And with that, she let Littlejohn out.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ETCHING
THE rain was still slashing down as Littlejohn once more made his way to Farleigh Grove. This time he was on foot but wished he’d taken a taxi. He walked along the crazy path between the bedraggled flower-beds to the front door of No. 41. A bit different this time. When he was here before, he’d thought Mrs. Barrow was on his side. Now, she was hostile and afraid.
The old woman opened the door. Probably Flo. hadn’t taken her into her confidence, but she knew instinctively that there was trouble brewing and eyed the Inspector with suspicious apprehension.
“She’s not in.…”
“Will she be long, Mrs. Harrison?”
“I don’t know.”
“May I come in and wait a little?”
She stood aside a little diffidently to let him enter.
The place looked exactly the same. The gloomy passage, the imitation lantern, the gimcrack oak wardrobe with the pretty little etching hanging beside it.
Littlejohn put his hat on the top of the wardrobe.
“Nice little picture.…”
“Yes, so they say. I’m not much in that line myself. Like a bit of colour.”
She was smiling with difficulty and trying to be pleasant. It was as if she thought that by being nice to him he would be merciful to her daughter. Littlejohn felt heartily sorry for Mrs. Harrison.
“Did your daughter buy it?”
“No. It was a birthday present.”
“Is it very old?”
Silly question, but asked as a random shot.
“She’s had it about… about… seven years.”
You could see Mrs. Harrison had arrived at the period by remembering Flo.’s age when she got it and making a simple calculation.
“Come in here, will you? Do sit down, sir.”
She was very humble about it all. Littlejohn wished he could have comforted her and reassured her. But it was no use.
The same room, with its assortment of tastes. The woodcuts, the tasteful ornaments, the heavy-framed oil-painting and the execrable carpet and suite.
“These are nice, too. Had them long? You don’t see many of these now.”
“About as long as the little sketching in the hall.” Ambrose Barrow certainly hadn’t bought them. Nor had Flo. Not with a hat like that! According to information, Andrew Fenning had been her very good friend about that time. Yes. It looked like Fenning.
Then Andrew Fenning had tired. Perhaps Flo. had resisted all his efforts to educate her. Maybe, she’d got on his nerves at last. He’d taught her to dress properly. That had been obvious last time Littlejohn was there. But beyond that.… Well.… And even in dress, bad taste would keep creeping in. The pill-box hat and the sight she was when she fainted at the police station. Yes, probably Andrew had given her up as a bad job.
But was that right? Obviously nobody was going to say yes or no to that question.
Then his eyes fell on the beautiful etching on the wall. The Whistler. What a place to house it!
“It’s lovely,” said Littlejohn.
“Yes, isn’t it. Though, as I said, I’d rather have a bit of colour myself. But this one is a bit homely, isn’t it?”
It was a picture of a passage leading to a kitchen, with the figure of an old woman on her way there.
Yes, it was homely. Exquisitely so.
And it cost five shillings.
“Mrs. Barrow told me she got it very cheaply.…”
“It was a present. Her friend got it at an auction in the town. Among a lot of old rubbish.”
“How long ago?”
The old lady looked hard at Littlejohn. She was puzzled to know what he was driving at.
“About two years.…”
Two years! Again not Ambrose’s taste, nor Flo.’s. But if Andrew had tired, then who was it? Someone else who knew what was what.
Yes, and the model gown, not quite up-to-date, but in good condition. Who’d bought her that? And recently.
“Bad weather we’re having?”
The old lady was embarrassed by lack of something to talk about.
“Yes, isn’t it? It’s hardly stopped raining since I came.”
“No. But the wireless report says it’ll be better. I was just listening-in when you came.…”
Flo. was opening the garden gate. Something had happened to her over the past days. She looked older and smaller, and the head she once held high was down. Her clothes and make-up as well.… Almost like a street-walker.
She inserted her key in the front door, slammed it and entered the room. At the sight of Littlejohn she put her hand to her lips in a nervous gesture of fear.
“Hullo.… I didn’t know.…”
All her self-possession had gone. She looked beaten.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Barrow. I just wanted another word with you.”
Mrs. Harrison didn’t know whether to stay or not. She looked hard at Flo. and then went out. You could hear her climbing the stairs.
“What did you want? I’ve told you all I know.”
“Not quite, Mrs. Barrow.”
“Why? Please don’t keep badgering me. It’s getting on my nerves. It really is.”
“Then, please do your best to help us. No harm will come to you, I assure you. But I want a straight tale now about your relations with the Fenning family.”
She sat down on the couch and fiddled in her handbag. It had been a good one. Another present! She took out a handkerchief, dabbed her face and then tugged at the handkerchief with her fingers.
“I really don’t.…”
“Come, come, Mrs. Barrow. This won’t do.”
“Really, I seem to be blamed for a lot of things I didn’t do. Just because Mr. Andrew was good to me when I worked for him.”
“Yes. But why was Mr. Miles Fenning so interested in you as to want to remember you in his Will?”
“He must have been sorry for me with Ambrose dying and leaving me so badly off.…”
“Did he leave you badly off?”
She looked at Littlejohn, trying to guess how much he knew.
“Well, I’ll have to leave this house and sell it. I can’t make ends meet and live here. I’ll have to go to mother’s.”
It all sounded very lame. Old Fenning, so hard-bitten and cynical, leaving five hundred pounds to this woman because he was sorry for her. Sounded more like conscience money. Perhaps he was just, even if he was hard.
“Let me put a suggestion to you, Mrs. Barrow. I’m sorry to distress you, but I’ve got to know what’s been going on. I suggest that, for a time, you were very friendly with Mr. Andrew Fenning. Perhaps up to five years ago.…”
Flo.’s eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped. She wondered what was coming next and turned the colour of chalk.
“Then, the relationship ceased. I don’t know why, but I suggest that another man came into the field.”
“No, no, no. It wasn’t that. I swear it. It wasn’t that. It was Ambrose. He objected and threatened to make a public scene if ever he saw me out with Andrew again. So, I stopped going with him. After all.…”
“After all what?”
“After all, the friendship… it was only a friendship, I swear it, after all, it was better to stop than for Ambrose to lose his job.”
“Yes, I see.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
“May I ask if these lovely collector’s pieces,” Littlejohn indicated the ornaments, “if these were gifts from Mr. Andrew… and that valuable little etching in the hall?”
“Yes. For birthdays and Christmas.”
She looked relieved. Matters were turning out nicely. Perhaps.…
“And may I ask you who gave you that almost priceless etching behind you, Mrs. Barrow?”
Flo. turned and looked at the Whistler and her body grew taut.
“I… I.…”
“Well?”
“Surely your husband knew and your mother too. I’ll call her, then.”
Littlejohn took a step to the door.
“I’ll tell you. It was Andrew, too.”
“But why the hesitation?”
“It looks so bad. As if all the good stuff in the house had been given to me by him.”
“Did he give it to you before your husband objected?”
“Yes. About the same time as the rest.”
“That’s not quite true, is it, Mrs. Barrow? You’ve only had it two years. And your husband didn’t object to having it hung in his drawing-room. Why?”
And then, Flo. Barrow fainted again. Littlejohn called down Mrs. Harrison. The old woman was in a rage this time.
“Get out.… Get out. Haven’t you done enough? She can’t eat or sleep at night for you and the likes of you. I’ll tell my friends about you. They’ve got some influence and ’ll make you pay for this. Leave her alone and go.…”
Littlejohn never felt worse as he left the house. It was bad enough sorting out who’d done the crime without having to bully and dement a lot of women.
In the town he asked the constable on point duty where the main local auctioneer’s office was.
“Right over there, sir.…”
The bobby saluted and went on with his traffic directing. He flailed his arms absent-mindedly. Auctioneers now. What next? These high-ups had queer ways of investigating crime. Now, if he’d been on the job, he’d have shown ’em. A string of cars started a concerted hooting. Blimey…! He whirled his arms apologetically and saluted a glaring local J.P. as he passed.
Hacking & Co., Auctioneers and Valuers.
A small shop turned into an office with a lot of sale notices stuck on boards on each side of the door. Pictures of houses and farms pinned on baize in the window. Behind, an office and a large sale-room.
Mr. Hacking greeted Littlejohn. He looked like an ex-jockey, narrow-legged trousers and all.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
The auctioneer rubbed his hands. Houses were going at crazy prices. Three thousand pounds for a house which cost eight-fifty to build. And commission accordingly.
Littlejohn produced his warrant card. The auctioneer looked crestfallen.
“You been transferred here and looking for a house?” he asked, hoping he was right, for in his mind he was pondering his sins.
“No, hardly,” replied Littlejohn and, looking through the window at the tumbling rain and dirty buildings, almost added “ Thank God!”
“Well.… What can I do for you, then?”
In the auction-room behind, things were evidently piling up for a weekly sale. All sorts of old junk, from enormous sideboards to baskets of old books. People were filing among the rubbish avidly inspecting it, eager for bargains.
“I’m just after a bit of information, Mr. Hacking. It’s quite a simple thing, but it may be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. About two years back, someone bought a picture at a sale in this town for five shillings and I think the picture’s a Whistler. In fact, I’ve seen a similar one before and that was a Whistler. Presumably, this is from the same plate. Can you help me?”
“Crickey! Now you’ve asked me something. We do hundreds of sales of one kind and another in the course of twelve months. Still, this most likely was in a sale at some place that mattered. You don’t as a rule pick up such good pictures at sales in small houses.… Somebody would be mad if they knew at what price that thing was sold if it was what you say. Worth a hundred quid or more, I daresay?”
“More than that.…”
So, the find had not been made public. That would have attracted attention. They’d kept quiet about it and not even tried to sell it again.
Mr. Hacking walked over to a small pen in one corner and held a confab with an elderly lady who looked like his book-keeper. You could see their faces moving excitedly as they talked and then they took down a book of cuttings and a large leather-bound ledger and spreading them on the desk started poring over them.
Littlejohn sauntered across.
“We’re just looking over the sales of two years ago. We’ll see what we find in the way of pictures and then trace the buyers from the sale-book. Half a mo’.…”
They suggested that Littlejohn called back, the job seemed such a formidable one, so he went first for a walk round the sale-room and then for some tobacco in the town. When he returned the pair were still perusing their records, so he looked round the junk again. His presence caused a bit of consternation among the hopeful ones there. They thought he was a new dealer arrived to bid high and put them all out of court. One scruffy little fat chap with a bowler hat set low on his ears actually approached him.
“You a dealer, cock? Because, if you are, you and me’d better have a bit of a chat. I buy for the dealers’ ring round here and if you thinkin’ o’ buying, you’d better play ball with me. Care to come for a drink?”
Littlejohn looked at the greasy, mean face, reeking of black-market and double-dealing.
“I’m not playing,” he said. “What I buy, I’ll do on my own, thanks.”
“Oh, so that’s it, eh? Clever Dick, eh? Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.…”
The little runt sauntered off with as much nonchalance as he could muster and caused a great flurry among the dealers when he reported his conversation.
“Copley giving a bit of cheek?” asked Mr. Hacking.
“Thinks I’m a dealer and wants me to join the ring.…”
Mr. Hacking laughed until they thought he was going to have a stroke.
“That’s a good one.… Anyway, I think we’ve got a thing or two here that might interest you.”
He showed Littlejohn a list of sales in which pictures had changed hands and beside each item the price paid. Nothing like it!
“Sorry,” said Mr. Hacking. “There’s only one other firm and they’re mostly farming auctioneers. You could try ’em.…”
The lady interrupted, however.
“There’s just one item here that might include what you want. A bundle of old pictures sold as junk for the frames and glass. Price, five shillings.…”
“Now we’re getting warm. As likely as not that’s how he got the bargain. Came across it among a lot of rubbish. They mostly do. Let’s look at my sale-book and find out who it was.”
Mr. Hacking ran a large forefinger down the columns of a ledger.
“Yes. Here we are. Bundle of old pictures.… Mr. James Fenning.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE CROUCHING MAN
IT was evening when Littlejohn again entered the yard of Fennings’ Mill. The place was silent save for the escape of steam from somewhere in the boiler house. A little hunchbacked watchman was in the gatehouse reading the paper, getting ready to fill in his pool forms. He had worked for the mills for nearly fifty years and his deformity was due to a hoist accident.
“What do you want?”
Littlejohn produced his warrant-card and said he would like to walk round a bit.
“The mills is locked-up and it’s as much as my job’s worth to let anybody in. Specially strangers.…”
“I don’t want to go in the mills. I want to stroll round the yard and buildings.”
“All right, then. Can’t do much harm there.”
“Are you on duty all night and every night?”
“No. Five nights a week. Get Saturday and Sunday off. Another chap takes my place week-ends. Why?”
“Just interested. Who takes your place?”
“’ere, what’s all this about? Don’t like bein’ quizzed. This is no business o’ yours and I’m not mixed-up in it.”
The local police had already questioned the week-end watchman who had confessed to being in a nearby pub taking a pint at the time of the crime. He was just getting ready to go on duty.
“Wasn’t it a man called Haxley?”
“Yes. If you know, why ask me?”
“Look here, I’m a police officer investigating a murder. Do you want to help me, or not? If you don’t, say so and I’ll know what to do.”
“I’m as keen as the next to know who did Barrow in, but I don’t see what good a lot o’ questions o’ that sort’ll do.”
“Leave me to be the judge of that. Where can I find Haxley?”
“Like as not at the Church Inn, just round the corner. He’s a lame chap on army pension and makes up his income as relief man for me. He’s always round at the pub in the evenin’s.”
The Church Inn was a small pothouse tucked among a lot of old property in a poor quarter. Stone sanded floors, narrow windows and little for sale besides beer.
Haxley was sitting in a corner with a pint in front of him. He was more obliging than his hunchbacked counterpart. But far more shifty, almost cringing.
“Yes, yes. My night on duty when Barrow were done-in. Half an hour later an’ I’d ‘a’ seen who done it.”
“Were there many disturbances over the week-end, as a rule?”
Haxley gave Littlejohn a queer look.
At the other end of the long narrow room they were playing darts. Plop, plop, and then murmurs of applause.
“Not as a rule. Why?”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“The little man who died in the asylum used to call there regularly didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Understood that I let him in.”
“Who did he call to see?”
“I told the p’leece before, sometimes the warehouseman, or his assistant.…”
“Did you get your wound in the last War…?”
“Cambrai, 1917.”
“Who gave you your job?”
“Mr. Miles Fenning.”
“I see. I’ve heard that rather a lot went on at the mills at night some week-ends. For instance, lorries moving out. Know anything about it?”
“Well.… Sometimes the men went off on night journeys. What you getting at?”
“Were the night journeys strictly on the level?”
Haxley gave Littlejohn a nasty look.
“‘ere. I said wot you gettin’ at? I’m an ’onest man and when I’m on duty everything’s on the level.”
The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 14