The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  “I’ll just get the counterfoils of the registered letters that Mr. Rider used to send to his publishers, Inspector. Quite small parcels, of course. Naturellement, manuscripts aren’t so bulky, are they? Let me see now…”

  She bustled into the back room again and brought out her records. Nervously Miss Mullins fingered her way through the slips, her lips moving as she read the names.

  “Here we are, Inspector. About once a month, the packet went to: Messrs. Grimes and Wills, Publishers, 44b, Seven Sisters Road, Stockwell, S.W.9.”

  Littlejohn noted the address. A funny locality for publishers! Better look into that.

  “Did Mr. Rider ever get parcels through you for delivery at his place, Miss Mullins?”

  “Oh, yes. Parcels of about the same size as those he sent away used to come from time to time. Probably the manuscripts he had to read or correct, n’est-ce-pas?”

  “Very likely. Has there been any of this coming and going lately?”

  “No. Not since…well…here’s the last counterfoil. Not since the fall of France…”

  Miss Mullins’s voice trailed-off tragically.

  “…dear, dear France,” whispered Miss Mullins and burst into tears. Littlejohn fled into the telephone box and put through a call to Scotland Yard about the address on Rider’s registered letters. As he waited, he saw the postmistress composing herself with the help of a large handkerchief. A woman entered and cashed a pay-warrant at the post-office counter, and two children came to buy bars of chocolate which were unearthed from some hiding-place among the jumble of groceries and drapery which littered the shelves. The scents of coffee, cheese, and aniseed even penetrated the closed telephone-box.

  “So sorry, Inspector,” said Miss Mullins, as Littlejohn re-entered the shop. “I do get upset when I think of what has happened to that place of such happy memories.”

  She’d evidently forgiven and forgotten the indignities.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Mullins. Let’s hope it’ll soon be over and then you can see it all as it was before, all the better for having to wait, eh?”

  “Yes, yes, Inspector. You really think it will all be the same. All this bombing and those horrid Germans in the dear place makes one wonder…By the way, Inspector. I’ve just thought of something. Probably it’s of no importance, but I feel I must tell you. I think some of the parcels which came to Mr. Rider had metal in them. Would it be the plates for illustrations of books, perhaps? Anyway, one arrived which sounded quite coppery…you know the sound produced by jingling pennies together or something perhaps larger than that. The contents seemed to have come loose inside. I remember Viggars, the postman, mentioned it to Mr. Rider, who was quite annoyed and rude about it. Told him to mind his own business, or something like that.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Mullins. I’m very grateful for your help and you can rely on me to keep the information confidential.”

  “Always ready to help, Inspector. Au ’voir, monsieur.”

  “Au ’voir, madame,” answered Littlejohn with a flourish.

  Chapter XV

  Cromwell

  A proper man, as one shall see in a summer’s day;

  a most lovely gentlemanlike man.

  —Act I. Sc. II.

  “Any special kinds of birds about here?” asked Detective-Sergeant Cromwell of a porter on Truro station.

  He ought to have known better. Everybody is not as keen on watching feathered life through binoculars as is Cromwell, who spends all his spare time at it.

  The porter’s face lit up. He regarded his questioner with admiration. Here was a man after his own heart. One who knew what he wanted without any messing about. Came to the point as soon as he got out of the train.

  “Birds? Not ’arf.”

  The porter rubbed his hands, grinned lasciviously and almost put his arm through that of Cromwell.

  “Truro’s famous for its pretty girls,” he chuckled.

  “I said Birds…” repeated the sergeant with greater emphasis, “not birds.”

  The way he spat out the last word clearly expressed his meaning.

  “Oh, birds,” replied the man in a flat voice. And without more ado picked up a truck and wheeled it away, not deigning to reply.

  It was already dusk when Cromwell, having waited an hour and a half for the ’bus, reached Swinford, half an hour’s rocky journey out of Truro, where Harold Greenlees, released murderer, now lived in seclusion on his smallholding. The detective decided to find lodgings for the night and start fresh on the job the day after. He therefore entered the only inn in the village, The Royal Oak, a clean, whitewashed place which, he had been informed by the ’bus conductor, would find him bed and board.

  On entering the inn, Cromwell received a shock. He was a confirmed bachelor and the jests of his colleagues of The Yard on that subject had worn thin and stale. He had his own ideas about the girl he wanted to marry and nobody else would do. A strong-minded man, Cromwell, and not likely to be deflected from his course by any siren who might come along.

  Emerging from the bar parlour as Cromwell entered was the identical woman of his dreams!

  Tall, long legged, with a fine figure. Deep breasted and carrying herself well, with a dainty chin tipped upwards as though she feared to look nobody in the face. Auburn hair, grey eyes set well apart, and a nose which combined Roman and Greek fashions in just the right proportions. Her mouth was rather large and she had full, generous lips. She told Cromwell, in response to a startled inquiry, that she was the landlady of The Royal Oak. Cromwell had noticed her name over the door. He judged at once that she was a widow, for the Christian name of the landlord, Robert, had been painted over but was dimly visible, and that of Jane substituted. The surname was Ireton! Cromwell regarded this as a favourable omen. And so it proved. We are not concerned here with the love and courtship of Detective-Sergeant Cromwell of Scotland Yard, but his well-wishers may like to know that after secretly scuttering between London and Truro for six months—everybody except Littlejohn, who on two occasions found auburn hairs adhering to his subordinate’s clothing and politely removed them, thought Cromwell was bird-watching!—he persuaded Mrs. Ireton to change her name to Cromwell and leave The Royal Oak in favour of a flat in Shepherd Market. There, judging from her husband’s changed appearance and anxiety to get home after duty, they lived happily ever after.

  But to return to serious business. Cromwell, whose emotions were in a turmoil, securely locked them in a logic-tight compartment and went off to interview Harold Greenlees, the Redstead murderer. He found him emptying swill into the feeding-trough of the largest pig he had ever seen.

  Greenlees was a tall, heavily built, grey-headed man, sunburned from exposure to the country sun and air and with remarkably calm blue eyes for one who had served a term for homicide. He didn’t seem to resent the intrusion at all and talked civilly to his visitor. They leaned against the wall of the pigsty and the occupant, known as Eliza, punctuated the conversation by loud sucking and gobbling noises whilst her feed lasted and then by contented grunts and squeals for the rest.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, Greenlees,” said Cromwell by way of opening gambit and he scratched the back of the pig with his umbrella and marvelled at her girth.

  “Yes, I reckon it’s quite a presentable little holding and I’m so attached to that pig that I’ll have to arrange my holidays to coincide with her time for becoming bacon. Else, I’ll never be able to let the butcher get on with the job. She’s had four litters already and likely to have more before her end comes. But that’s not what you’re here for, is it? What can I do for you? I’m busy, you know, although you mightn’t think it.”

  “I just want to know whether you made a pal of a chap called Bates, who was doing a stretch for counterfeiting when you were on The Moor.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Oh, he’s been disturbing
us again and I’m after a bit of background to help us through…”

  “Bit unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The case is unusual. Sorry, I can’t give you full details, I don’t know them myself, but anything you can tell me about him will be taken as a very friendly gesture.”

  “It’s a long time ago and I’ve not exactly kept that part of my life evergreen, but I do recollect that Bates was supposed to be an exemplary prisoner and on account of his being a cut above the average, he did a spell in the library. That’s where I met him. We talked a bit, you know, and exchanged reminiscences. One gets lonely in a spot like that and tends to take anybody of one’s own kind who’ll listen, into one’s confidence. I guess I told Bates the story of my life at one time or another.”

  “That’s just it. What did you tell him, Greenlees?”

  “What a question! What exactly do you tell a fellow-traveller in the train during a long journey when you get swapping experiences? You’d need a bit of time to make a catalogue, I guess. You can hardly expect me to reel off full details of scores of conversations which happened years since, can you?”

  “Hardly. But I’ll try to jog your memory. Did you ever talk about a man called Wall?”

  Greenlees’s jaw hardened and he gave Cromwell a searching, almost unfriendly look.

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Cromwell?”

  “Only that my visit is what might be called a by-product of a murder in which an old chap called Wall, a bonesetter in Norfolk, has been murdered.”

  “And Bates is suspect?”

  “Well, hardly. Only…and this is in confidence…among Wall’s papers was found newspaper-cuttings dealing with your own trial and also the case of Bates, who after his release, seems to have turned bank-robber. He shot a cashier, not fatally, thank goodness, pinched his money and then vanished into the blue. He’s not been heard of since. We’re anxious to know what interest Wall could have had in a man like that.”

  “Perhaps he cured Bates. You’ll probably know as well as I do, that Bates had a damaged hand and arm, due, I think, to a laboratory accident. Could Wall have repaired the damage?”

  “Maybe, but why? We know that at the time of the bank robbery, Bates was still deformed. And after it, with a hue and cry for him and all the papers giving his description, how could a peaceful, law-abiding country leech like old Wall treat one whom he must have known was a criminal. More likely, he’d have sent for the police instead of performing an operation to make him more nimble in wrongdoing. Unless, of course, Bates had some hold over Wall. That’s where we fancied you might help. Did Bates, in a burst of confidence, ever tell you of Wall?”

  The grim features of Greenlees had been gradually assuming an expression of surprise mingled with disgust. He now turned indignantly to his companion.

  “I told Bates about Wall. The dirty little swine must have used my information for his own rotten ends when he got free. If that’s the case, and I can’t see it otherwise in view of what you say, I’m ready to talk.”

  Cromwell offered Greenlees a cigarette, but the latter preferred a pipe. During the rest of the interview an outsider, seeing them hanging over Eliza’s sty, would have thought they were expertly appraising the pig instead of bringing the halter one step nearer to a more unwholesome animal.

  “First let me tell you, it wasn’t about old Wall, as you call him, that I mainly told Bates. The Wall I knew best was a young doctor, John Wall. I did hear of old Wall from the nephew, though. Dr. John seemed proud of him and talked about him when we got friendly.”

  “I see.”

  “Dr. John Wall was the finest man I’ve ever met and the thought of Bates mixing him up in his dirty work makes me see red.”

  He punctuated the last statement by emphatic thrusts at Eliza’s back with his stick, producing a volley of contented squeals and rumblings which both men ignored in the heat of their interest in the conversation.

  “Had Dr. John Wall any connection with the crime for which you were convicted, Greenlees? By the way, you’ll excuse my reaping up a part of the past which must be painful to you, but you’ll understand…”

  “I quite understand. I’ve served my sentence and squared my accounts. I’ve had long enough to forget whatever pains I’ve suffered. The present’s what matters to me. But if anyone has done anything against Dr. John Wall, I’m on the side of whoever is presenting the bill.”

  “That’s the way to talk, Greenlees. What I want to know is, how did you come to be mixed up with Dr. Wall?”

  Greenlees faced Cromwell and looked him in the eyes.

  “Now, if I tell you, understand it’s not to be made public property. It’s dead and done with and I’m not reviving it if Dr. Wall’s going to suffer thereby…”

  “You have my assurance that what you tell me will be used with the utmost discretion. More I can’t say. You must remember we’re on a murder case…”

  “Very well. You know that I killed a man years ago for his treatment of my sister. He was a married man, although she didn’t know it, and when she told him there was a baby coming, he bolted and left her to face the music alone. She and I were living together at the time and you can guess what I felt like. I searched everywhere for the rat, but he’d gone to ground somewhere. Then, unknown to me, some old woman in the vicinity persuaded my sister to have an illegal operation performed. It was done by a young doctor of the neighbourhood who’d gone to the dogs through drink. When I arrived home from work one night, my sister was at death’s door. Shortly after, the doctor called. He was scared to death at his failure, as well he might be. If my sister died, it meant gaol for him. I could hardly keep my hands off him…As it was, I took him and told him what I’d do to him if my sister didn’t pull through. He said he was at his wits’ end and couldn’t do any more. And he daren’t call in a brother doctor for consultation because what he’d done was illegal…”

  Cromwell made sympathetic noises and passed a cigarette to his companion.

  “‘Damn you and your scruples and your future and your own damned skin,’ I told him,” went on Greenlees after lighting his cigarette. “‘I’m off for the nearest doctor whether you like it or not,’ and I pushed him aside and ran out. The man I got was Dr. John Wall. Thank God he was doing some locum work for a chap just round the corner…He came and took charge. He pulled my sister round and never breathed a word of the scandal. Shielded the other doctor, too, which, I knew, was irregular. The poor girl killed herself six months later. Couldn’t somehow lift her head again. And I met the chap who was responsible for it shortly after that, with the result you know. But Dr. Wall was an inspiration throughout the whole sordid episode and I’ve never forgotten the debt I owe him. He’s a big man now, I understand, and so he ought to be.”

  “You told Bates all this?” asked Cromwell.

  “Yes, I guess I did. A chap gets lonely in gaol, you know. Turns his troubles over and over, you see. But as well as his troubles, he has time to think about the good turns people have done him, if he’s that type. I remembered Dr. Wall quite a lot in prison, I can tell you.”

  “Well, I’m very grateful for your help, Greenlees, and don’t worry about the consequences of your confidences. I’ll see that Dr. Wall in no way suffers. And now I wish you jolly good luck and I hope you do well at your landed venture and that Eliza has a record litter next time.”

  And with that they shook hands and parted.

  Cromwell wasted no time in getting back to The Royal Oak, where he wrote out his report and posted it at once to Littlejohn at Stalden. Then he made a careful toilet and set out in search of the landlady, for besides being very hungry, Cromwell, unknown to himself as yet, was in love, and craved the company of the lady of the inn even more than meat and drink.

  Chapter XVI

  Logician

  Here are your parts, and I am to entreat you,

  Reques
t you and desire you to con them…

  —Act I. Sc. II.

  A spate of information reached Littlejohn in his retreat on the day following Cromwell’s visit to Truro. There was, of course, the Detective-Sergeant’s report on his inquiries and his comments thereon, but Scotland Yard, too, had forwarded another budget of facts and figures.

  Littlejohn shut himself in his bedroom, which was a cosy, old-fashioned den of a place, and after lighting his pipe set about studying his data and comparing and connecting it.

  The Yard had enclosed, together with quite a considerable dossier of other things, a photograph of Bates, the bank-robber, taken when he was imprisoned for forgery. It was not prepossessing. A dark, scowling man, with a broken nose and hollow cheeks. The head and brow, however, spoke of intelligence above the average. A fellow with brains, apparently, and an acquisition to any gang of crooks. The detective studied it carefully, grunted and laid it aside for later study.

  Next came a card bearing facsimile fingerprints of Bates.

  Then, a report on Grimes and Wills, publishers, of Stockwell. This made Littlejohn whistle. Rider had been sending his parcels and receiving those in return from what appeared to be merely an accommodation address. Grimes and Wills were pettifogging little newsagents in Seven Sisters Road! Further, they had fallen under suspicion in connection with the affairs of a gang of forgers, which had suddenly melted away on the declaration of war. They were suspected in connection with spurious continental notes, and war-time restrictions had apparently closed their export trade and its loopholes. Probably national registration and military service, too, had broken up the party.

  Littlejohn left the mass of papers on the table, took off his shoes, luxuriously stretched his feet and then laid himself on the bed in a meditative pose, his pipe burning furiously.

  Now, to take the facts in hand, carefully arrange them, dwell upon them, and deduce a solution of the case from the lot!