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

by George Bellairs

  “Do you know who was cited, Mrs. Barrow?”

  “No.…”

  “Then, I must tell you.…”

  She grew tense with anxiety, fearful lest the name she was hiding might next be uttered.

  “Dr. Martindale!”

  A look of intense relief crossed Flo. Barrow’s face and her taut body relaxed.

  “Well?”

  “That shows what nonsense it all was. Dr. Martindale was only a friend. He isn’t even my doctor. I’ve met him at affairs and even had a drink with him, but.…”

  She suddenly stopped, fearing she might be saying too much or interfering with someone else’s schemes.

  “But what?”

  “Nothing. Ambrose was making a lot of fuss about nothing.”

  Littlejohn left it at that. He’d learned all he wanted to know about the question. The rest of the answer lay elsewhere.

  “Are you a friend of the Fenning family, Mrs. Barrow?”

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “In what way, please?”

  She fished about for words again. She was as pale as ever and trembling, although the room was hot and stuffy. The whole business was depressing. Wringing a tale out of a woman who didn’t want to tell it in a place with one deal table and two rickety chairs and an atmosphere which seemed to have been sealed in the room since the day the building was put up! There was a gas-fire in the fireplace which kept making plopping noises. Finally, the thing back-lit and hissed out a lot of half consumed gas. Littlejohn got up and turned it out.

  “Well, Mrs. Barrow?”

  “The Fenning family was interested in all its workpeople. Especially in people like Ambrose, who’d served them since he was a boy and risen to high rank.”

  “But I believe you were a particular friend of Mr. Andrew Fenning. Is that so?”

  “I was his secretary when he was mayor of the town and kept on with him till I married Ambrose.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked straight at Littlejohn in an effort to assert outraged innocence.

  “You were seen about the place with him very frequently. In fact, the regulars at The Queen Anne still talk about it.”

  “They would. I was his secretary. Naturally, he took me to tea and home, too, when we worked late. In a small town like this, they’ve nothing to do but concoct scandal.…”

  Judging from the scenes outside, the women, at least, had plenty to keep them busy. They were like a swarm of bees round the stalls. A pot-stall had now opened up and you could see the crowds sorting out cups and saucers, asking the prices and recoiling in horror at the answers. Then buying them.

  “Let me ask you another question then, Mrs. Barrow. Were you such a friend of the late Mr. Miles Fenning as to merit his leaving you a considerable sum in his Will?”

  That did it. Mrs. Barrow just slid from her chair in a dead faint. The weak spot had been struck and Littlejohn felt a bully for doing it. He rang the bell and a policeman appeared. The bobby’s eyes opened wide and looked ready to roll down his cheeks with surprise.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  “The lady’s fainted. Have you any brandy?”

  Littlejohn left the rank and file to deal with Flo. Barrow. They were slapping her hands, trying to force a few drops of brandy between her teeth, generally rendering first-aid as taught in the regulations.…

  Littlejohn fought his way through the milling crowds in the town-hall square. Dr. Martindale was still in his surgery. He’d had a thick night and hadn’t got in his stride. He looked ready to murder Littlejohn when the dispenser ushered in the detective again.

  “What do you want? Still badgering people about?”

  “Yes. I’ve just left Mrs. Barrow. She assures me there are no grounds for divorce in her relations with you. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Very kind of you. If that’s all, good-morning. I’m busy.”

  “That isn’t all. I’m here to ask you who employed you to take the blame for Mrs. Barrow’s shortcomings. In other words, someone paid you to act as co-respondent in this case. Someone who wanted to keep his own family out of the headlines.”

  “Mind your own blasted business. I’m not talking.”

  “I’m afraid you are, doctor. Otherwise, you’re going to court to talk there and then you’re going before the Medical Council for unprofessional conduct.…”

  Martindale sat down and passed his hand over his forehead. Then he took out his handkerchief and wiped away the sweat. He was in very bad shape indeed.

  “I won’t talk, all the same”

  “Then, I will. Ambrose Barrow knew his wife was unfaithful to him. And he knew who with, too. But there was a reason for his not instituting proceedings at once. If he cited the man he knew was his wife’s lover, he’d lose his job and he didn’t want to do that. All the same, he was determined to be free, because, you see, doctor, he loved somebody else, who would make him happy. If some arrangement wasn’t come to, Barrow would have taken the risk and left his job, but then, he’d have cited the real culprit.…”

  Martindale listened fascinated. It was evident that Littlejohn had hit the nail on the head. The doctor took a bottle from a cupboard and helped himself to a drink, pursed his lips and sat down again.

  “Doctor, the Fenning family paid you to take the blame. They offered to pay your many debts in the town if you’d help them out. And Barrow fell in. Your name was given in the divorce papers and you’d have gone through with it if the murdered man had lived.”

  “I give it up. No harm’s been done. What you said is true. I’m in a hell of a hole. That would have straightened me. I’ll have to leave town in any case now.”

  “Who made you the offer?”

  “Old Miles.”

  “On behalf of Andrew?”

  “I don’t know. It was part of the bargain that I asked no questions.”

  “How much did he offer?”

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  “Whew! He was desperate, then.”

  “Miles Fenning was never desperate. He had money and knew that every man has his price. You don’t need to be desperate when you’ve as much wool on your back as old Fenning had.”

  “Did Barrow concur, then?”

  “Yes. What else could he do? It’s not easy at his age to get a job as good as the one he had. And he wanted to marry the Lackland girl. Old Lackland’s straight-laced. He’d have kicked up no end of a row if Barrow had let his wife divorce him; so Barrow was determined to divorce Flo.”

  Once the ice was broken and his weakening reserve overcome, the doctor was ready to talk. He looked pent-up and almost eager to confide.

  “Do you remember the night Mr. Heading died? The night of the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were at the Headings all the evening?”

  “Not all the evening. In the early part just before surgery hours.”

  “Till nearly seven?”

  “Yes. The old man died.…”

  “I know. You went outside for a smoke, although it was raining.…”

  The doctor looked sharply at Littlejohn.

  “What are you getting at? I’d been in the sickroom all that time. I wanted some air. I put on my mackintosh and hat and took a short turn along the pavement. Then I came back.”

  “Was anything going on at Fennings’ Mill whilst you were out, doctor?”

  “A bit of coming and going. The lodge wicket-gate was open, or seemed to be. Two or three people went in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police of this before? Surely you knew that Barrow was killed there that night. The information might have been vital.”

  “I’ve something better to do with my time than meddle in police cases. I’m working this practice single-handed. I’ve hardly time to eat, let alone read the papers or follow murder cases.”

  “Who did you see hanging about the mill, then?”

  “The little Jew who was killed, I s
hould guess, judging from descriptions.”

  “So you did read the papers, then?”

  “Oh, hell! The thing’s been all over the town. All my patients were talking about it everywhere I went.”

  “I suggest you didn’t want to get mixed up in it because you didn’t want to get across with the Fennings.…”

  “Think what the devil you like. I don’t care. And now, have you finished, because I’ve calls to make?”

  “Just another minute and then I’ll go. You saw the little Jew, as you call him. Anybody else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Ambrose Barrow.”

  “Did you recognise him?”

  “Of course, I did. I know him well. I’d know his walk, to say nothing else, among a hundred.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Yes. Somebody in a cloth cap and raincoat.…”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Of course not. There was a street lamp in front of the mill gate, but the man didn’t obligingly turn for me to see who he was.…”

  “In what order did these three enter?”

  “Haven’t you done yet? Barrow was the first; then the man in the cap, I think. Then the Jew.”

  “Thank you, doctor. You’ve caused us a lot of trouble by not coming along with the information. In fact, you seem to have deliberately withheld it!”

  “Think what you like. I don’t care. I’ve troubles enough. One more or less in addition won’t kill me.”

  The dispenser put her head round the door.

  “Your car’s still standing at the corner, doctor. The police.…” Her face, with its large spectacles was eager with anxiety.

  The doctor turned awkward.

  “I’ll have a cup of coffee then, please, Miss Noakes. The blasted car can stand there until they book me. This fellow here’s been threatening me for nothing ever since he came. Now we’ll give the bobbies something proper to fine me for.”

  And with a burst of cackling laughter the doctor left the room. Before Littlejohn went, he saw the doctor, hat on his head, enter the car and drive off. Then he saw the Rev. Brewer bearing down on him again, his face beaming still, ready to announce the good news yet a second time.

  Mr. Brewer looked at Littlejohn, smiled, and then looked away to watch with sympathy the doctor manœuvring his car through the crush of market traffic. When the reverend turned his head to find Littlejohn, the Inspector had vanished.

  “Well, well…” chuckled Mr. Brewer. And then he started to whistle a little tune he’d heard last night at the Sunday school dance. Something about it’s being a hap… hap… happy day. He felt like that.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE SORROWS OF P.C. 33.

  P.C. MULLIGAN would have been happy by any other name. He was naturally a simple, kindly officer, with a nice wife and family and a comfortable job as No. 33 of the Burstead Borough Police. But his name had doomed him to perpetual ridicule.

  When he first presented himself, aged 19, as a raw recruit, the sergeant had laughed aloud as he wrote his name.

  Willie Mulligan.

  “William?” said the sergeant with raised eyebrows and streaming eyes.

  “No. Just plain Willie.”

  “Go on!”

  And between his gusts of cruel laughter the sergeant had just managed to articulate.

  “P.C. Mulligan. That’s a good one! That’ll be grand! Ever hear of The Bouncer?”

  Mulligan, eagerly scenting his first case tracking down a murderer who committed foul deeds by beating his victims up and down on hard pavements, felt glad he’d enrolled.

  “No. Can’t say I have, sir.”

  “Well, it’s a comic paper. My kids buy it every week and the first thing they look for’s the adventures of P.C. Mulligan, the man with the big feet. Let’s look at yours.…”

  Willie Mulligan stood precariously tottering on one leg and elevated a boot the size of a substantial coalscuttle.

  “Haw, haw, haw.… You’ll be the life and soul of the force. Sign here, WILLIE.…”

  And so it had been. All the youngsters in Burstead had been after him when he appeared on duty, bearing copies of The Bouncer Comic and comparing the pictures of their favourite buffoon with the living mountain of flesh as it watched the cars in the High Street or flailed the air at the traffic crossing. The Chairman of the Bench, who had a large family of Bouncer-reading grandchildren, actually sniggered when Mulligan made his first appearance on a case of shoplifting in court.

  To mend matters, Mulligan’s first number was 49!

  “P.C. 49.…”

  The grown-ups thus shared the mirth of the youngsters who’d never even heard the comic song. Thank God he’d now been changed to 33. But after years of haunting him, P.C. Mulligan’s adventures, cuddling cooks and chasing burglars, still held the field in The Bouncer. Distracted, P.C. 49, now 33, had written a protest to the editor. And given a popular daily a scoop.

  P.C. Mulligan In The Flesh!

  Pounding the beat in the pretty county town of Burstead is the youngsters’ favourite cop. P.C. Mulligan exists there in the flesh.…

  And a photograph wheedled out of his wife by a wily newshawk. And now.…

  “Go round all the hotels and see if anybody called Mrs. Florence Barrow has ever been seen there with a man.…”

  The hilarious sergeant who’d signed him on, and was now an Inspector, handed P.C. 33 a description and a photograph. He still laughed mercilessly at his underling.

  “P.C. Mulligan. Haw, haw, haw.…”

  “Some people have no sense of dignity. The big boob,” thought Mulligan, saluted and went off feeling sore.

  His feet were as sore as his feelings before the worry ended. He tried thirty-five pubs and hotels without success. He showed his photograph and recited his description until he knew it by heart. Some of the landlords took a long time deciding. Others gave him short shrift, for it was market day. A few offered him drinks, knowing that in uniform he couldn’t take them. And one, talking to a group of commercial travellers and Rotarians, introduced Mulligan solemnly and caused the laugh of the season. One commercial asked for his autograph. “It’ll please the kids no end.”

  At length, P.C. Mulligan called at the Swiss Restaurant, proprietor, Frank Miller. His real name had been Franz Müller, but during the 1914-1918 war, when several people threw bricks through his windows, he had decided to modify it a bit. He’d been fined for alteration without permission and then changed it by deed-poll, greatly to the disgust of his aged parent in Altdorf, who’d written him a nasty letter of denunciation, saying that Franz was no son of his, a coward, and a disgrace to William Tell.

  “Kom in,” said Mr. Miller. “Long time since I see you, Mr. Mulligan.”

  That was better. Mister didn’t cut you to the quick like P.C. Besides, Mr. Miller was too serious to read comics himself or let his seven little Millers do so. Instead, he studied Schopenhauer and Kant in most of his spare time. The rest he spent with his offspring, training them to win all the scholarships for the local High School and University, and running a small family orchestra in which each child played a different instrument and himself and Mrs. Miller the oboe and harp respectively.

  Mr. Miller kept a first-class restaurant just off the High Street. It was an epicure’s place, dealing in continental dishes and fine wines. The price of the meal was fixed by law, but somehow you rarely got away at less than a pound a head. The proprietor was stocky, fat and wore his hair en brosse. Just like the typical Hans of pre-war cartoons, even to the pipe with the porcelain bowl.

  Mr. Miller was rubbing a little garlic round a salad-bowl. He halted and looked at his visitor through strong lenses.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Mulligan? A celebration maybe?”

  “No. Nuthin’ o’ that sort. Jest a few enquiries.…”

  Mr. Miller had a pale face, and a red neck like a polony hanging over his wing collar. The face turned red and the polony pale.r />
  “Hein?”

  Had they caught-up with him at last?

  “Jest a few enquiries re a certain party we want to know somethin’ about. Know that face?”

  Mr. Miller was still a bit suspicious. He turned to his eldest son who was laying a table for eighteen and gave him a good telling-off for nothing, just to gain time to collect his thoughts.

  “Yes, father,” said young Miller, a junior replica of his parent, glasses and all—they all were—and ran to the kitchen to tell his mother, who cashiered at busy times and cooked at others.

  P.C. Mulligan solemnly read his description of Flo. and flourished the photograph. Mr. Miller breathed again.

  “Have a drink, constable?”

  “No, thanks, sir. Not on jewty.”

  “Chust a glass of wine. It will do you no harm. I have a nice, innocent Swiss wine. You’ll enjoy.”

  P.C. Mulligan thought fast. He took a glass of port now and again at the back door of The Jolly Tinker, and it might as well have been milk.…

  “Awright, then. Just a little snifter, thank’ee.”

  Mr. Miller poured some red wine in a goblet for the bobby. And one for himself.

  “Long life.”

  “Yore very good ’ealth, sir.”

  P.C. Mulligan tried to down the fiery Rhone wine in one, thrashed the air, coughed until his helmet fell off and then stood to attention.

  “Phew! The real McCoy, wot?”

  “A bit fiery, but quite harmless to a man like you. Another?”

  P.C. 33 didn’t mind if he did. He felt quite elevated. Let ’em all come. P.C. Mulligan, indeed! He’d show ’em. He delicately drank his second glass and grew confidential.

  “It’s like this, sir. Acting for a client whose name shall, for the time bein’, remain confidenshull, we want to know if you’ve ever seen this lady ’ere with a man at any time.”

  “Ah, the jealous husband, hein?”

  “Well… er.… ’Nuff said. We’ll leave it at that, see?”

  P.C. Mulligan tried to look wise and important.

  Mr. Miller, also stimulated by his wine, started a train of thought involving the Categorical Imperative and divorce.