from which he lifted enormous cheese sandwiches. These he stuffed in his mouth like a man feeding or packing a machine, and his swollen jaws began to rotate rhythmically as he tried to look as though he weren’t interested in his boss and his works.

  A small apprentice, also in overalls, arrived with two cans of tea and handed them to the engineers. He smiled cheekily at Walker and seemed disposed to stay and lark.

  “Thee be off. Ah’m busy,” said Walker.

  “O.K. Sandy, I’ll remember that next time you want yer tea.…”

  “None o’ thy lip.… Be off with thee.… Scram.…”

  Seth was busy pouring tea in the lid of the can and transferring it with relish into his already overflowing mouth. He masticated vigorously.

  Walker, having helped himself to a swig of tea and lubricated his vocal cords, now turned to attend to Littlejohn.

  “You’re the chap from Scotland Yard, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.…”

  “On the look-out for clues, ah guess?”

  His face looked all teeth and eyeballs.

  “Well, that’s part of our business, Mr. Walker.”

  “I’ve got a clue here for yer then.…”

  Followed by the eyes of his assistant, which glinted with curiosity over his food-swollen cheeks, Walker walked to the wall and from a nail above a number of gauges, took a dirty cloth cap.

  “There you are,” he said, handing it with great satisfaction to the Inspector.

  Littlejohn smiled.

  “What’s this?”

  Seth made noises through his food and finding he could not properly articulate, masticated more furiously than ever to empty his mouth.

  “Thee shut up and get on wi’ thy dinner. This is my business.…”

  “Yes, but, dad.…”

  So they were father and son! They looked it.

  “Shut up, I said.”

  The cap was an ordinary tweed one, now quite dry, but bearing evidence of immersion in water. Inside, a dirty piece of triangular silk bore the name “Bolting, Bond Street, London.”